Protein Shake

by Alexis Angel

  I let my breath tease her neck as I tangle my hand in her hair and continue to whisper. “I bet you're wet for me right now, aren’t you?”

  I know if I snuck my hand under the tablecloth and up her dress, she’d be dripping. And it only makes me want to dive in for a taste. Dinner’s over—it’s time for dessert. And her pussy is my favorite kind.

  “Oh my god, Liam,” she says softly, her hands resting on her stomach while her breasts heave with her suddenly panting breath.

  I chuckle. It’s been even easier than normal to get her wet and ready since her pregnancy hormones have kicked in. And I have to say, Cara pregnant with my child is such a fucking turn on. I want to put a baby in her every chance I get now. She’s so fucking hot, and lately, she’s been insatiable in the bedroom. I have zero complaints.

  “All right, you two,” my dad says, amusement in his eyes. “Knock it off over there or you’re going to inspire me to take your mother upstairs a bit early.”

  I groan loudly. “Fuck, Dad. That is not an image I want in my head.”

  He just laughs. I feel like I want to disappear in my seat when my mom looks at him with obvious lust in her eyes. And I swear to all things holy that her hand is most definitely in his lap.

  Ugh. Fucking awkward as hell. But I have to admit, the old man still has it. He’s a fucking silver fox, and I know I come by charm naturally. His heart attack hasn’t seemed to put a wrench in their sex life, that much is clear.

  “So,” I say, clearing my throat and glancing pointedly at Cara’s mom. Though I think she’s grown pretty used to my father by now. In fact, I think she finds him charming. I don’t even know. “Moving on…”

  I look at Cara with my eyebrow arched, asking silently if she’s ready for our announcement. She nods happily, and I slip my hand into hers, intertwining our fingers.

  “We have an announcement,” I say with a grin.

  My mom’s hand reappears on top of the table. Thank fuck.

  I look from my parents to Cara’s mom, and they’re all watching me in anticipation.

  “We’ve decided on a name for the baby.”

  A chorus of excitement goes around the table, and I look at my gorgeous wife. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  She smiles at me, and my heart squeezes in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the fact that this girl is mine. Forever. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I make sure she knows I know it. Every single day.

  Squeezing my hand, Cara’s gaze lingers on mine for a minute, then she looks at our parents. “We’ve decided to name him after the men who mean so much to us. The men we want to honor.” She pauses, drawing out the anticipation. “Lucas Tate Donovan.”

  Everyone sighs collectively and murmurs how wonderful and that’s perfect. The women’s eyes are damp, and I swear I see a little glimmer in my old man’s eyes too.

  Leaning over, I place a soft kiss on Cara’s lips. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  She kisses me back. “Me too.” Then she grins wickedly and whispers, “But until he arrives, I think we need to make use of our nights. I think I just might have some rope somewhere.”

  “Is that so?” I ask with a smirk. Then I stand up, saying more loudly, “Mom, Dad, Mrs. Dawn. I’ve enjoyed this dinner immensely, but I think it’s time I get my darling wife home and into bed before she overdoes it.”

  They don’t even pretend to not know why we’re leaving. What can I say? I love my wife. And I love to fuck my wife. Every chance I get. And everyone knows it. I don’t care one bit. Because I’m the luckiest bastard in the world to have this amazing woman by my side every day and in my bed every night. And I don’t ever miss a chance to let her know exactly how I feel.

  We say goodnight and head out to the waiting limo. Once inside, Cara starts stripping down immediately.

  I laugh. “Anxious little thing, aren’t you?”

  She winks at me, then reaches into a box I didn’t notice on the seat and pulls out a pair of red cowboy boots.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. When did you get those?”

  She laughs. “I may or may not have encouraged my mom to tell that story.”

  “Hmm. So sure I’d be dying to live out a cowgirl fantasy, were you?”

  She arches a brow like I’m crazy. “You forget how well I know you, Liam Donovan.”

