by Anne Marsh
I’ve worn the treads out on these. Pumpkin, snookums, candy, mamí? Too generic. I plan to do all the things to her tonight, so something will occur to me.
I learn something new about Edee every minute. For example, I know she holds her breath when she comes, that she goes absolutely still when her orgasm hits, as if she’s 100 percent focused on chasing and catching that sensation. As if maybe it might elude her if she’s not careful. When she wants something, she’s determined. Case in point? She works the second button on my jeans free and shoves the denim down so she can fist me.
The sensation of her fingers wrapping around my dick immediately flies to the top of my Top Ten Favorites list. It’s such a simple thing but that warm palm, those greedy fingers become the center of my universe. I just hear blah, blah, blah, HUGE, blah, blah, blah.
Somewhere distantly in our family tree, we’re related to Catherine the Great, she of the erotic horse riding fame. You know the story. It’s filthy, not to mention anatomically impossible, but certain historians claim my great-great-great-whatever auntie took a horse to bed. We’re big fans of the monster dick in my family, and my dick doesn’t disappoint in that regard. It’s huge.
“He’s all yours. Your own personal pony ride. You can thank me later.” She squeezes my dick in response, so I nip her ear. God, she’s fun. “Don’t scare him or he won’t come out and play.”
Edee snorts and lets go of my plaything. Pity.
“His ego’s fine,” she says.
“But positive reinforcement is important. He responds well to compliments.”
“Oh?” She makes a little humming sound in the back of her throat. I’d kill to hear that sexy sound when she has her mouth wrapped around my dick.
She laces her hands around my neck, her fingers threading through my hair. She tugs, I pull, and then we’re wrapped around each other, her legs hugging my hips, my arms lifting her up.
“I’ve got big plans for tonight,” I whisper against her mouth.
“Oh?” Such a throaty, needy sound. “I love a good plan.”
“This one is the best.”
Edee’s grip around my neck tightens and she wriggles against my dick. “Promises, promises.”
I scoop her off the bathroom vanity and walk her into the bedroom. It’s not my smoothest move because my unbuttoned jeans bunch with each step, but my dick also bumps against her sweet pussy as we move. That part’s the best, so good that I feel downright fucking giddy and mock waltz her in a gigantic circle.
Edee giggles and I’ll spank her for that later. “Don’t laugh at your king,” I mock growl.
“You’re not a king.” This time she outright laughs. She has the nicest laugh.
“Not yet.” Not ever, but that’s something I’m not thinking about.
Housekeeping must be omniscient because they’ve already been up and turned down the bed. They’ve even left gourmet chocolates on the pillows. Waste not, want not. I’ll eat those off Edee’s body later.
I lay her down on the bed. It takes me all of a nanosecond to shove my jeans down and off and then it’s Edee’s turn to undress. She’s already lost her pants and panties—thank Christ—but I have to take a second to appreciate her bare tits.
“I’d love to take your picture,” she sighs.
I freeze. Pictures are dangerous.
And then she laughs again and frames me between her fingers. She makes a snapping sound and I can move again. It’s a game, I remind myself. Not real. It’s okay.
Good sport that I am, I frame a certain portion of my anatomy with my hands. “This is my best shot.”
She giggles. “You’re impossible.”
“Mrs. Avalioni, I am entirely, easily possible. Just for you and only if you see something you like.”
“I like.” She slides her hand back to my very best part and her lashes drift down.
She’s so damn hot.
“Maybe I should take a picture of you,” I say.
I bend down and swipe my phone from the pocket of my jeans. This is stupid, but I can wipe my phone later—after I’ve spanked the monkey a few thousand times—and Luca has the device encrypted. My younger brother has never met an encryption technology he didn’t love—or immediately crack. He’s gifted that way. So my phone is about as safe as it can be.
“I’m hardly model material,” she protests.
She’s not. She’s better.
“You’re gorgeous. Let me show you want I see?”
