Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  There’s a discreet tap on the doorframe. I look up from the phone. The real estate agent’s back and he’s anxious about something. He looks like he has to pee or pass a kidney stone. Maybe both.

  He aims a smile at me. “Do you have a budget, Your Royal Highness?”

  Charm. How cute.

  I shrug. “The magic number is whatever Edee wants.”

  Not satisfied, the real estate agent circles around the question and comes in for a different approach like a plane hitting the runway at McCarran International Airport. “Will you be working with a mortgage broker?”

  The man likes friendly numbers, so I’ll help him out.

  “Fuck, no. I’ve got twenty million in cash in my US account. I’ll wire more if she decides to redo the bathroom.”

  How much gold can she possibly want to add to the place?

  The real estate agent beams at me. “Excellent.”

  Luca manages an entire sentence. “You’re seriously buying a place?”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “Real estate’s always a good investment.”

  Edee picks this moment to appear in the doorway and I beckon her over. “Say hi to Luca.”

  She makes a face off camera and then leans in so Luca can see her. “Hey, troll brother.”

  “Inconvenient bride.” He acknowledges her with a brief tip of his head. I can’t tell if they like each other or not. It’s like watching North Korea bristle and aim its nukes at larger, better-armed, more democratic neighbors.

  “How’s the mad inventing going?” When Edee asks Luca about his work, he lights up. Okay. The glower on his face lightens up and he dials the grump back another degree.

  Luca launches into an elaborate description of some mechanical doohickey he’s patenting and Edee gives him her undivided attention, asking question after question.

  She’s one of the most curious people I’ve ever met. And lucky me, she’s like that in bed, too. She’s not afraid to ask how something works and she’s always happy to learn something new. The X position, a strategic pillow under her ass so I can love on her pussy, upside-down missionary with a twist. Check, check, hell yeah. I start thinking up a new variation on the pretzel. Eventually, however, Luca gets tired of talking about himself and signs off.

  I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Find anything good upstairs?”

  Edee practically bounces in place. “Come and see the bathroom.”

  She grabs my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. It’s not like I’ve never held hands. There’s no weird royal injunction against it, even if public displays of affection are discouraged. But this feel like a first. She smiles at me, her fingers curling around mine, as our fingers fit together. Like we’re a couple.

  Before I can overthink it, however, she’s tugging me up the stairs. This is a move I can get behind (all puns intended) because it gives me a great view of her ass.

  “Ta-da!” She ceremoniously flings open the door to what I assume is the master bath. It’s approximately the size of a train station, decorated in equal amounts of white marble, crystals, and subway tile. It’s downright blinding.

  As is Edee’s smile. Apparently, she’s been harboring secret subway fantasies.

  I grin at her. “So you like it?”

  “I love it.” She practically glows.

  That’s decided then.

  I stick my head out the door and bellow down to the real estate agent that we’ll take it.

  “Ha ha.” Edee’s still opening and closing drawers—there’s more storage in here than in Noah’s ark. “You shouldn’t joke like that. Mr. Phelps will stroke out.”

  Do I care? Not really.

  “Who’s Phelps?”

  Edee scrunches up her forward and stares at me. “The guy in the suit downstairs who’s desperate to sell you a twelve-million-dollar mansion?”

  That guy.

  “I’m not joking,” I tell her.

  “You are,” she says.

  The real estate agent—Mr. Phelps—pops his head in the door, assesses the situation, and announces he’ll be working on the contracts. In his BMW. Which is safely outside, down the driveway, and equipped with a stellar sound system. He then promptly disappears. Added bonus? The man has already signed an NDA. Whatever Edee and I do will stay in Vegas.

  “You should get in the tub,” I tell her. “Check it out and make sure it’s comfortable.”

  She looks at me. You know—The Look. The one that says did you really go there? Yes, brown eyes, I did. And she’s thinking about it, too—about doing it right here even though we’re not technically alone and the house still belongs to a stranger.

  Technically.

  Did I mention I never met a rule I didn’t want to break?

