by Lexi Whitlow
Just as I finish, Matthias grabs my hips and flips me over so that I’m on my hands and knees. He grips my waist hard again, and begins to fuck me with wild abandon, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The sounds he makes send a ripple of pleasure through my body. As he gets closer to his own pleasure, his body slows as if he’s savoring the last seconds of our closeness.
“So sweet. So good.” He fills me with one final thrust. “Oh Mallory,” he sighs, hands traveling to my breasts as his body collides with mine in the final throes of his ecstasy. I feel his muscles tense and release against mine, and he groans, coming hard.
I have the vague thought, as he collapses against me and pulls me into an embrace, that I want this again. As soon as possible, and then again. Until I leave him behind as a distant memory. This—this is what Kim told me about—and it was nothing like the clumsy experiences I shared with my brief relationships back in college. This was something entirely different, something life-changing, world-shattering.
I keep these thoughts to myself. A man like Matthias does this every Saturday night, and sometimes twice. He doesn’t need to hear it from his most recent conquest.
Instead, I let him pull me into his shower, lined with green glass tile. He bathes me in a soap that smells like lavender and carries me to bed, where we both fall into a deep sleep until morning.
Chapter Seven
Matthias
You’ll have hell to pay for shirking your responsibilities. You’re supposed to be on a ferry to the North Islands right now. But I’m going to guess you’re at the house in Amsterdam with some girl.
The messages pour in from my mother in the morning. I look over to see Mallory, still asleep. I’d wager she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since long before she left home. And I know her time in Europe has been lonely. There’s nothing wrong with being alone, but I know loneliness, and that’s an altogether different thing. I take one of her curls and twist it around my finger. She doesn’t wake.
We’ll be sending someone for you.
I growl and put my phone on the bedside table. I’ve been dealing with my mother and father for twenty-seven years, and I’ve never gotten over the constant watching and waiting. I’ve made it clear I don’t want the kingdom, I don’t believe in its ideals, and I disagree with their antiquated thoughts on marriage and producing heirs.
If they send someone here before Mallory leaves, she’ll know all of this. With an ordinary girl in my bed, I wouldn’t necessarily care what she thought of me or my lineage. For some reason, this one is different. There’s something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t take too long to ponder it all—the night we shared, the fact that I wanted her here when I woke in the morning, the reality of my mother’s words weighing down on me. I’m a man of action, my brother Kian told me one time. And what’s better than a good chase?
I trace my fingers over the tattoos on Mallory’s shoulder. White and pink blossoms, two of them. I haven’t asked, but it strikes me that one of them represents her sister and one Mallory herself. She hasn’t said much about her sister, but it’s clear that the loss struck her down and stayed with her. I wonder if these losses ever leave us, or if they simply dull over time.
“Mal,” I say, placing a hand on her back. Her dark lashes stir, and her blue-gray eyes flutter open.
“You can’t call me Mal. You barely know me.” She grins a little, less distant than she was the first day I met her.
“I’d say I know you pretty well after last night.” And I’d like to continue to know you just like that all day today, but there are at least two North Islander goons headed this way to force me onto a ferry and get me the hell out of Amsterdam. There are ways to avoid that reality. I put on my best smile, the one that always gets tourist girls at the end of the night.
“What are you smiling about? I have to go back to the rental today and get my shit together. I have plans to go to the Van Gogh museum.” Her voice is still sleepy, and she yawns. The sight of her pink lips parting stirs something inside me, but I have a mission right now. And it involves a train headed for Brussels.
“You should really do the museums on the last day you’re here. Have you been to Brussels yet?”
She shakes her head, and thankfully, there’s something of a spark in her eyes. “It wasn’t on my itinerary. I passed through on the way to Amsterdam.”
“What’s after Amsterdam? School? Do you know where?”
“Rome. Maybe. I haven’t heard from them yet. I was accepted in Paris, but I don’t know.”