She hesitates, but then she nods. I push gently with my hand on her shoulder and she sprawls backward on the bed. Fuck. Me. This was either the best or worst idea I’ve ever had. As a kid, I complained that math was entirely useless. I was wrong. As I try to tame my raging erection long enough to take a few pictures, I fall back on the old standby—differential calculus. I factor, I rationalize, and I work those limits in my head. Edee stretches, arms over her head, tits upthrust—driving me crazy. I snap pictures on autopilot because how can I possibly think when I want so badly to taste, to touch, to take?
I totally get the whole photography thing now.
And with each soft click, Edee gets bolder. She teases me, flirts with me. She rolls over onto all fours, pushing her ass up into the air and looking over her shoulder at me. It takes all of my self-control not to toss the phone and do her doggy style. Instead, we pose her and I make memories for later. My free hand skims over her curves as I move her here and then there. And then she’s lying on her back, legs apart, her hand between her gorgeous thighs and she’s definitely getting this party started without me.
Fuck it.
My inner artist and spank bank collector will have to wait. She wants this just as much as I do, and her enthusiasm undoes me. I chuck the phone eastward and launch myself at Edee.
We wrestle for a few glorious moments. Sex has always been fun and dirty and carefully choreographed because I’m Prince Dare and the world has certain expectations. I have to be bigger, better, badder—it’s in my job description. With Edee . . . I’m just me.
I didn’t plan out my seduction. I didn’t think about positions. Or condoms. Or . . .
“You’re taking too long.”
A challenge.
Remember this moment. I love me a good challenge. I don’t back down.
“You’re a wicked girl, Mrs. Dare.” I drag my fingers down her throat and between her tits.
I lean down and suck one hard little nipple into my mouth like I’ve been dying to do all night. Edee squeaks and wriggles. Then her hand comes up and cups her pretty, pretty tit, holding it for me. Throaty, needy sounds come out of her mouth. There might be words as well. Lots of demanding.
“More,” she whispers, hands tugging on my hair, steering me in the direction she needs me to go.
Her word is my command. I worship her with my mouth, holding her close. Perfection. Just like the rest of her. I need a dozen hands and mouths so I can give her the appreciation she deserves. I grind my erection against her pussy because I can’t get enough of her.
“Hurry up.” Her nails dig into my shoulders as she grinds her hips into mine. “I’m not waiting for you.”
She’s perfect for me.
Up or down? She yanks on my hair, deciding for me, and that’s seriously hot. I love a woman who’s not afraid to give directions or ask for what she wants. So I obediently kiss my way up her tits, over her throat, and capture her mouth with mine. I keep my eyes open because I need to watch her. I don’t know what her O face looks like and that’s a serious oversight.
We kiss, and did I really think our last kiss was perfection? Because this one is even better. I reach for a condom from the nightstand and roll it on.
I cradle her hips with my hands and thrust home. Like diving into the South Pacific in one long, slow, wet glide. Because she’s seriously, wonderfully, frighteningly perfect. On
ce won’t be enough but I’ve got all night. I’ve got tomorrow. I’ve got all the time she’ll give me.
It’s the best dance ever. Our hips circle and slap together, our bodies finding the best rhythm for the two of us. “Kiss me,” she demands.
Those pretty eyes of her see too much. I press my face against her throat and I give her the kisses she demands. I drink in the salty sweetness of her skin as I nip, lick, and suck. There’s not a hollow or a pulse beat I leave untasted.
And then she giggles. “God, stop.”
I find another one of Edee’s ticklish spots. See? This is something else that I needed to know about her. I skim my hands up her sides and she moan-laughs, but it’s good, so fucking good. She relaxes beneath my hands so I keep right on touching and learning her.
Her hands are busy too because Edee’s a giver. She starts out by clutching my shoulders, nails pricking my skin, but that’s not enough for either of us, thank fuck. I go up; she goes down, palming my ass and squeezing like she’s found her own personal steering wheel. Or maybe I’m the rudder in this stupid analogy because she goes boneless beneath me, making the cutest, most incoherent whimpering sounds and half words. I’ve imagined her naked and beneath me hundreds of time since Elvis pronounced us man and wife but the reality of Edee is so much better.