  So I flick the water on, swing her up in my arms, and kiss her until the tub’s full. And after that? Let’s just say that our new tub is definitely built for two.

  * * *

  * * *

  Edee

  When you spot the perfect cake in the window of a bakery, maybe you go in and order a slice. Or even if you buy the whole thing and cart it home in its paper box, you eat it one slice at a time. Dare’s just stuck a fork in the biggest, fanciest, frosting-iest cake and devoured it on-site. No mortgage for him; no paying for his house one month and one slice at a time. He just points and gets the whole thing on his plate. Twelve million dollars in cash. Just like that.

  And just to further up the not-normal quotient, the palatial residence he’s bought turns out to be a combination of a mansion and a zoo. Almost as soon as he’d wired an obscene amount of money from A to B, a horde of camera-wielding paparazzi took up residence outside the gates. This means that anytime he goes in or out, he and his companions are splashed across numerous gossip sites and fan sites, along with intrusive speculation about who everyone is and what their function is in the Dare-verse. Yes, they call it that.

  Most of the press seems cautiously optimistic about my princess potential. They talk about fairy-tale weddings, happily-ever-afters, and whatever I’m wearing. Still, I’m not everyone’s favorite royal by marriage. Some reporters have dubbed me the money-grubbing bride, the light-heeled flavor of the week, or a nefarious government plot to undermine the Valeian monarchy. I’m not sure how that last would work, but Dare told me he’d better check me for weapons “just in case” and then gave me a very thorough pat down. I’ve countered by ordering a sexy cop uniform from Amazon (and I’m just hoping the UPS driver remains immune to the bribes and blandishments of the photographic crowd).

  They’ve worked out who I am, which Dare said was only a matter of time. And once they made me, they found my stepmother. Her house is now surrounded by paparazzi, although she’s actually enjoying the exposure. Sometimes literally. I’m pretty sure I spotted a picture of her sunbathing by our pool in a teeny-tiny Brazilian thong. My eyes are still burning. So for the moment my old life is somewhat off-limits, and Dare’s convinced me to temporarily move in with him. While there’s no room service, I do have access to the world’s best bathtub and a dirty prince who’s intent on christening each and every room.

  I wave to the photographers as I carefully ease out of the ridiculously long driveway. Mr. Left says it works for security purposes, creating a natural barrier between the outside world and the main house. I’m not sure what kind of threats he’s expecting, but I mentally envision one of the jeans-and-T-shirt-wearing, camera-toting guys sneaking up to the house with a stethoscope and trying to listen in while Dare and I have sex. Or even just a conversation. Frankly, our time’s spent pretty much fifty-fifty between the two. I’ve barely had time for photography.

  I miss it. I love shooting, but Dare tenses up like a wet cat when I bring out Mr. Precious. For a guy who’s followed around by photographers on a regular basis, you’d think he’d get used to it. The light today is perfect, too. The sun’s at
just the right angle for some gorgeous shots, and I have definite camera envy when I look at the lenses pointing our way.

  My Honda squeaks past them—my brakes needed replacing months ago but I’m still saving up. They yell the usual questions, wanting to know how the king feels about our nuptials, when Nik might make an appearance, and if I’m pregnant yet. Dare ignores them, shooting me a sidelong glance from the seat where he’s the reluctant shotgun passenger when my brakes give a particularly ear-splitting squeal. He voted himself in as today’s driver but I countered that it was my car. He lost.

  “If you let me buy you a new car, we’d be down the block by now,” Dare points out. He lost that argument, too. I’ve been good for him in so many ways. I’m pretty certain that no was not a word he heard on a regular basis until he met me.

  “Not happening.” I blow him a kiss rather than flip him the bird because the last time I did that, some enterprising photographer snapped a shot and the gossip sites debated for the next two days if there was trouble in the princely bedchamber.

