BITTER PRINCE | A DARK COLLEGE BULLY ROMANCE: HEIRS OF HAVOC

by Winters, Vanessa

  Once I’m clean and dolled up, I go to my dresser. In the very bottom drawer, I keep all my lingerie. Back when I was still with my ex, I’d get dressed up for him every once in a while. I still have all kinds of pretty bras and panties, corsets and thongs, stockings and garters.

  He’d had a thing for a girl who ‘put in a little effort’ as he called it, so I did my best for him.

  Not that it helped.

  But it feels sort of good to be contemplating wearing some of it for someone else. It feels like taking a step in the right direction toward getting over him and not looking back.

  I pull out a black lacy bra that I know shows off my breasts nicely and pair it with a matching pair of panties. I skip the stockings for now, not really wanting to fuss with them, but I pull out a pair of heels and add those to the ensemble.

  Before I get dressed in clothes to drive over there, I admire myself in the mirror.

  Like this, I can see how someone would want to bang me. I look pretty damn good. The black lace rests against the creamy pale of my skin, bringing out the brightness of it. The few freckles that dust my shoulders and chest stand out, and I turn this way and that, checking out my ass in the mirror.

  The heels definitely help raise it up, and I give it a little smack, smiling when it jiggles a bit.

  It helps ease my nerves, and I put on a plain t-shirt and some jeans, going for casual so Lucien will have to unwrap me to get his prize.

  I throw a jacket and a scarf on and head out, trying to keep myself calm.

  Of course Lucien’s apartment is much nicer than mine. He lives right on the outskirts of the city, and you can almost see the lights of Paris from the street.

  He’s waiting for me by the door to the building when I walk up, and I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “I saw your car,” he explains, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Come on up.”

  I follow him, heels clacking on the floor as we make the short trek down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his apartment.

  It’s bright and minimal, decorated with art and little else. The furniture is all black from what I can tell, and the floor gleams white marble with golden threads running through it.

  I look around, mouth slightly open, and then look back at him, noting that, as always, he seems amused. “You afford this working at Huffington Smith?” I ask, skeptical.

  He laughs. “Partly. Some of the rent is paid with my inheritance, I’ll admit.”

  “Of course you have an inheritance,” I mutter. He’s so fucking perfect. Handsome, wealthy, charming.

  Before I can start to question what I’m even doing there, he holds out a hand to me. “Come here.”

  I take it, allowing him to pull me in closer.

  “You smell good,” he murmurs, and then dips his head to steal my mouth in a kiss.

  Oh.

  It’s surprisingly good, and I’m not even sure why I’m surprised. His mouth is soft and warm, and he kisses me with just the right amount of pressure. It’s insistent, but not demanding, and he coaxes me into kissing him back. My arms go around him, and I make a soft, needy noise, grabbing at the back of his shirt as the kiss ramps up in intensity.

  His tongue slides along my bottom lip, and I shiver, parting my lips for him, letting him push his tongue inside.

  He lays claim to my mouth slowly and with talent, teasing my tongue with his own until they’re dancing together. It’s messy and we’re both breathing hard by the time we have to separate for air. I know my cheeks are flushed.

  “Mm,” he says, licking his lips. “You’re delicious.”

  The heat in his eyes makes me want him even more, so I haul him back in for another hot kiss, nipping at his lip.

  He laughs softly, pulling back to look down at me with those pretty eyes. “Someone’s eager,” he teases. “I thought you weren’t sure about any of this.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Mm, you are, but I’m not sure I know what for. Maybe you just wanted to play a few rounds of checkers with a friend.”

  Of course he has to be an asshole now, but that’s fine. I’m here and I have more confidence than I did going into it. The kissing helped. I step back from him, unwinding my scarf and taking off my jacket.

  Aside from the heels my outfit isn’t impressive, but Lucien keeps his eyes on me, waiting.

  I’m going to make it worth his while.

  I start with my shirt, lifting it over my head and tossing it on the couch. My hair fluffs out around my shoulders, and I smooth it down and keep my hands moving, sliding them over the mounds of my breasts before cupping them, squeezing them together. I let them fall and then bounce slightly in the lacy cups of the bra, my nipples getting hard against the fabric.

  Lucien’s eyes are locked onto me, taking in my chest and the cleavage on display and traveling down the flat planes of my stomach.

  I let my hands walk further down, heading for the button and zipper on my jeans. They’re loose enough that I don’t have to take my shoes off first to get them off, thank goodness. There’s no awkward shuffle either, and for once it’s like the gods of sexy times are smiling on me, making it easy for me to slide my jeans down and step out of them, leaving me standing in my underwear and heels.

  Lucien’s eyes are wide as he takes it in, and I stand there, trying to be confident about it. I started this, came in with the intention of seducing him, and I’m going to see it through, goddammit.

  “My god,” he says, and then murmurs something under his breath in French that I don’t catch.

  He comes over and touches me, hands going from my arms down to my hips.

  “Have you always been this tempting?” he asks. “Sitting there in the office with sexy lingerie under your clothes? Just waiting to snare an unsuspecting Frenchman in your net?”

  I snort at the image. “Mm, sure,” I reply. “Let’s go with that.”

  “Let’s go to my bedroom instead,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me along before I can even respond.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Libby

  At the end of it all, I don’t stay. I get back in my car, shivering in the late night air, and go home.

  I take off my makeup and my lingerie, and pull on my pajamas, feeling heavy when I sit on the bed. The sex was fun, but there’s something about Lucien that just doesn’t click with me. He’s shiny. Pretty and perfect on the outside, and funny and fun to be around, but other than that, there’s not much there. He doesn’t seem fazed by much or passionate about anything either. Other than himself, I guess.

  The sex was good. It was satisfying. I definitely came more than once, which is more than I’ve come in the last couple of months.

  Afterwards, though, I felt cold. I waited to see if Lucien was going to want to kiss or touch or anything, but he started getting ready for bed, so I left.

  Now, alone in my apartment, I feel a bit of regret.

  I’m not sure what I’m looking for anymore. If someone asked me a year ago, I would have told them I just wanted my ex. I wanted him and everything he had to offer me.

  Now I don’t know.

  Passion maybe. Compatibility. Someone who excites me. Someone who makes me want to get dressed up for them because I know it’s just going to make things hotter.

  I’m glad, looking back, that I turned Lucien down for a date. He’s fine to sleep with casually, but there’s nothing more there than that.

  And that’s fine. I can enjoy the fun while it lasts. Probably. It doesn’t have to be a whole big thing.

  The next morning, it kind of seems like a whole big thing.

  I run into Lucien within ten minutes of being inside the building, and he grins at me, waggling his eyebrows. “Had a good night?” he asks. I roll my eyes.

  “Do you ever stop being so proud of yourself?” I ask him, even though I already know the answer.

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

  The look on h
is face makes it clear that he’s never going to entertain a world where he’s not amazing at everything he does, and I can’t even pretend like the sex wasn’t good, so I just sigh and keep walking.

  As luck would have it, it’s a very long day. The managers are on our asses constantly about getting review points done, and I spend hours going over notes and numbers, trying to get things to line up. Lucien is just as busy. We have lunch separately, and there are no flirty and inappropriate for the work place messages from him at all.

  I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  Either way, the usual time I’d leave comes and goes, and the office starts to empty around me, leaving me, Lucien, and a couple of other stragglers still at our desks, banging out work like we’re being paid overtime. We’re not.

  By the time I’ve reached something resembling a stopping point, it’s nearly nine p.m., and I’m starving.

  I rub my tired eyes and drink the last dregs of my cold cup of coffee, shuddering at the chalky taste. When I look up again, Lucien’s there, leaning his hip against the desk.

  “What would you say to dinner?” he asks.

  There’s no teasing to him now, just tiredness, and he looks like he sincerely just wants to get dinner. My stomach growls loudly, giving away how much I want to eat, too.

  “Sure. I could eat.” I nod.

  He laughs. I shut down my computer and gather my stuff before following him out of the building.

  His cousin’s place is closed this late at night, so we get in his car and drive to another restaurant he’s familiar with, just outside of Paris. Where the little cafe was cute and quiet, this place seems bold and bright, and absolutely full of people. Everyone I can see coming in or going out looks like they’re way better dressed than either of the two of us, still in our business casual after a long day of work.

  “Okay, if this is your idea of a quick bite to eat, I don’t want to know what a fancy meal with you would look like,” I say, staring out the car window at the swanky place. The name of it is in French, scrawled in script so elaborate and curly I can’t even make it out.

  Lucien just laughs and starts to get out of the car.

  “Seriously,” I say, trying to hurry after him. “I don’t even know if I can afford this.”

  “I invited you,” he assures me. “You don’t have to worry, Lib.”

  His blasé attitude toward it all is annoying, and I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow at him, refusing to move from the spot until he takes me seriously.

  That seems to get through to him that I don’t find this as funny as he does, and he stops and gives me a confused look. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Why are we here?” I demand. “I told you I didn’t want to go on a date with you.”

  “This is not a date,” he replies, seeming offended that I’d even suggest such a thing.

  I look at the restaurant again and then back at him. “Right. Because this is definitely the kind of place you bring a fuck buddy to after nine on a Tuesday.”

  “So because you’re just a friend that I’m sleeping with I can’t take you to nice places?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. It depends on your intentions.”

  “My intentions are to feed you since we were both at work for twelve hours today and deserve something nice as a treat. If I promise to expense it, will you come have dinner with me? As a friend?” He hurries to add that last bit, and I can feel my resolution wavering.

  I have always wanted to eat at one of the nicer places in Paris. Some of them cost more than I make in a week, though, and it’s harder to justify it when it’s just me on my own and I know there’s a noodle place that will deliver me spicy deliciousness for much, much cheaper.