“Then you definitely need to see Brussels if you haven’t been. You won’t have a chance when you’re back in school. The cathedrals, the nightlife, hikes through the woods. It’s nice this time of year.” My phone buzzes again, and I don’t pick it up. I know the nature of what’s being said on the other end.
“No. I came to see Amsterdam. I came to the Netherlands as my last stop.” She pauses. “Besides, how would we get there? Don’t you need to reserve the train ahead of time? Where would we stay—”
“Taken care of. I don’t have an apartment there, but my friend owns a hotel in the center of the city. It’s got a suite. Room service, old world charm. I can buy you a skirt to replace the one I ripped last night.”
She lifts herself to one elbow, creamy breasts and pink nipples exposed. God, I want to take this woman and throw her over my shoulder, make her do as I please. And right now, what the fuck I please is getting the hell out of this city. She bites her lip and looks at me questioningly. I’d like to roll her over and enter her again, make all the questions disappear.
“Matthias. Who are you? Why can you even propose things like this? I don’t quite feel comfortable accepting all this—I mean—what do you want in return?”
I chew on my lip and think a second before answering. After a day and night—and a proposed romantic getaway—she’s right to make a few inquiries. “My parents own a few large corporations, and I’ve been smart with my investments. And I want your company until you go to graduate school. We’ll go our separate ways after that.” I shrug, like it’s all simple, like I haven’t left anything out. Like I do this kind of thing all the time, when in fact I can’t remember the last time I wanted to spend more than one day with any woman. “And you shouldn’t miss the Musees des Beaux-Arts in the city center. I might be in the minority suggesting it too, but the food there is better. Italian. French. And my favorite ethnic cuisine—chocolate.”
She scrunches up her nose, hopefully because she’s thinking about changing her itinerary. “I’d have to cancel with Albrecht—”
“The room you rented? With whatever company that is? I’ll pay the rest. Or threaten him.”
She smiles, but there’s worry in her eyes. I’d like to break down and tell her everything right now. But my background isn’t one I want her to know. I’d rather leave here and have a few days where I’m nothing and no one. No responsibilities. I reach over to her and cup one of her lovely breasts, fingers brushing over her nipple. She gasps, and instinctively, she turns her body toward mine. Mallory wants more of this. And I want the same.
She presses against my body, sighing gently, her flesh warm in my hand. “If you want me, can’t I just go to the museum on my own and come back here for more of—this?” She moves my hand to her other breast, the sheet falling away from her body, exposing its planes and curves. My cock stiffens, and the feeling I had last night starts to come back. I shake it off, though my cock remains hard beneath my boxer briefs.
“Let me take you to Brussels. I’ll take you to dinner and dessert and the art museum. The cathedral. I want to photograph you through the city, fuck you every evening, and in the morning again.” I shrug. “I thought you were the adventurous type… but if you need to stick to that printed itinerary.”
“It’s not printed—”
“It fell out of your backpack,” I say with a grin, hoping my voice isn’t too desperate.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’ll
go. But I need to be back here to catch my flight by Friday.”
“Good girl.”
She sits up with a wicked grin, sheets fully falling away. “That’s patronizing, Matthias.”
“But you like it.” I can see her full body now, backlit with the morning sun coming in through the window. Her breasts are near perfection, round and smooth and full, the slight curve of her belly, the dark thatch that leads to her sex.
“I do,” she says, unashamed. “Just promise me—this is all fun. It keeps being fun until I leave.”
“That’s all I do in life, Princess. Good fun. I prefer the dirty kind, not the clean.”
“Good,” she says, kneeling back down and pulling the sheets away from my legs, exposing my hardness that hasn’t quite gone back down. Without a word, she pulls my boxers down and bends over my cock—probably an action she wouldn’t have considered herself before last night. Straddling me, naked, she presses her lips to my tip and takes my head into her mouth before I can protest.
“I need to book the tickets and the hotel. Not exactly saying no but—”
Her tongue swirls over the head before she stops for a moment and lifts her head. “Book it on your phone.”