So I give her everything I’ve got, my hips circling and driving forward as I go as deep as I can. She’s smiling up at me, face flushed, her eyes glowing because I make her feel good. Scratch that. I make her feel the best, and despite all my jokes about being her king, she makes me feel like one for the first time in my life.
And I can’t stop looking at her face. She tugs on my ass, reaching for me with that pretty mouth, pressing kisses along my shoulders and down my chest as far as she can reach. She . . .
Her tongue traces the edge of my mouth.
Fuck. Me.
Our hips piston together, our rhythm brutal, greedy, hard. She takes me deep inside and I push harder, wanting more. And all that hunger, the laughter, the teasing gets all mixed up with something sweeter and unfamiliar. Something special. Edee fuses her mouth to mine as her hands claim my body, making me hers.
I raise myself up on my forearms so I can watch my dick move in and out of Edee. Watch her open up and let me in. For one crazy moment I want to rip off the condom and push myself back into her because it sucks having anything between us. But that’s crazy talk I’ll regret tomorrow, so I pick up my pace. Teasing her by pulling out all the way before I come back inside her. She pulls at my hair.
She’s stunning.
She clenches around my dick, squeezing me tight like she’s totally on board with my secret plan to hold onto her. Right now? I never want to give her back. Her eyes drift closed. And as pretty as her dark lashes are, I need to hear that she’s okay.
“Edee?” I groan her name.
“Yeah?” Swear to fuck she melts beneath me.
“Is this okay?” Are you okay? Am I? I need her to give me the words.
“Better. Better than okay.” She moans loudly.
Houston, we have liftoff.
Then she says something that really is better. Her eyes flutter open, and for one long moment, it’s like she’s looking deep inside me and reaching for some part of me I don’t recognize.
“Don’t hold back,” she says. “Fuck me, Dare.”
This isn’t better. It’s best.
I lose my smooth rhythm, my hands sliding around her back and pulling her toward me, as I take her in long, hard strokes. We’re rough and hard together, our bodies smacking together as we chase the orgasm together.
When she comes, she sinks her teeth into my shoulder hard. I want to ink that mark into my skin so I can remember it forever. Look in the mirror each morning and know Edee was here.
Right here.
* * *
* * *
Afterward, when my knees work again and after I stagger off the bed and take care of the condom, Edee pulls me back down onto the bed. She rolls into my side, resting her cheek against my chest as if we’ve always done this. When she breathes out, I feel it.
I’m not sure what to say.
Take a note.
Amazing sex apparently switches my brain off because I can’t come up with the usual compliments. I should be telling Edee how beautiful she is and showing my gratitude. Instead, I sink back into the bed, wrap my arms around her, and fucking snuggle.
I don’t snuggle.
Fucking ever.
Edee rubs her cheek against my cheek and giggles, her sex-mussed hair tumbling over her face and down my arm. Fucking awesome. In fact, fuck is pretty much the only word in my vocabulary at the moment—not to mention I totally want to fuck Edee again. None of which is a laughing matter, even if her giggle is the cutest thing ever.
“You were amazing,” she says, as if I need compliments. She rests a hand on my chest, her fingers toying with the hair there. “Thank you.”
I pat her ass. “You’re welcome.”
Yeah, I totally want to tap that. I want to do her again, right now. Roll her over and forget the stupid condom and shoot my load into her. I don’t want to be careful, I don’t want to hold back. Fuck pretty much covers it. Christ, my uncle must be hyperventilating. Given his uncanny ability to know when my brothers and I got up to mischief, I’m certain his Spidey-sense is tingling and he’s well aware that I’m having . . . feelings.
Sexy feelings.
Just run-of-the-mill I-had-awesome-sex feelings.