  When it comes to cars, I’m the tortoise and Dare is the hare. I like to putt along, nice and slow, because that way I know I’ll actually arrive at my destination rather than, say, the emergency room or possibly the cemetery. Dare, on the other hand, would rather “open her up” and treat the Nevada roadways like his own personal autobahn. He says he has dozens of sports cars stashed all around the world and he’ll buy “a few” for this house—so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t drive one. He also claims he’d feel better if he knew I wasn’t risking the Vegas freeways in a “tin can held together by hope and duct tape.”

  And honestly? There are only two pieces of duct tape in my car, thank you very much. The biggest piece is wrapped around my side mirror because walls and trash cans like to jump out to kiss it on a semi-regular basis. The other piece is underneath Dare’s elegant posterior. One of my canine clients got a little too enthusiastic about his nuptial shoot and ripped a hole in the plastic. Too bad, so sad.

  Neither the duct-taped seat nor our destination was Dare’s first choice. In fact, he offered to let me pick today’s new sex position if we could stay home and christen a new room. Yes, I thought about it. I have ovaries, working girl parts, and a healthy imagination—plus we’ve each bookmarked our top-ten must-tries in the Kama Sutra. I’m not sure all of those positions are anatomically possible, but trying will be fun.

  Dare drapes his arm across the back of the seat, his fingers brushing my neck. “We could turn around.”

  “Nice try.” I ease the Honda past the final phalanx of photographers and put on a burst of speed. Pretty sure we’re going all of twenty-five miles an hour now, heading to the gig I’d been booked for. “I have to work.”

  Dare gives me the puppy dog eyes. “Everyone else is happy to take advantage of both my bank account and my dick.”

  Dragging my eyes back to the road is an effort but killing the crown prince of Vale would not be smart. “We’ve already established that I’m not like everyone else.”

  “Right.” He groans. “But I’d rather keep that to the bedroom, ’kay?”

  “Sure, Prince Charming.” I reach over and turn on the radio. Talking about money feels awkward, mostly because he has a ton of it and I don’t. And while I appreciate his desire to share both his worldly goods and his magnificent penis with me, I’m only comfortable helping myself to one of those two options. The McMansion we’ve just left is his place, not mine. Ergo, I need to keep on working.

  Today’s wedding is an excellent opportunity for me, seeing as how it involves actual people as opposed to canines. My portfolio will be even prettier with people shots—and my bank account will likewise thank me. I try to focus on that happy thought and not the six feet, two inches of hot, sulky, built prince crammed into my tiny front seat beside me.

  We’re just finishing our duet with Mariah Carey when I turn into the venue. It’s impressive. Ten swank acres of faux hacienda located on the outskirts of Vegas, the hotel offers plenty of outdoor spaces and pools even though it’s 110 degrees out and you’ll contract heatstroke by the time you’ve gone the ten paces before you can swan dive into the water. So the bride and groom have packed their reception into an enormous ballroom that appears to have started life as a greenhouse. Two-story floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto the desert. Everything is air-conditioned to the approximate temperature of Antarctica. It’s not the open bar tab that will make the newlyweds cry—it’s the electric surcharge.

  We park in the employee lot and I can’t resist nudging Dare. “Look at you, using the servant’s entrance.”

  He wraps an arm around my waist. “There’s nothing not to respect about honest work.”

  Well, today will put him to the test because I have a long list of shots to capture at this wedding and Dare’s agreed to be my assistant. We’re both dressed in all black to blend in. And although it’s hard to overlook six feet two inches of red-haired prince, I swear I’m going to try.

  He insisted on helping, and I was too weak after hours of sex to say no. Plus, I’ve always secretly wanted to try quickie sex in a near-public venue and I’m certain he’ll be happy to help me knock that one off my fantasy bucket list. So I laid down the law for him: be unobtrusive. Say nothing. Fetch.

  Okay, so the last isn’t entirely necessary, but I have a few fantasies of my own.

  As we approach the wedding party, I pull my camera out.

  “Hold this.” I hand the camera bag to him and he obediently slings it over his shoulder. “God, you take orders well.”

  His eyes darken. “Brown eyes, you have no idea.”

