by Alexis Angel
"You don't need to worry about me," I reply. "I realize that Connor D'Avington is paying good money for our PR."
"It's more than just good money," Lisa says. "It's more money than Gage Price has ever received from a diplomat before—and we've represented quite a few. But we're definitely going to need to work extra hard for him. Prince D'Avington has a lot going against him right now."
"I saw the YouTube video," I nod in agreement. That notorious video has 5 million views already and counting.
"The one in Vegas?" she asks.
"Connor, three strippers, one hot tub—yeah, it was definitely Vegas."
"The media is having a field day with that one," she says, shaking her head. "Did you see the way he was boasting in front of the camera, pounding his chest like Tarzan? Who does that?"
It's true, that video didn't cast Connor in a favorable light—scandalous, boastful, and with an ego that borderlines narcissistic.
"I don't know," I say. "But I'm here to help him turn that all around."
"Good," Lisa replies. "That's the right attitude. But you should also know that he's facing increased political opposition in St Albans from a local party—the Constitutionalists. You and George are going to have your work cut out for you,” she says, referring to my direct manager, George Brown.
"Yes, and they want to do away with the Monarchy, correct?"
"That's right; they believe the country should be overhauled. So the D'Avingtons are working extra hard to gain the trust of the people of St. Albans."
As she's talking, I look down at my watch—I know, I know … I'm a Millennial who wears a watch. I like to be punctual okay? In fact, I'll admit that it borderlines on OCD. And according to the time, Prince D'Avington should be here any minute. We’re supposed to be meeting in the lobby of the U.N.
"Lisa, I better go."
"Good luck, the firm is depending on you," she says with a wink. “I know you’ll wow George with how you manage this one, babe,” she tells me. Her confidence seems unshakeable.
No pressure.
I wave goodbye to Lisa and look around the lobby. I see various men in suits walking past flags representing a number of different countries, and I wonder how late the Prince is going to be. Chronic lateness is a pet peeve of mine.
Honestly, it's a huge turn off.
But I don't wonder for long because all of a sudden I hear gasps erupting around the lobby and a crowd forming. There appears to be a man falling from the sky with a parachute on his back, and he's headed straight for the UN lobby.
I squint and try to get a better look.
Recreational skydivers aren't allowed to jump from planes into New York City, are they? So who could this man be, and what is he trying to do?
I'm standing near the large glass doors, squinting at the sky as the figure of the man draws closer and closer …
This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
People are frozen. They’re pointing, but most are fleeing.
I mean, some guy starts coming out of the sky, you’re first thought is to get the hell out of there.
Wait, I should be running too.
I mean, the guy is headed straight for the lobby.
And then the startling realization hits me … that guy swooping down… it's Connor D'Avington.
What the fuck is he doing?
Within a minute I watch as he crashes through the glass. My knee-jerk reaction is to squint my eyes shut. I don't want to watch him get hurt. I hear people scream and scramble out of the way. I can even hear a young child crying off in the distance. Then Connor bursts through a pane of glass, tumbles into the lobby in a spectacular summersault, and jumps to his feet within a mere 10 feet from me.
I’m cringing, shielding myself from any flying shards.
Please don’t let today be the day I die. I’m too young!
Eventually, I open my eyes to see the man get up and remove his helmet. He sees me and smiles.
Of course he would. I’m the only one fool enough to still be standing in the lobby. Never late for a meeting, right?
"You must be Natalie," he smiles, walking over to me with an outstretched hand. "I'm Connor D'Avington, Prince of St. Albans."
The first thing I notice is that he’s even more handsome in real life than he is on the Internet. His blonde hair is windswept from the fall, no doubt, and his eyes are the color of a clear summer sky.
But I shake those thoughts from my head. I have a job to do. I have a zero margin for error, and here he is, crashing through the UN. Security will be here any minute to see what this mess and racket is about, and I'm sure at least half a dozen people probably recorded the whole thing on their phones and uploaded it to Facebook … or YouTube.
Hell, it's probably already going viral.
"I know who you are," I say, not amused. "You're a loser, and you're late."
"Lighten the fuck up, love," he smiles. "I'm guessing that was the most spectacular introduction you've ever seen in your life, was it not?"
"If you mean spectacularly horrific, then yes, it was. That window isn't going to fix itself, and you nearly gave a room full of people a heart attack."
"I suggest we postpone this meeting until tomorrow. I think I've had enough excitement for one day."
"Grab a drink with me, love," he smiles, dismissing my attempt to re-schedule the meeting.
If I'm honest, his smile alone turns me on. I wonder what it would feel like being held in his strong arms. I try to snap my thoughts to the present. I've never been under someone's spell like I am right now. This is new territory for me.
I have to keep it together. This is business.
"Is this a game to you? We aren't getting a drink together. I'll be at your office first thing in the morning."
"That won't work at all," he says, shaking his head. "I rarely ever go there."
"Then I'll meet you at your place."
"That's more like it," he replies with a smile.
Great. I gave him exactly what he wanted.
Without saying another word, I turn on my heels and storm off.