  With a growl, I pull her toward me in nothing but her cowboy boots. “Fuck, you’re so perfect. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she says softly, then her eyes go dark with lust. “Now get those clothes off and show me.”

  So I do. And when we get home, I show her again. And again. And I plan on showing her just how much for the rest of our lives.

  Princely Passions

  A Royal Romance

  By Alexis Angel

  Copyright 2017 by Alexis Angel

  All rights reserved

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

  Join Alexis’ Naughty Angel’s Newsletter and find yourself in a world of sin. Open only for Naughty Angels who don’t mind getting their halo dirty.

  Alexis Angel

  Derrick

  I own the motherfucking world.

  Seriously, sometimes it just feels like I am the fucking prince of all fucking creation.

  Never more so than when I'm looking out the fucking window of my condo in the fucking clouds high above New York City.

  I live in One57. That's right. Right in the center of Manhattan on a street they call Billionaire's Row. You don't get much more fucking materialistic and pretentious than this.

  "Your Highness," Pressly, my manservant says to me, coming into the large living room with floor to ceiling windows of the sky. "Your motorcycle is ready. Are you quite able to ride today?"

  That's just like Pressly. Always watching out for me. Ever since my mother died when I was thirteen, he's become more like my primary guardian than anything else. He gives off the look and feel of Alfred from Batman, but I know Pressly's had his fun in life. He used to fight for my Kingdom, St. Livy, when we gave forces to the Americans in Vietnam. He lost his wife to cancer - same as my mother, only earlier. I guess we have that going for us. But the number one thing that makes him invaluable is that he doesn't fucking judge me like the rest of the world.

  And the world would be fucking judge me right now if they could. I feel like shit. I only got in about fifteen minutes ago - around 5 am. I was at my nightclub in the Meatpacking District, having a fucking orgy with three Russian models in town for one night. Try drinking a bottle of vodka with some Russian birds and then cumming countless times on their eager faces and you'll understand what I mean when I say that I’m fucking tired enough to go mental.

  "I've prepared some breakfast for you, Sire," Pressly continues, "It'll help you get some energy for the day ahead."

  I turn to look in the mirror. Even for a night of heavy drinking, you’re going to think I’m a cocky fucking asshole when I say I look fucking good. My ice blue eyes are soulfully distant. They can look right into your soul. I have a strong as fuck jawline and a sculpted face. That’s the product of 2000 years of royal fucking blood flowing through me. My chest is cut. My shoulders are fucking broad. I may be a prince, but I look like a King. My arms are the product of over a decade of working out. And my abs. Fuck. Let’s just say that I’ve defined them so well that even if you’re blind, tracing your finger along them will get you fucking hot.

  I’ve gotten you fucking hot now too, haven’t I?

  Admit it. You’re fucking smiling.

  No?

  How about now?

  Whatever. I’ve never let a bird get me down if she wasn’t feeling me.

  Why am I calling girls ‘birds’ you’re wondering? I don’t fucking know. The
Brits do. And St. Livy is close enough to them that I guess that shit rubs off.

  But enough about me for now. Breakfast sounds like a very good idea after the night I’ve had. I pad over to the breakfast room and sit down at the clear and sleek glass table - a present from my brother in arms, Silas D'Avington. We fought together for St. Penares in Afghanistan - I was in his group and we were trapped in the mountains near Kandahar for close to a week, surviving on our own. Everything I learned about being a fucking badass came from that fucking guy. After Afghanistan, I came to New York, determined not to lose a single day of my life. My goal - simple - indulge in everything that I ever desired. Whether that was liquor, women, or anything else -- it was all fair game. Never really did any drugs though - it would have made it hard to keep my physique. That's right. My fucking body. What drives the birds fucking wild. 6 feet 4 inches of cut, ripped, and sculpted muscles and sinew. A set of abs that was chiseled by fucking Apollo himself. But let’s not forget the raison d'être of this marvelous body - it was all for the 11-inch cock that was swinging between my fucking legs. People call it an organ. I call it a fucking muscle for what I'm able to do with it. For the absolute bliss that I'm able to inflict upon the female population of this fine city.

