by Anne Marsh
“If that’s what you want.” His free hand skims beneath my sundress, suggesting other things I might want. “Why?”
“To give me enough time to do everything I’m thinking about.”
“That’s a great plan.” His hand moves upward. “You lost your panties.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Naughty.”
I moan, as that wicked, wonderful hand presses between my legs. He curses roughly and I’m not sure who is being rewarded for my lack of underwear, but it’s glorious. He strokes lightly where I’m slick and swollen, and it’s not enough. I pull on his shoulders, whatever I can reach, tugging his hair free from the ponytail, threading my fingers through it. He doesn’t get to keep it together, not tonight.
His fingers find my favorite spot. Circle. Heat flashes through me, a decadent pressure, a need for more right fucking now.
“Dare.” Yes, I’m sure that moan is audible from the front seat—they probably heard it in China, too. All the way out on Mars. Pluto. Whatever the last known planet is because I don’t care—I just want more.
And he gives it to me, picking up his pace, his hand and my pussy finding a rough, urgent, goddamned perfect rhythm. I’m—
I’m seeing stars. Fireworks. An entire Chinese New Year lighting up the insides of my eyelids and tattooing Dare was here on my nerve endings as wet, raw, greedy sounds fill the hushed inside of the limo. I love you.
The words form in my brain and it’s all I can do not to say them out loud. It’s not that I’ve spent years waiting for Prince Charming. I don’t need a rich guy on horseback to charge into my life and rearrange it. I don’t need the ballrooms, the dresses, the fancy shoes. I just need Dare.
“You gonna come again for me, Edee?”
He smirks at me, his beautiful face watching me, gauging my reactions. He’s insanely talented at this and we both know it—if the royal coffers ever dry up, he could earn a fortune as a gigolo.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he growls, fingers working me. “Prettiest woman at the ball.”
It’s not an I love you, but it’s more than I expected. My stupid, stupid heart soars and goes into free fall because my beautiful charmer feels something for me, even if it might just be possession. Or maybe that’s the finger spearing me, finding that spot deep inside that makes the previous explosion seem like a bottle rocket—and promises a Big-Bang-worthy sequel. God, I love sequels.
I tighten around his finger, the car’s motion rocking me deeper, harder against him. God, I’m so, so close. Dare gives an evil chuckle and pulls me off his lap.
“Not without me this time.” Fucking prince bites my ear.
But then he’s unbuckling and unzipping, ripping open the front of his trousers and rolling on a condom. I guess he must always carry one with him or maybe they’re standard issue in limos? I don’t know, words fail me as I admire the sight of his dick. He’s truly spectacular.
I don’t get long to look. He thrusts into me and the stars I’m seeing become an exploding supernova. Galaxies are born and re-formed. I hug him tight with my thighs, pushing down as he thrusts up.
There’s a raw burn where he pushes himself into me. The latex of the condom, too much too fast, or the three orgasms I enjoyed last time. A little from Column A, some from Column B, and a big hell yeah on Column C. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Tomorrow, I’ll feel him there with each step I take. I’d ink him into my skin if I could.
He nips my ear. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you. Dare.”
He reaches his hand between us, finding the spot where we’re joined. His fingers dance over me, easing the burn and replacing it with a different kind of ache. I get wetter and he groans something as he slams into me. My name. A curse. A prayer.
I stare down into his face, his eyes closed in fierce concentration. I need to remember this. Later, when he’s gone, I need to be able to recreate each thrust, each second of this night. From the dark red curls shoved back from his face to the way his eyes close as he seats himself in me to the strong, stubborn jaw that’s stubble-roughened and demanding kisses. I have to remember.
He grips my hips with his hands, helping me find a new rhythm. “Like dancing,” he whispers roughly. “One, two, three.”
And the fucking bastard’s right, as always, because I’m twirling and flying, the world a riot of color and sensation all around me. And he’s got me, his arms hard around me, holding me tight, keeping me safe when I lose control and fly apart.
Afterward, I lie there, my cheek on his chest. We’re both breathing hard like we just crossed the finish line of a marathon we weren’t quite prepared for. His hand pets my hair. I don’t think he even realizes it.
I love you, I whisper into his shirt buttons.
I accused him of being frosting, once. But now I’m realizing that there is a man of substance behind the gorgeous, fluffy, oh-so-lickable exterior. A man I’m in love with—and who I think I could love once I’ve gotten to know him.
Chapter Seventeen
Dare
Edee’s spread out before me like the best kind of twenty-four-hour, deluxe Vegas buffet, and I’ve just finished eating her out. Now I’m between her legs about to make her feel like a princess.
“Dare.” I love the way Edee moans my name.
“Yeah?” I thrust inside her. Limits, derivatives, a fucking contemplation of continuity—I need every tool in my differential calculus toolbox because otherwise I’m in danger of coming after just one stroke. Christ, she feels amazing. This has to explain why I don’t catch the way she says my name. As if that one word is a conversational opener and not a pre-orgasmic chant.
“I feel something for you,” she says.
“Sure as fuck hope so,” I growl. “I want you to come for me, Edee. Now.”
Edee fucking loves commands. Plus, it’s safer to tell her what to do. She can’t be feeling things. Women mix up sex and emotions. You like intimacy and feeling close. Guys do, too, but our idea of close is sticking ourselves inside your bodies. We don’t need to get inside your heads, too.
So I don’t ask her what she’s feeling—I just make sure it’s good, great, the best she’s ever felt. The only thing she needs to feel is her body coming apart for mine. Because that’s what I’m feeling and it’s more than enough.
Edee
Sleeping Beauty is naked.
And sleeping.
And naked.
To be fair, I wore my husband out last night. Wow. Let’s say that again. My husband. This gorgeous, sweet, scruffy prince is my husband. My husband. I play with the words in my head while I twist the diamonds on my left hand. I’ve done my fair share of bitching that life isn’t fair, but this . . . this is unfair in a whole different way and I love it. It’s like when you complain to the front desk at the hotel that there’s no hot water and you’re expecting a complimentary fruit basket, but instead, they comp you a week-long stay—in the penthouse. Instead of a half dozen apples and spotted bananas, I’ve been handed the luxury, top-of-the-line experience and there’s no comparison.
I totally shouldn’t molest him while he’s sleeping.
But I could crawl under that sheet and wake him up.
Put my mouth on his—
Stop it.
I’m going to be mature about this. Sophisticated and glamorous, maybe with a side of exotic thrown in. I am not going to throw myself on him and pepper that strong neck with kisses. Definitely not going to lick my way up to his ear and whisper dirty suggestions. Plus, I’m a little sore from our enthusiastic sex last night, so I probably shouldn’t start anything until tonight. Or for the next couple of hours.
I might hold out twenty minutes.
Heh. I curl my fingers into his where they lay on top of the sheet and his fingers tighten on mine just a little. See? Even in his sleep, we’re on the same pa
ge. We both think this chemistry we have is awesome, that we should hang onto each other.
Yes. The Wishful Thinking Fairy has parked her delusional butt on my shoulder and she’s making me think bad, bad thoughts. Holding my hand in his sleep is probably just an instinctive reaction, the way a baby curls its tiny fists around a finger or a dog twitches because it’s dreaming about chasing rabbits or chew toys. Knowing Dare, he’s got visions of naked sexy women dancing around in his sleepy head while I’m imagining that we have a future.
Because I love him.
And even though I’m working on being realistic this morning, it’s hard to ignore that feeling or pretend it’s as faux as the crenellations decorating the entrance to the Royal Palace Casino where we met. Because last night was amazing, and for the first time, I really do believe that this could work.
Take that, Wishful Thinking Fairy.
I ease my fingers out of his and wander over to the big plate glass window that fills our bedroom with early morning sunshine. See? I’ve got equally gorgeous things to ogle out here. The mountains in the distance, for one. The creamy white roses lining our Versailles-worthy lawn for two. And . . .
Yeah. My gaze swivels right back to Mr. Hot and Naked.
I give in to temptation and ease my camera out of the camera bag. One picture. I just need one picture. The way he’s sprawled on his back, one arm over his face, leg bent—I need to remember this. Yes, I watch him breathe. I blame this partly on those happy-happy-joy-joy feelings I can’t suppress, but mostly on the fact that he’s just so freaking beautiful. The sheet is all twisted around his hips and I’m itching to tug it lower. Looking away is impossible.
Click.
Oops. I’d like to say my finger slipped, but that would be a lie. I raise the camera to my face and fire off a couple of quick shots. The light’s perfect and the man even more so. He’s more open like this, and I want so badly to show him how I see him. How I see all of him, the soft and the hard, the bad boy and the sweet marshmallow inside that plays dolls with a flower girl.
And hello. Somebody’s being a very bad boy because a certain region starts to stir beneath the sheet and does a whole lot of growing. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That my sweet husband is enjoying a not-so-sweet dream?
I’m leaning in to kiss him good morning, camera in one hand, other hand planted on the mattress, when he opens his eyes. Maybe it’s something he learned in the military, but Dare wakes up fast. He doesn’t do sleepy half measures—one minute he’s out, and the next he’s focused on me.
And on the camera.
His forehead creases and he shoves upright.
“What the fuck, Edee?”
He yanks the camera out of my hand before he unhesitatingly smashes it against the floor. I flinch backward. There’s not a shred of happiness in his face, and because I don’t know what to say or where to start, I stare at the floor.
At Mr. Precious, who’s broken. You can’t fix shit like this. My dad gave me this camera and it’s like a third arm, another part of me. A really, really important part—and Dare should know that. It’s my heart, my soul, my stupid, stupid dreams and wishes. I stand there for a moment, not moving. And I can feel him looking at me, making those little growly sounds in his throat because he’s pissed off. Fine. You know what? I’m not pissed off. I’m angry.
And it feels good.
I scoop up my camera, not because it can be fixed but because it’s mine. Tears prick my eyelids. Don’t blink. I won’t cry for him. So fuck him and the royal horse he rode in on. And yet part of me still wants to try and fix this. It’s a stupid, naïve part of me, but she’s apparently in control of my tongue because instead of throwing the camera at his head or just leaving, she attempts an explanation.
“It was a picture, not an assassination attempt.” He’s cracked the casing and the lens. I stare at the damage because maybe then I won’t cry in front of him.
Asshole doesn’t get it because he shoves a hand through his hair and glares at me as if I’m the one at fault here. “No pictures.”
As if I’m just another photographer and no one special.
Don’t blink.
“Christ.” He glowers at me. “How can you not get that?”
Excuse me for being confused. One minute everything’s beautiful and special, and the next—well, let’s just say I’d like to rewind my life a few seconds and head in a new direction. Dare, however, just keeps charging forward.
“I don’t want my picture taken.” He scrubs a hand over his head. “Not while I’m sleeping, not while I’m naked, not ever.”
I shake my head. “But they’re beautiful shots.”
Okay. So that’s a stupid argument, even if it’s also the truth.
“No.” One word. That’s all he gives me.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the jeans he dropped on the floor last night. We were in a hurry—we barely made it to the bed. He pulls the jeans on with sharp, jerky movement and we both know he’s not just getting dressed. Nope. He’s covering up because I broke an unspoken rule.
And I suppose I should have asked. I wouldn’t want naked, sheet-wearing pictures of myself out there somewhere where I have no control over them. Except he does have pictures of me, doesn’t he? He took them with his phone. So what makes this so different? Why can I get naked but he can’t?
“You have pictures of me,” I point out. I’m talking about the super-sexy ones he took with his phone. I never asked him what he planned to do with them—I trusted him.
“That’s not the same thing.” He marches into the closet and I follow. The house is so ridiculously huge that we have his and her closets because apparently rich people don’t share.
“How is it different? In fact, the ones you took of me are worse. You can see my vagina.”
He yanks a shirt over his head. “It’s not the same thing at all.”
I take a moment to register that we’re having our first married fight. “Explain it to me. Use small words. Add a diagram or two.”
He nods grimly. “I am a prince, Edee. A celebrity whether I like it or not. Pictures of me sell for ridiculous sums of money, and naked pictures are like finding a previously unknown Picasso in your attic.”
“I’m not going to share them,” I protest. “I’d never do that.”
He shrugs and brushes past me. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Not from me,” I yell the words at him. Now I don’t want to cry—I want to hit him. He’s not hearing me. “I’m different. I’m your wife.”
He gives me a look. “Are you? Different? Because I’ve heard that before, Edee, and I’ve been sold out more times than I can count.”
“You don’t trust me?”
He makes a rough sound. “Edee—”
Let’s get specific, shall we?
“You’re choosing not to trust me.” Do you hear that sound? That’s my heart entering free fall and smashing on the ground even harder than my camera. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me and then turns and grabs a sweater from the neat stack on the closet shelf. It’s probably handcrafted from one-of-a-kind llamas on a private Tibetan mountain that’s off-limits to us mere mortals. Am I bitter? You betcha. I’m just one of many. Not special. Gotcha, the Wishful Thinking Fairy chortles because she’s a mean bitch.
“You broke my camera,” I say.
You’re breaking my heart is what I mean.
The Wishful Thinking Fairy is cackling so hard I think she might have a seizure.
Dare stands there, holding the stupid sweater. His gaze drops to the broken camera in my hand.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he growls. “It’s just a camera.”
It’s funny, the things that stick in your head. The seconds that somehow seem to stretch and stretch until they take up way more time than they should a
nd even then you can’t figure out what to say. In a day, a month, a year, maybe never, I’ll know what I should have said. Right now, however, I have nothing and I blink. And blink again. My eyes burn and I sniff. It’s not elegant or pretty or even all that loud and it can’t quite fill up the emptiness in the closet.
“It’s not just a camera,” I say.
Truth.
I wait for him to say something else. Get down on his knees. Apologize. Anything. Instead, he pulls the sweater over his head. It’s funny how something that simple can send the clearest message. I—
Don’t matter.
Fine.
Okay, so it’s not fine but I’ll be practical about this even if it kills me. I turn around, still cradling my stupid camera in my arms, and march out of his closet. It’s as big as everything else in his life, so I have to do a lot of walking. He has plenty of time to say something. Stop is just four letters. So is wait.
He says nothing.
I walk out of the bedroom and then I keep on walking to the top of the stupid marble staircase that makes me feel like Scarlett O’Hara or Belle.
And if I’m listening the whole time, hoping he calls to me, hoping for something that’s never, ever going to happen, that’s my secret. My legs keep moving up and down, my eyes fixed on the exit that I’m taking.
And then he says something. His beautiful, rough voice calls to me from the bedroom.
“We have a contract.” He’s not yelling, but his voice carries. Low and firm and full of command. Too bad for him that we’re not in Vale, that his word isn’t law, and that I’m free to make my own bad choices.
“So sue me,” I say.
Looking at me, still walking toward the door. Finally, finally, I’m doing the smart thing. I’m leaving, I’m going, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.
Do you know the Bible story about Lot’s wife? She doesn’t even get a name—she’s just the wife who can’t follow the rules. He’s rushing her out of Sodom because that’s the deal and she knows she’s not supposed to look back. She’s only allowed to look forward because that’s what God and Lot have agreed on. They didn’t ask her what she thought, or how she felt about that—but they held her to the terms of their contract. She looked, and boom, God turned her into a pillar of salt.