  Actually, I do. Dare’s a prince, a future king, and a dominant—but he’s also playful and willing to explore. If he’s in the right mood, he’ll let me take the reins in bed. Tonight’s not going to be one of those nights, though. He pulls me in for a brief, hard kiss and I can practically hear my panties hit the floor.

  Fortunately, the venue is the perfect distraction. Dare takes one look at the ceremony site, set up on a gorgeous, sloping lawn that leads to yet another man-made lake, and whistles.

  “Someone likes pink.”

  That’s an understatement. Try replacing like with has a pathological obsession with. It’s not just the pink chairs, pink carpet, and pink ribbons. The bridesmaids are wearing pink. The guests are wearing pink. There are also pink roses, pink peonies, and yes, pink baby’s breath. Even the bouquets are the decorative love child of modern farmhouse and a five-year-old girl’s fantasy. Joanna Gaines has a lot to answer for. I shoot the ceremony from a discreet distance, and I keep it together—even when pink balloons are released when the couple is declared man and wife.

  Afterward, I wander around snapping pictures of the guests. I can’t help but compare this pink gala with my own Elvis shenanigans. I know that our ceremony was meant as a joke, but part of me is disappointed. We got married alone, with just an Elvis impersonator and Dare’s bodyguards for company. I have no business wishing we’d been surrounded by friends and family, or that there’s been more smiling and well-wishing.

  Dare doesn’t seem to notice the differences. He keeps up a running, sotto voce commentary about the various royal weddings he’s attended. There are a shocking number of royal personages tying the knot and their guests get up to all sorts of hijinks. I can’t help snorting when Dare explains exactly what a maid of honor and her best man got up to in Westminster Cathedral when they tried to console a down-in-the-dumps DJ about his recent breakup.

  The next two hours are a blur of activity as I shoot the outdoor ceremony and then the happy couple’s first kiss. I double-check my list on my phone because I’d hate to miss a moment. Ceremony, first kiss, arrival, the bridal party—check, check, and check. Now the cake has been cut, the reception is in full swing, and I’m wrapping up my final shots when I realize that I’ve misplaced Dare. He’s not where I left him leani
ng against the faux Grecian column shooting me sultry looks.

  I finally find him when I reach the reception equivalent of Outer Mongolia. He’s in the furthest line of tables, underneath a (pink) tablecloth, playing Barbies with the littlest flower girl. He walks Ken up the aisle with mock solemnity to meet the girl doll, humming the Wedding March the whole way. God. My heart melts.

  I peer underneath the table. “Dolls?”

  The bride doll gives Ken a discreet peck on the cheek and the flower girl commences the ceremony.

  Dare makes sure Ken speaks up at the appropriate moment before answering my question. “Bethany’s fun.”

  “I don’t have a brother, so he said I could borrow him,” Bethany announces.

  “Brothers are important.” Dare gives me a grin and winks at his playmate, who beams back at him. God. My ovaries spontaneously combust and demand we flush our birth control pills down the drain. Getting knocked up by my royal bad boy suddenly feels like a primo plan.

  Yeah—you’re right—this is a hostage situation and I need to take immediate corrective steps.

  I part my legs, giving Dare a primo view up my skirt. It helps that I’m wearing a really (really) nice thong today. It’s silky and covered in peach lace—what there is of it. I have to give Dare credit. He doesn’t mean to look up my dress. It’s habit, like checking out the lane next to you before you change lanes on the highway. I spread, he looks, and then he’s riveted. Ken practically collides with Barbie at the roll of toilet paper that’s serving as a makeshift altar.

  See? Ovaries take note. He may like kids, but he’s also a crude, sexy beast. This should trump the panty-melting cuteness of watching him play Barbies.

  “Husband and wife,” he groans. “Yay. We’re married.”

  “You’re supposed to toss the petals,” Bethany hisses.

  “Right.” Dare drags his gaze away from my thighs and tosses his hand into the air. Rose petals rain down on the dolls. The petals are looking rather shopworn, so I don’t think this is Ken’s first trip to the altar.