  And right now, I'm wolfing down my eggs and bacon, washing it down with some hand squeezed juice and running out the door. The Royal Press Secretary, a woman named Samantha in St. Livy, had booked a spot for me on Today, USA. I fucking hate Samantha. I know she’s fucking my Dad. But I don’t say anything because she’s the mother of Alicia. And Alicia…Fuck, we’ll talk about her later. Anyways, Samantha has me on some fucking morning show for people who slept well enough the night before to be up and at 'em at 6 in the morning. My interview is scheduled for 6 on the dot, and if I ride fast, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

  I bound out of the elevator and out of the steel and glass superstructure that I live in and hop on the motorcycle that the valet had brought out for me. It roars to life and I take off down 7th Avenue heading south to Rockefeller Center.

  But first, I have to get through fucking Midtown traffic. Lucky for me, I'm on a bike. Not in a cab or on two feet like the pathetically weak pedestrians.

  "Hey buddy, watch where you're going, will ya?" a Bangladeshi cabbie yells at me as I skirt by between two lanes and zip past him. Whatever. I give him the middle finger and dive forward. The light's yellow, but I put my foot to the gas. I'm going to fucking making it.

  A fucking MAC truck blares its horns at me, just barely missing me as I zoom down 7th Avenue. I laugh to myself and yell as pedestrians get out of my way. Oh yeah, I may be driving on a sidewalk now.

  "Fucking asshole!" some guy in black hoodie yells at me.

  I stop the bike. Did I just hear what I think I heard? I'm maybe twenty feet past him but I get off the bike and turn around. I look at him. Wannabe gangsta. Thinks he Jay-fucking-Z.

  "What did you say, mate?" I say.

  He looks at me. I'm at least a foot fucking taller than this guy. He's got dreads but that's no match for the fucking skull and rose tattoo I have or the rose and thorns adorning both my arms. You can see them because I'm wearing a wife beater. But you can see my fucking muscles too, and right now, I don't mind flexing them.

  The gangsta-wannabe looks at me for a second, then drops his eyes. "Nothin' man," he murmurs slowly.

  "That's what I thought, mate," I say, and get back on the bike. It roars back to life and this time I fucking peal into the traffic.

  But traffic is intense. And I'm fucking hungover. So I do the only thing I can to get some open road.

  I head over to the other side of the street. With the oncoming traffic for the last block coming right fucking at me.

  It's not a problem really. Most of the cars honk at me but I don't fucking care. They swerve out of the way, but I've already made my turn onto 51st street.

  Life is fucking grand.

  "Sir, you can't park that here," the building security rent-a-cop is telling me when I park in the ‘Reserved For Loading’ section.

  I wave him the fuck off. I don't have time for this. It's 5:45 am and I need to fucking get upstairs.

  "Sir! Sir!" he yells like a fucking parrot.

  Luckily for me, my security contingent who was struggling to keep up catches up just as I head into the building. I'm not worried. Pressly leads the security detail. He'll deal with the rent-a-cop.

  I head up the elevator, not giving two shits that I look so out of place with the rest of the people in there – dressed in their suits and uniforms of corporate slavery. What the fuck do I care? The women are staring me up and down. Hunger in their eyes. Lust in their hearts. Their husbands forgotten. The men are shrinking away from me - afraid when an Alpha is among them. Just the way I fucking like it.

  "The interview is in Room 3, Prince Blaine," the receptionist who meets me outside the elevator is telling me as I walk out. She recognizes me instantly. I'm not surprised. Most people would, with the number of times the Post and the Daily News have my face splashed on there. "Mindy Friedman is waiting for you. They'll do hair and makeup as she preps you for the interview."

  I'm not paying much attention to her, because we've just walked into the studio that's going to host the interview segment. The receptionist actually never came into the room - her job was done so she just gives fuck all about me. Leave it to the next schmo to take it from there.

  The studio is empty except for a cameraman manning a camera and the interviewer - world famous Mindy Friedman.

