Nicholas shakes his head. “Bloody insane.” His hands are on my ass again—a final quick grab. “And fucking fantastic.”
I’M GOING TO HAVE SEX TONIGHT. Lots of it.
I’m going to lay Olivia out on my bed and screw her sweetly, I’m going to hold her up against the wall and fuck her madly. No room or surface will be left undefiled.
Moves and configurations worthy of an Olympic gymnast—fantasies—play out in my head all damn day long. Leaving me hard and aching.
They make the interviews and charity luncheon I suffer through—awkward.
And it’s all because of her. Olivia.
What a sexy, delectable little surprise she turned out to be.
Last night was…intense. I didn’t mean to say all those things—they just spilled out. And, Christ, she didn’t even sign an NDA—it’s not like me to forget such a thing.
But it felt cathartic talking to her. Like we were in our own bubble, on a personal remote island—where no one else in the world could see us, touch us or hear us. Before I left for New York I’d planned to make the most of the freedom I have left—do things I never would’ve considered. And Miss Olivia Hammond certainly fits that bill.
I gave the butler a list of items I’d need for dinner and told him to make sure the suite was stocked with condoms—every room. Cover your knobber before you bob her—that’s what my father used to say. Words every royal lives by.
Words I learned to never forget.
My leg jostles impatiently as the car pulls up in front of Amelia’s just before sunset. I should’ve worked out, burned off some of this energy—or even better—I should’ve jerked off. I’m liable to jump her the second I see her. My balls feel like lead weights in my trousers.
Not very comfortable—in case you weren’t sure.
I spot the CLOSED sign hanging in the window and smile. Closed means privacy. And just maybe I’ll get the chance to act out the fantasy from last night—Olivia lying back on one of those dining tables, legs on my shoulders while I pump smoothly into her.
But those luscious thoughts are scattered to the wind when I walk inside. Olivia’s not there to greet me—her little firecracker of a sister is.
Ellie Hammond is a tiny thing—pretty, with the same shade eyes as her sister, but rounder, less exotic looking. She’s wearing a simple black T-shirt, snug across her chest, and jeans that look like they were chopped off at the knees with a hacksaw. Black square glasses perch over a pert nose and a streak of hot pink in her blond hair gives her a youthful, idealistic look—like a girl who’d be holding a sign at a college campus protest.
Ellie stands in front of me, then lowers gracefully into a perfect full curtsy.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Prince Nicholas.” She smiles.
“Have you been practicing that move?” I ask. “You do it very well.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
The tall, dark-skinned waiter approaches from the back. “We haven’t been officially introduced. I’m Martin.”
Then he curtsies too.
When he stands, I hold out my hand and he shakes it. “Good to meet you, Martin.”
He pumps my arm enthusiastically. “I just want to thank you for all the hours of pleasure you’ve given me—you’ve been center stage in my fantasies for years.”
And his gaze drags over me—not offensively, but like he’s committing every particle to memory. For…later.
“Ah…you’re welcome?”
He gestures to a nearby chair. “I’m just going to sit over here. And look at you.” With a wink, