Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  The day my parents died, I remember being sure that I could just go to bed and wake up again. That even though I was living a nightmare, all I had to do was fall asleep and then I could try again. Younger Me was sure he could dream up unicorns, puppies, rainbows—something better, safer, happier.

  Older Me knows now that unicorns will shit on your lawn.

  This feeling right now—the emptiness somewhere north of my stomach—is worse. I lost my parents to someone else’s bad decision.

  This time? It’s my fault.

  There’s no one else to blame. No matter what happens next, the image of Edee staring at me through the half-opened door will haunt me. Eyes full of tears, arms wrapped around herself as if she’s holding herself together.

  I did this.

  Sad, mad—Edee’s all the things. It’s funny, how much you learn when you’re knocking on a door that all the royal kingdoms in the world can’t open. When the title, the money, the power doesn’t count for shit because you realize that there’s only one place you want to be—with her. Remember Dorothy, who whines and moans the whole time she’s having awesome, magical adventures in the land of Oz that she just wants to go home? And then it turns out she’s had the ability to zap herself there any time she chose? I always thought Dorothy was blind for not realizing her kickass sparkly heels could zoom her to the one place she needed to be—but it turns out that I’m even more blind.

  “I was an idiot,” I say.

  All those days and weeks I spent with Edee, and I didn’t realize that she’s my home. My happy place. The one I need to be with. I was so busy being angry with her that I didn’t tell her how I feel.

  “And I’m sorry.”

  She’s right. The only feelings that I’ve ever discussed with her have been the orgasmic kind. Does this feel good? How about this? What can I make you do to scream my name?

  Truth is, I wasn’t angry at Edee for taking my picture—I was scared.

  Because when someone means goddamned everything to you, you don’t want to find out that you mean nothing more than a payday.

  So it’s time to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I admit.

  “Apologized?” This time her gaze meets mine. It’s still a little teary—and a whole lot pissed. “Practice makes perfect.”

  From the tone of her voice, she thinks I have lots—and lots—of practice in my future. And it’s tempting to wink at her. To remind her that I’m the king of kissing everything better and to drop to my knees and show her. When she left and didn’t come back, however, it felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world. Because what’s been happening between us here in Vegas—the way she kisses me, talks to me, is there for me—feels like so much more than sex. As if we’re naked together in a way that has nothing to do with clothing—and I like it even if it scares the shit out of me at the same time.

  “Had a relationship,” I say.

  She looks at me. She’s opening her mouth, and I can already tell that she’s not happy. I had my chance, and I blew it. Royally. I wasn’t ready to admit the truth, didn’t want to accept that I’d fallen.

  In love.

  She’s not ready to believe me, though. She’s already told me about her shitty past. About the boyfriends who came and went and who didn’t care that they broke her heart. About her dad who left her mom and then left her when he died, and how she’s got zero reasons to believe that anyone sticks around in her life on purpose. My feelings for her aren’t going to seem anything other than temporary.

  Show, don’t tell.

  That’s what she needs from me tonight.

  “I’ve never had to chase a woman down,” I continue thoughtfully.

  Her fingers flex. She might be imagining doing some chasing of her own—the kind a predator does right before it sinks its teeth into the neck of its prey. I lean against the doorframe and look into her eyes because maybe the script I need is there.

  Not a chance in hell?

  The dead, irritated, finger-flexing silence should be my first clue?

  You’re right. I’m going to have to figure this out on my own.

  “What do you want?” I’m not above begging for her help.

  “Why?” Her gaze skims over my body, taking me in. I don’t know what the dress code is for a heartfelt grovel, but yes, I put some thought into it and yes, that’s another first for me. My slacks are dark and perfectly fitted, a masterpiece of Savile Row tailoring. I skipped a jacket because Edee and I have never been formal, but the shirt beneath my cashmere sweater is undone at the throat. She’s welcome to bite me, lick me, put her hands all over me. My dick promptly springs to life because she’s—finally—paying attention to me.

  “Because I’m going to give it to you,” I say, moving forward with a confidence I’m not feeling.

  She shakes her head, backing up a step. She’s trying to hide how she’s feeling, when I want her to let everything out. “I don’t need more things, Dare. This isn’t a Pretty Woman remake where you buy out the store for me because someone’s hurt my feelings and treated me like shit.”

  “I know money doesn’t fix everything,” I say softly.

  “All evidence to the contrary,” she growls, her eyes meeting mine. She’s staring into me and I don’t know what she sees.

  “All the money in the world couldn’t bring my parents back,” I admit. “And I totally would have Frankensteined them if I could have.”

  She sighs, but she loosens up with the death grip she has on her tits. Not that I’m noticing. Much. I’m turning over a new leaf here, not dead. “What do you want?”

  I don’t hesitate.

  After all, he who hesitates is lost, and I’m in this to win.

  “You. I want you, Edee. That’s why I’m here.” Now that we’re face-to-face, I can’t stop looking at her—the flyaway curls piled up on top of her head in a gravity-defying twist, the amazing eyes, the lips that will always give me shit when I need it.

  “You want me so badly that you’ve busted into my stepmother’s house?” She peers around me, as if she’s checking to make sure that I’m truly alone. I made Mr. Left and Mr. Right wait outside because this is something I have to do by myself.

  “I’d follow you anywhere,” I promise her.

  She looks away. “Right.”

  And that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the sound of defeat. She doesn’t believe a word I’ve said, and that leaves me with two choices. I can turn around, climb back over the wall, and admit defeat—or I can plow forward, keep talking, and hope I hit on the magic combination of words. When the prince slashed his way through the forest of thorns to reach Beauty’s tower, he probably decided somewhere between his horse and the tower’s base that this sucked. I’ll bet he ended up bloodied—and bloody well frustrated. But I need her to believe me. Christ, I’m begging for it even though it’s the last thing I deserve.

  “Please,” I say. The word feels foreign, but it sums up everything I’m fighting for here. Her time, her heart, her letting me be the man by her side who’ll be doing the pleasing for the next hundred years and then some. “Can I please please you, Edee? We haven’t known each other all that long, but you’ve been willing to meet me more than halfway, to give up parts of your life for me and explore what we could be to each other . . . and I’m not sure I said thank you for that.”

  Okay. I totally didn’t, but she’s staring at me now, like she’s finally, absolutely listening to me. Like she’s hearing me and so I keep right on going.

  “I know you weren’t planning on forever and that princes complicate the shit out of daily life, but we had some good moments together. Let me give you more of them.”

  I can practically hear Queenie growling in my ear that this is impossible. That I need to stop. It’s not just that I’m a prince and she has no royal
blood at all. Good people have fought wars and kicked ass over that kind of misguided idea, and I know that I’m no better than Edee or anyone else. In fact, I’m way fucking worse. But I also have responsibilities, even if I’ve put an ocean and more than one continent between me and them. And those responsibilities say I should walk away. That I should find someone who knows how the game is played and that can shoulder some of the work because Vale needs a queen.

  But I ignore that voice. Edee can learn. She’s smart, she’s fierce, and if she’s right for me, surely she has to be right for Vale.

  “I ran away from home,” I admit. It sounds stupid and childish out loud—but that doesn’t make it any less true. “I thought I wasn’t ready to get married and settle down. I wanted—more. More adventure, more time, more freedom. So I came here.”

  Her lips part, her eyes shining. “I know.”

  She thinks she does, she thinks she’s certain that I’m just a playboy prince and she’s my shiny, fun sex toy. And maybe that was true at the beginning, but now she’s—more.

  “I met you,” I say hoarsely. Christ, this is like feeling my way in the dark and I desperately need her to hit the light switch before I fall over something. “And now I still want to run—after you. Wherever you go, Edee, I’ll be running after you. I’m that dog chasing the car because he knows his place is inside by the person who owns his loyalty.”

  There’s another L word. Love. But I can’t quite bring myself to say it, to put everything out there. The habits of a lifetime are hard to break.

  “Wherever I go?”

  “Anywhere,” I promise.

  She exhales a little unsteadily. “Europe?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Antarctica?”

  “I love penguins,” I say solemnly. And I think I might love you.

  She gives a shaky giggle. “They sell trips to the moon now, you know.”

  “I’ll buy us his-and-hers rockets.”

  “Okay.” That one wonderful, miraculous word hangs in the air between us.

  I tip her face up so I can see her eyes—and possibly read her lips. She looks sad and determined. Like someone who’s decided she needs a shot of wheatgrass instead of a milkshake because drinking something that tastes like lawn mower clippings builds character and your immune system.

  “Okay,” she repeats.

  And that’s all she says. I was sort of expecting a speech. For her to outline some expectations, a to do list, maybe ask me to change a light bulb or perform some kinky personal acts on her. But nope. She shuts her mouth and stares up at me, waiting.

  For me to do something.

  Or say something.

  And since I’m out of words and clueless, I do the only thing I know how. I reach down and cup her beautiful, stubborn face and I kiss her. Partly for me because I’ve missed her so much, but mostly because I need us to feel connected. And yes, putting my tongue in her mouth counts as a connection. Try it. You’ll see.

  Because kissing her is my best idea ever. Her hands come up and cover mine as if she kind of wants to hang on, too. We sort of melt into each other, knees going weak, breath quickening. And then fuck the gentle shit, I crush her to me because she’s back where she belongs.

  With me.

  I lift her off her feet and carry her to the bed, mouths still fused together like someone’s superglued us. Her hands tear at my shirt in a silent demand. Good idea.

  I lay her down on the bed, rip my shirt off, and follow her down. I need to show her exactly how much I’ve missed her and where. I have all my favorite places on her body to get reacquainted with.

  “Go gentle with me,” I say.

  “Really?” Brown eyes laugh up at me.

  “This is a first for me.”

  She makes a scoffing noise. “Did you buy a time machine?”

  I wish. I think I might like to go back and have Edee be my first.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever had make-up sex.” I nip her bottom lip.

  She considers that for a moment. Or maybe she’s just trying to catch her breath because she’s panting. And then she gives a husky moan. “Right. You’re a relationship virgin. Can we talk about your firsts later?”

  Whatever my lady wants.

  I’m not sure she really needs to hear that I’m a make-up sex virgin because I’ve never cared enough before to make up after a fight. That usually I just walk away from a woman when words start flying and shit isn’t fun anymore. I think I might . . . feel something for Edee.

  Which is not part of the plan, damn it.

  But right now I have hot make-up sex to deliver and Edee to please. So I’ll worry about that later.

  Much, much later.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dare

  Playing house is a kids’ game.

  Fun.

  Silly.

  Not real.

  If you’re a prince with a princely bank account, however, you can buy the biggest, baddest playhouse of them all. Barbie never dreamed of a mansion as big as mine. Our place is two stories of white opulence, our own personal Versailles without the revolution or the head chopping. Edee snaps a million pictures of the marble staircase that sweeps from the front lawn to the broad veranda. She exclaims daily over the French parterre gardens and the way the neatly clipped hedges stretch away from the house—and then she orders a thousand-bulb value package of stargazer lilies from an online gardening company and digs holes in all that expensive grass.

  Me?

  I try to forget that Nik’s still AWOL by keeping a mental list of each room we haven’t banged in yet. In all the years I’ve played the field, I’ve never felt this bizarre urge to mark my territory. To do Edee in each and every room and store up the memories like a squirrel and his nuts. His really sexy, getting-some, do-me-now nuts.

  Take today, for instance. Two weeks after Edee moves back in with me, we’re outside enjoying a little pool time. We’ve already played pool boy, dirty water polo, and tsunami (that’s the one where Edee’s bikini top meets with an accidental demise due to a little roughhousing and splashing). Right now, looking at those marble steps, I’ve got an urge to play Scarlett O’Hara. In fact, pay attention because Sherman’s army is about to descend on us. Oblivious to the impending smackdown, we’ve been sunbathing and drinking cocktails. I snap a selfie of us, her lying on top of me, head on my chest and rocking a white bikini.

  “New game,” I say lazily. If reincarnation is a thing, I want to come back as a lion. Lie around in the sun, hunt, fuck, rinse, and repeat. It’s good to be the king and the ruler of all I see. “You have thirty seconds.”

  “To do what?” She stretches and sits up, which shoves her tits up into the air. Hello.

  “Cheater. You’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?” She winks at me, trailing a hand between her tits as she looks down at me from her perch on top of my dick.

  Am I blind? Yes, of course it’s working, which means I need to up my game. It’s that or play cowgirl and cowboy and I’ve already got my Margaret Mitchell script cooking.

  “I’m very good at games, brown eyes.” I rub my thumbs over her nipple, tugging the skimpy white triangles down as I go. She’s so gorgeous—I think she deserves some attention, don’t you? So I let my fingers skate across her sweet curves, teasing and stroking before I lean up and suck one hard tip into my mouth. My new goal for today is to make Edee come from me sucking her nipples.

  So I kiss her, sucking and biting gently in the way I know drives her crazy until she’s close, squirming on top of me, and making those breathy little moans. That would make the best ringtone ever.

  “Thirty seconds,” I tell her.

  “What?” Her eyes flutter open.

  “You’ve got thirty seconds to beat me to the top of the stairs and inside.” I point to sweepi
ng expanse of marble.

  “Or?” She sounds dazed, which pleases the hard-on I’m sporting to no end.

  “Or I’ll fuck you on the stairs.” I run a finger down her breast again—and keep on going.

  “So mean.” She sighs dramatically and swings off me. My dick protests the loss of contact, and he’s got a point. I pop off the lounger and prowl close to my darling bride.

  “Are we counting to three?” she asks.

  Edee loves knowing what the rules are, so I nod. “Sure are.”

  “You do that.” Her eyes light up and then her palms slam into my chest, shoving hard. I fall backward into the pool.

  “Spit, don’t swallow!” she calls gleefully when I pop to the surface, already running like a madwoman for the steps.

  I haul my ass out of the pool and take off after my bride. She’s fast, but I’m bigger. I catch her at the foot of the stairs and scoop her up into my arms.

  “Winner,” I growl in her ears. “Guess who’s getting fucked on the stairs.”

  She squirms in my arms—the get-closer kind of wriggle, not the put-me-down-or-I’ll-rip-your-balls-off move. “We’re outside.”

  And I deliver my favorite line. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t—”

  “Give a damn. Yes. We’re all aware of that.”

  That’s not Edee’s voice. Fuck. That’s Queenie.

  “I’m hallucinating.” I slowly swing around to confront my nemesis. “Because the only two people who should be here in this garden are myself and my charming bride.”

  “And yet here I am.” Queenie’s got the Rhett look down—he’s clearly all out of fucks to give.

  Edee jackknifes in my arms, tugging her bikini top back into place. Her face is bright red, but I have more pressing problems. Such as figuring out why my uncle, the king of Vale, is standing not five feet away from me, a disapproving frown on his face.

  I put Edee down. “Run along into the house, brown eyes.”

  Her gaze bounces between me and my uncle, and then she hesitates. This is my life, my problem. I need to fucking deal with it and I do not need an audience.