I’m sure it will pass as soon as I haul ass of bed and get on with my life.
Edee runs her hand over my chest. Granted, she’s already done that about a thousand times in the last hour, but this time she’s mostly looking rather than kissing, licking, or biting. Edee loves biting—I would not have guessed that about her.
“You have ink,” she says, pushing up onto her elbow for a better look.
My ink is on the long list of Things That Shall Not Be Discussed. The tattoo artist who gave me the design signed a lengthy NDA before I let him near my skin, and after he finished, I gave him a little heart-to-heart talk about the talented lawyers the royal palace keeps on retainer. I pointed out that he liked his tattoo parlor and I liked my privacy. I then tipped him liberally and we parted on good terms.
And while I’ve taken off my shirt in front of plenty of lovers, I’ve never encouraged anyone to ask questions. For all they know, I have a blackbird fetish. Edee’s different.
“I got it on the tenth anniversary of my parents’ death. I’d have done it sooner but no one in Vale would ink an underage prince.”
“It’s beautiful.” She traces my ink with her fingers and I know what she sees. Two birds flying up and toward the horizon. They’re free, they’re going awesome places, and someday I’ll catch up. That’s how I prefer to think about my parents. Not as gone, but just as having gone on ahead. In the meantime, I keep them right here over my heart.
She traces the tattoo with her fingertips. “Why birds?”
I cover her hand with mine. This is another one of those things I don’t share with other people. My secrets have a habit of ending up on the Internet.
“My parents died in a helicopter crash,” I tell her. “My dad always liked birds. He used to say that if he hadn’t been a prince, he’d have been an ornithologist. He’d travel all over the world looking for new birds he hadn’t seen before, and then he’d spend hours writing up his lists. This storm petrel was his favorite—there aren’t many of them left. I like to think I’m keeping this one safe for him.”
Maudlin, much?
Edee yawns, her lashes drifting closed. “Can we sleep for a while?”
“Consider me your pillow.” I ease her head onto my shoulder and—fuck. This is aftercare. I’m snuggling.
And I like it.
Bloody fucking he
ll, I’m in trouble. I should have banged Edee, taken care of the condom, and done something else. Gotten started on round two. Got up and aimed for the door. Any of those are good options, but instead, I’ve got my arm around my girl and I’m holding her close and it feels . . . No. No feelings.
She mumbles something and then I feel her let go and drift off.
I’m the pretty boy, the nonthinker, His Royal Badness. I don’t do thinking or emotions. I don’t do fairy tales—they’re too long, too many words about happiness and forever. I’m a sentence, a fragment, an obscene interjection. If you want the full enchilada, you hook up with Nik. The man’s a fucking encyclopedia of love and he’ll give you every word in the dictionary.
I won’t.
I don’t.
I . . . drift off to sleep holding Edee.
Chapter Thirteen
Edee
The next morning, after I declare a boning hiatus because I need to be able to walk, Dare fires off a few texts before disappearing into the massive bathroom. I’m a little concerned that all our (my) screaming and moaning has scared off his bodyguards, but the discreet tap on the door disabuses me of that idea. So much for wishful thinking.
I try ignoring my unwelcome caller, but the tapping is repeatedly, a little more loudly this time. I consider barging into the bathroom and demanding that Dare deal with whoever is paying us a visit, but I’m not sure of the morning-after bathroom etiquette. I mean, technically we’re married, but I’m not ready to catch him midstream, either.
Ergo, I give up after a third, louder tap (one that’s starting to sound like outright banging), and open the door. Bad move. I’m wearing just a bathrobe and our early morning caller is Mr. Left. He’s the one with the scar on his left cheek and the brutally short buzz cut. He looks like he could pinch hit for an MMA fighter if one of the Vegas shows came up short, which I’m sure Dare finds very reassuring. Obviously, you’d never hire Mr. Rogers to guard your royal body, but Mr. Left is definitely lacking in the sweet and snuggly department.