  But Lucien is right about us being able to expense it since we were working so late, and he’s wearing an expression that can only be called puppy eyes, so I sigh and relent.

  “Okay, fine. But I’m watching you. I’d better not see any date-like behavior while we’re in there.”

  He rolls his eyes with a laugh. “On my honor. You can pull out your own chair and everything.”

  I roll my eyes at him and shut the car door with more force than necessary. It doesn’t even phase him because of course it doesn’t. He just laughs and makes his way around to walk with me toward the restaurant.

  It’s just as swanky on the inside as it is outside with a red carpet and a mahogany podium serving as the hostess stand. A gorgeous woman with bright red lipstick and a low cut black dress on is standing behind it, smiling at us as we walk up.

  “Good evening,” she says in heavily accented English. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Not tonight, no, but I was hoping we might get a table, anyway.”

  I look at Lucien like he’s crazy, fully expecting the hostess to do the same and then show us out for having the gall to show up at a place like this with no reservation.

  Instead, she just smiles wider and nods. “Oui, we have something that I hope will suit you, sir.” She waves over someone else, and he smiles and leads us further in.

  At this point I’m more confused than anything, so I just follow, not looking too hard at the pretty, glittering people who sit at the tables we’re passing, laughing and drinking. All of them probably have reservations.

  We’re led to a booth that doesn’t look like it’s the place they put people who dare to show up here unannounced. Lucien says it’s perfect, and the waiter introduces himself as Phillipe and asks if he can get us anything to drink.

  “Just water for me,” I say firmly, daring Lucien to contradict me.

  “Water for now,” he agrees easily. “And then we’ll have a look at the wine list.”

  “Very good, sir,” Phillipe says and dashes off.

  “I still have to drive home at the end of this, you know,” I remind Lucien.

  He waves a hand like that’s unimportant. “I can get you home. Or you could come home with me.” He waggles his eyebrows. If we were in a less classy establishment, I would have thrown something at his face.

  “I know you don’t have any shame,” I tell him, “but can you please try to control yourself for a second? All I’m going to want to do after this is go home and take a hot shower.”

  I wait for a tantrum. For him to insist that he’s taking me out to dinner so I owe him or some garbage like that. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he just shrugs. “Fair enough. It has been a very long day.”

  Water and bread are brought to our table, and I start looking at the menu.

  Of course it’s one of those places where they don’t put the prices near the items, so you can order whatever you want with blissful ignorance of how much you’re spending.

  I remind myself that technically our firm is paying for this, and they can definitely afford it.

  The menu’s in French, but I manage, deciding to go with a steak dish that sounds delicious and is probably less expensive than anything involving caviar or snails.

  Lucien probably dines like this often, judging from how quickly he puts his menu down.

  In the end, he ends up ordering a single glass of wine and a pasta dish, and I’m surprised at his restraint. I wonder if it’s for my benefit.

  “Will you miss it here when you have to go back home?” he asks me, sipping his wine while we wait for our food.

  I smile. “Of course. Paris is like nowhere I’ve ever been before. Everything is so nice and fancy, and it’s definitely different from where I live back in the States.”

  “Have you lived in the same place your whole life?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m from this little town in the south originally. My parents still live there. What about you?”

  He starts telling me about his childhood home when someone walks by our table and then turns around and comes right back over.

  “Libby? Libby Chastain?”

  I glance up, surprised to hear someone with an American accent who knows my name, and even more surprised to find it�
��s a very tall, very handsome man standing there looking down at me.

  It’s obvious that he’s very fit in that expertly tailored suit he has on, and his blond hair and green eyes are eye catching in the best way. Just behind him is a woman dressed all in red, and she doesn’t look pleased at the interruption.

  “Um. Yes?” I say, head tipped to one side. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Then he grins, and it’s cocky and just a little condescending, and I remember.

  “Ian Black?” I ask.

  His grin widens. “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he admits.

  I haven’t seen him in probably a decade. He was my brother’s friend in college, the two of them playing together on the school’s lacrosse team. Sometimes he’d come home with Darren for a weekend or a short holiday break, and my parents always took pity on him and the fact that his parents often traveled for work over the holidays, leaving him on his own.

  They thought he was such a nice boy because he knew how to charm them, but Darren always confided in me that Ian was a complete player. Always had a different girlfriend or fuck buddy, and plenty of other girls waiting in the wings to step in when it was time for a new one.

  Darren was always very insistent that I stay away from him, but Ian and I had shared a few talks and late-night pints of ice cream when he would stay at the house. Nothing more than that, of course.

  I was just a high school kid to him, but I thought he was funny and incredibly handsome.

  He’s still handsome, standing there looking like he stepped off the page of some fashion magazine and decided to come have a late dinner.

  “I remember,” I say, smiling back. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on vacation for a few weeks,” he says. “Just seeing the sights, you know how it is.”

  “Sure,” I reply, nodding like I have any idea how that is.

  “What about you?”