“And you’ll what—keep going?” I grin. This woman.
“Yeah,” she says, gripping my cock and stroking it with one hand. Her movements are inexpert, but I’m as hard as I’ve ever been, my length straining against her touch.
“Jesus, Mal.” Before I can say more, her mouth is on me again, sweet warmth enveloping my cock. I think of what I did with Mallory last night as she takes me into her mouth, the feeling of entering her all at once, her body growing tighter around me as I pushed deeper inside of her, the soft, sweet quality of her voice as she moaned. She stops and looks up at me as if she’s waiting for me to pick up the phone and book our tickets. I grin sheepishly and put one hand to her hair, tangling my fingers in it, and reaching my other hand out to grab my phone. As she takes me into her mouth, my cock closer to the back of her throat with each movement, I search for tickets and clumsily book them. I hate to admit it—but my mind is far more intent on Mallory than it is on our escape now. With each concentrated lick, her tongue seeming to twist around the head of my cock as she lifts it away, I’m closer to coming. My eyes raise and linger over the top of her phone, watching her round, perfect tits bounce against the tops of my thighs, jolts of white hot sensation flickering through the tops of my thighs and the base of my cock. Her hand touches me there again, encasing me fully. I shoot off a text to my friend in Brussels and throw my phone aside. Pulling Mallory’s hair like I did last night, I guide her how I want. Wide, blue-gray eyes look up at me, locking with mine. I groan loudly, and guide her mouth, slowly, very slowly, so that she takes me to the back of her throat. Without thinking, I buck my hips hard, watching her as she submits to me and takes my cock fully.
I have the fleeting thought that I don’t want this to end. I want to see Mallory working my cock for hours, to hold her hair as she pleases me like this. I’ve had blowjobs before—I love them. The wild abandon, the woman on her knees, eyes on mine. But this one feels different, like it’s the first one I ever had, the melting, soul-extending feeling somehow more real and more present than anything I’ve experienced in years. Mal takes me to the back of her throat again and, in that instant, my muscles tense and tighten.
“Mal—I—” Before I have time to think about finishing, I come hard in her mouth and watch her as she swallows. Her tongue travels my length again and glides over the head. Shivers run up my spine and back down, and I feel like closing my eyes, though I want to keep them open to see Mallory’s face and her pink tongue traveling along her lower lip as she lifts her head and sits back again. Same view as before—but somehow, I see her differently now.
Mine, she’s mine. The thought echoes in my head, like a mantra. How could my mind come up with that? I’ve only known this girl for two days. Not even that. I shake off the thought. It’s a dangerous one, for a man like me. We’re only going to Brussels for a few days, and then she’s gone from my life for good. That’s the situation that’ll work best for me—and for her, come to think of it.
“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to—”
What do you say to a girl when she brings a red-tipped fingernail to the corner of her deliciously wet mouth, staring at you like she’s ready to go again? I didn’t mean to come in your mouth, not if you didn’t want me to. None of that sounds like something I would say, not before this morning.
“Did I do something wrong? I’ve only done it once before. I’m not really sure what I’m doing—not tonight, not right now—” She stops and blushes hard, her pink cheeks now colored to match her astoundingly talented lips.
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” I bite my lip. What do you tell a girl like this? Certainly I won’t divulge any of the myriad thoughts in my head—that she’s the best I’ve had in years, maybe in all my time as a grown man. Instead, I decide on a partial truth, one that closes this conversation and leads to the rest of the day. “You were perfect.”
The right side of her mouth rises into a soft smile, and I lean forward to catch her in my arms, kissing her neck, breathing in her scent. On the bed, I can feel my phone buzzing again. I take a deep breath, taking a picture of her in this moment and locking it in my mind. These memories, these images, they’re good for safe keeping. When she’s no longer here and—hell, I might be in the North Islands—I’ll have this collection of moments, like still photographs, to look upon. I don’t dwell on the fact that this is not the kind of thing I store in my memory, nor are girls like Mallory the ones who draw my attention for photographs.