109
Connor
I slide my keycard against the slit and, after hearing the familiar metallic clink of the lock turning, I push the door open and step inside my apartment. And when I say my apartment, I really mean my fucking apartment. Even though the D’Avington royal family has an apartment at the Time Warner Center, I privately own this one in the Dakota building. I always preferred the Upper West Side and, besides, I like my own space like I like my women—always available.
“Fuck,” I groan as I look at the time in my cellphone and, with the back of my other hand, wipe the sweat from my brow. It’s only 8 am; can you fucking believe it? Yeah, that’s right, today I woke up at six in the morning. What the fuck’s wrong with me, right? I managed to roll out of the bed before the sun had even risen, and that’s a pretty huge thing if you take into consideration that’s the time I usually get home from a night out (and, well, I go out pretty much every night).
If you’re wondering how the fuck I managed to go to bed sober and alone last night, don’t worry. I’m wondering the same. But that’s exactly what I did, and as a consequence I woke up at six in the morning. A quarter past five and I was already at the gym, clocking in 5k on the treadmill before hitting the weights. I wonder what Natalie would think if she saw me acting all responsible and shit. She might think that I’m a loser, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth. She doesn’t really know me … yet.
Speaking of Natalie, it’s almost time for our scheduled meeting. I take my shirt off and cross the living room, turning on the intercom by the door and pressing the button that connects me to the doorman.
“Yes, sir?” The voice from the almost retired doorman, Anthony, comes from the speaker, and I clear my throat before speaking.
“Anthony, I’m going to have a visitor. You can let her come up right away. Her name is Natalie, and she works for Gage Price.�
��
“The usual discretion, sir?” he asks me, and I can almost sense the grin in the old bastard’s face. Good ol’ Anthony, always the discrete one. Every time I come to New York, I rely on him to get women out of my fucking apartment without the whole world hearing about it. He’s saved my ass from the media quite a few times. Too bad he refuses to come work for me; he’s been working at the Dakota for almost thirty years now, and he refuses to be “disloyal to his employers,” as he puts it.
“No, there’s no need. It’s strictly business,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“No problem, sir,” he says, and I press one button to end the call. I check the time one more time and head straight for the bathroom. I undress, place all my sweat-drenched clothes in the laundry basket and finally step inside the wide shower stall. I turn the faucet on and, a few seconds after the water starts running, a cloud of steam starts to rise in the air. I groan as I step under the hot water, my tense muscles relaxing from the workout.
Fuck, I really hit the weights hard today. Every fucking time I thought of Natalie it seemed as if I gained access to a hidden reservoir of strength. I don’t know what the fuck it is about her but… Okay, okay, I know what it is about her, I’m not going to lie to you.
When I first laid eyes on her, I knew I was standing in front of a woman different from all others. Her blonde hair spilled across her shoulders and, even though she was wearing a simple formal black dress, she looked fucking stunning. Let me be honest; I fucking devoured her with my eyes. I imagined what it would be like to slide my fingers up her leg, toward the hem of her dress, and then further up… I imagined the curves of her body, and the way her smooth skin would feel under my fingertips. And her lips, Jesus fucking Christ, they were ripe for kissing.
Fuck, thinking of her is getting my blood pressure up. My heart is racing and I can’t stop myself. I take one hand down my stomach and grab my twelve-inches of cock. I start moving my hand up and down my shaft, my cock hardening against my fingers until it becomes as solid as fucking concrete.
Now, I must tell you something: I think this is the first time in months that I fucking jerk off. I don’t really need to fucking do it, you know? There’s always someone willing to lend a hand… and then some. But, right now, I don’t think that any woman in the world would help to ease the fucking pressure. Unless we’re talking about Natalie, that is. Sweet Natalie… The way her name echoes inside of my head makes me close my eyes, and I let my imagination run fucking wild.
In my mind’s eye I can see her naked body, her hard nipples aching for my touch as I lean in to kiss her. I imagine how it would feel to press my body against hers, to hold her in my arms as she parts her legs and I slide one hand between her thighs…
“OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” I open my eyes as a feminine voice cuts through the fog of my imagination and snaps me back to reality. She’s standing in the middle of the bathroom, shrouded in steam, and I just look at her wordlessly. Yeah, if you’re wondering, I’m talking about Natalie.
Fuck.
I didn’t expect her to be this fucking early and, of course, I also didn’t expect her to catch me red-handed in the shower. But what the fuck, it’s only a leap from imagination to reality, and I’m more than willing to make the fucking jump.
110
Natalie
“Good morning,” I tell the doorman (Anthony, or so it says on his name plate) as I lean into the small window of his booth. “My name is Natalie and I work for Gage --”
“Oh, Prince D’Avington told me to expect you. You can go right up,” he tells me with a quizzical smile, pressing a button on his small desk. The double iron gates that lead into the Dakota courtyard turns their hinges and, when they are wide open, I walk inside after mouthing a thank you toward the white-haired doorman.