  "Where's the hair and makeup?" I ask, walking over.

  Fuck me, this bird is fine. She's wearing a dark blue short skirt and a blue silk blouse. She blushes when she sees me. I give her an evil smile right back at her.

  "You must be Prince Derrick," she says to me, a blush creeping across her face as she gets up. I can tell she's flustered.

  Her tits are nice. Could be nicer. Body okay. Definitely fuckable.

  I don't know what I'm doing but in times like this I usually just go with it. I reach over and pull off my wife-beater.

  "What are you doing, man?" the cameraman exclaims.

  Fuck. I had forgotten he was there. Mindy's looking at me with a look of shock as well.

  "Get the fuck out," I say strongly to the camera man, pointing towards him.

  "Excuse me?" the incredulous cameraman asks. He can't believe this shit. Neither can I. Which makes it hilarious.

  "You heard me," I say. "Get the fuck out of here. Now."

  I flex my upper body. My muscles glisten under the light and ripple. Mindy is entranced.

  I smile to myself as the cameraman scurries away, more used to listening to orders than standing up to orders that are bollocks.

  I mean, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck am I? Why am I such a fucking asshole.

  Well, I'll tell you who I am. I'm Prince fucking Derrick Blaine from St. Livy. I'm heir to the 10th largest economy in the world after my father. And I truly am a fucking asshole.

  I'm also still rather drunk.

  But let's go back to Mindy, shall we? Her mouth is hanging open and she's looking at me like I've gone fucking mental.

  "We got some time, love," I say. "Follow me into bliss, or stand back and watch me get naked."

  "Are you crazy?" she asks - her mouth agape. She's trying to be indignant. But I can see where her eyes are looking.

  "Not at all, love," I say. "But we can argue, or we can fuck. Which one do you want?"

  She hesitates. I undo the belt buckle of my pants and let them fall. My cock is twitching being around the presence of a female and my boxer briefs are showcasing my 11-inch bulge quite nicely.

  Mindy begins unbuttoning her blouse.

  So much for high minded morals or professionalism, eh?

  "Faster," I say with a glint in my eyes.

  Her face is blank, as if she's hypnotized. The blouse comes off and falls to the floor. I walk over and unzip the skirt, letting it fall too. I move
her so she steps out of it.

  She's wearing black lace boy shorts and a black lace bra. Nice. I reach over and squeeze her tits, kneading them like dough. My cock is alive. Her hands are on my boxer briefs and they go underneath the waistband. I feel her hand brush against my cock and then wrap around it. She grasps my shaft and her eyes go fucking wide.

  "Jesus, Prin-" I cut her off before she can continue.

  "Call me Derrick, love," I say softly. "Derrick Blaine."

  My boxer briefs are on the floor now and my 11-inch anaconda is pointing at her. Thick and fucking hard. I unclasp her bra and she unceremoniously casts her panties aside. I let my eyes wander over her hourglass figure, and I just know there’s no escaping this - I have to fuck her, come hell or high water. And this is going to have to be fast. I turn her over and she gets on her hands and knees on the chair that she was sitting in not five minutes ago.

  See? All I needed to do was smile, use my accent, my reputation, and my body to get her to fucking take off her clothes.

  But even if that didn't work - there was always the secret weapon.

  My monster fucking cock.

  I reach into my jeans on the floor and grab a condom. Never fucking leave home without them. I waste no time in slipping the rubber on my shaft. This is no time to being coy and sexy. We probably have at most fifteen minutes.

  "Prince...uhmm, Derrick, we shouldn't be doing this," Mindy protests.

  Bingo. They always protest. The wife of the mayor protested once just as I was about to enter into her. So I pulled back. She realized what was happening and wrapped her legs around me. We fucked for hours on his bed.

  "Have it your way, love," I say, slapping her ass and pulling back.

  That's too much for her. She reaches over and grabs me by the hand. I come willingly. She places my hand on her breast, the warmness of it spreading to my skin. I squeeze it, grabbing at its firmness with an eagerness I can’t even fucking control.