“Okay,” she whispers, pulling away from me and starting to throw her clothes in a bag. She pulls on a pair of jeans, worn on both knees, and a long purple shirt that has cut-outs on both shoulders. One of the strategically placed holes shows the tattoo. It’s simple, the look she wears, but something about it shows the intensity that lies beneath her surface. “Let’s go on an adventure. You’re right. I can’t stick to my itinerary if I want to make the most of Europe. I’ll let you wine and dine me and put me up in some hotel. I don’t have anyone worrying about me at home, so I’m still banking on the fact that you’re not a serial killer.”
I give her a wry grin and slip on my boxers and a dark gray shirt, opting for worn jeans like Mal is wearing. Might as well blend in if we’re leaving the city. I can only hope that my mother hasn’t gone the route of alerting everyone in my old haunts. If she has, I sincerely hope she didn’t think of Brussels. It’s been years since I’ve been there, and the hotel isn’t one of our properties. I hope that’s enough to keep me—and Mallory—out of the drama my parents so desperately want to create.
A man can hope.
“I said I hope you’re not a serial killer,” Mal says, putting her backpack on so it sits lopsidedly over one shoulder. I make a mental note to buy her a messenger bag to make her look less conspicuously American when she leaves for graduate school. “And then you didn’t respond. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“No. I’m just a serial hedonist, and I’m hoping to take you on a trip you won’t soon forget.”
“That’s the only reason I agreed. That—and the sex. I’ll admit it.” She smiles and sheepishly puts her hands in her pockets. Something about her seems lighter this morning.
“Good. There’s plenty more to come.” I raise an eyebrow and focus on the vision of her in the dresses I pick out, her skin clad in Belgian lingerie.
I pack a bag, not lingering over the details of what I’m taking with me, hoping Mallory doesn’t see me checking the time on my phone every other minute. The adventure can’t begin soon enough.
My phone buzzes again as we walk out of the house in Amsterdam.
Hopefully, there aren’t any traces of us here.
A prodigal son is bad enough, in my parents’ opinion. A prodigal prince with an American girl—that’s somethi
ng entirely different.
Chapter Eight
Mallory
“Who’s blowing up your phone?” I lean my head onto Matthias’s firm shoulder, making sure to keep my eyes away from the screen. I’ve heard that people who sleep together shouldn’t look at each other’s phones, so I don’t. It’s been so long that I’ve slept with anyone that I don’t know the protocol associated with these things. But Matthias’s phone has been buzzing nonstop since we got on this train, and half the time, he’s not even picking it up to look at it. After an hour of sitting next to him, I can’t help but ask. His mind is somewhere else, and it drives home the point that I don’t know a damn thing about him.
“No one is ‘blowing up’ my phone. See?” He leans back toward me and shows me the phone. “It’s not blown up. It’s completely intact.”
I giggle for a second and then look at his face. He gives me a wide smile and clicks his phone off. “I meant, ‘Who’s texting you?’”
“I know. Let me assure you it’s nothing exciting or important. In fact, you’d be desperately bored if I told you.”
He’s keeping something hidden, and I’m pretty sure it has to do with the reason we left Amsterdam. And if I’m not wrong, it might have something to do with the lifestyle he leads. What’s he involved in? A drug ring? The mafia? Is the mafia even in this part of Europe? I guess they’re probably everywhere, but I have no clue what he’d be doing with them. I glance up at him again, examining the distant look on his face. He’s entitled to each and every one of his secrets. This isn’t serious. There aren’t any strings attached.
I close my eyes and focus on the memories of this morning and the night before. The taste of his skin, the feeling of his body pushing against mine. The things he’ll do to me when he gets me alone. That’s the point of this trip, the point of this whole week before I go back to real life. An escape. Fun. Lightness. None of the awful things that have plagued me for so long. It’s what I didn’t know I wanted, what Kim kept telling me I needed.