As I walk toward the courtyard, I realize that I’m stepping inside a world where few have been. I know, the Dakota is one of most iconic apartment buildings in New York, but its interior remains a mystery to most regular human beings. Only the most rich and famous get to live in these apartments and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not part of that group. Unless having enough money to buy a second-hand iPhone counts as being rich, I mean. Guess not, uh? And my claim to fame isn’t much better; the only place where I’m famous is at my local Starbucks, and that’s because I practically lived there when I was writing my master’s thesis. Oh, yeah, and I’m not a princess. I guess I didn’t win the genetic lottery (or the regular one at that).
In the middle of the courtyard there’s a small garden paved with red bricks, and two small fountains flanking a square of green plans. The building itself towers over me in all its majesty, making me feel like a wealthy New Yorker from an age gone by. I don’t waste my time appreciating the courtyard or the garden, though. Right now, I’m fully focused on the meeting I’m about to have with the most gorgeous and arrogant man I have ever met. Ahem, sorry about that—I meant to say Prince D’Avington. Although, yeah, I have to admit, he’s as gorgeous as he’s arrogant … and charming too. I don’t know, there’s something about him that makes me feel all like—okay, I’m going to stop now. I’m here because I have a meeting, and I’m going to behave like a real professional. Because, you know, I’m a real professional.
I walk toward his apartment door and, before rapping my knuckles against it, I take a deep breath and straighten the front of my skirt. God, I hope I look pretty enough. I’m wearing my best heels (hey, I might not be rich, but a girl has to splurge on some quality high heels from time to time; it’s just the way things work), a close fitting skirt that stops right before it meets my knee, and a deep red blouse that shows just a glimpse of cleavage. And I spent about an hour in front of the mirror, trying to get my makeup just right. Although I’m not one of these girls born with the natural talent for makeup, I think I’ve done a standup job; my lipstick matches the color of my blouse perfectly, and both my eye shadow and eyeliner seem like the work of a pro.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve dolled myself up for Connor D’Avington, aren’t you? Well, you’re wrong; I just woke up wanting to feel pretty and sexy. Why? Because of reasons, that’s why. I mean, can’t a girl want to feel beautiful without being judged?
I raise my fist, ready to knock on the door, but hesitate at the last moment; I’m half an hour early. But I’m already here, so… I knock twice and then wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot while I take deep breaths. Maybe I should've come on time, like I always do. I mean, that’s the reason I’ve been dubbed Princess Punctuality back at the office; I’m always on time, not a minute later, not a minute earlier. So why am I this early today? No, it has nothing to do with the fact that I was more anxious than normal about this meeting, or about the fact that I spent the whole night dreaming of… Well, that’s private. No, I just came earlier because I want it to go well. I will prepare my laptop and folders in advance, and I also want to apologize to the Prince. I mean, I was a bit of an ass toward him, wasn’t I? Sure, he seems like a complete asshole, but it’s not like I really know him. Besides, it wasn’t my place to criticize him back at the UN.
I knock again, wondering if he’s still asleep (probably drunk as… well, as a D’Avington) or if he bailed out on me and left the apartment, but when my fist hits the door it swings back on its hinges. I stand there in place, my heart kicking against my chest as I look into the deserted living room in front of me.
“Hello?” I ask shyly, straightening the front of my skirt once more. “I’m coming in,” I finally announce, taking one step inside and closing the door behind me. “Mr. D’Avington?” I call after him, trying to be as professional as I can be (while sneaking into someone’s house half an hour before the scheduled time, that is).
There’s no answer, so I just throw my laptop and purse on the couch in the middle of the living room, and take a look around. Even though the apartment seems small, it’s furbished like a palace, which, really, makes sense. I
mean, he’s a prince.
The kitchen and the living room share the same space, adding a more modern, open concept look to the whole apartment. The furniture has a classic look to it, and there’s even an upright piano sitting against one of the walls.
I hear something at the end of the corridor, a steady hum, and I take one step toward the sound before I stop dead in my tracks. Am I really going to snoop around inside Connor’s apartment? I know I shouldn’t, but my feet carry me down the corridor all the same. I open a door and step into what seems like Connor’s bedroom; it has a more modern look than the rest of the apartment, but it still looks royal enough. My eyes go straight for the bed in the middle of the room, large enough for more than five people, and I can’t help but wonder how many girls have slept (yeah, slept, right) there.
“Connor?” I call again, dropping all formality. The sound comes from inside a smaller room inside his bedroom, and it seems like running water. Maybe he’s taking a shower? But if so, he’d have answered me by now. Oh, God, what if he passed out? What if he slipped on the floor and bashed his head against the wall? Christ, I need to get there now!
I take two wide strides toward the door and, grabbing at the handle, push it open. My heart is racing, and I feel dizzy as I prepare myself to see him sprawled on the floor, blood dripping from his open skull.
Well, that’s not what I see.
The room is covered in steam, but I can still see Connor’s naked body through the glass walls of the shower. He’s completely naked, eyes closed and head thrown back. His cock is hard and—oh Goh oh God oh God—it’s massive. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It must be, like, twelve inches long! And, the real kicker: he’s stroking himself. Yes, you read that right.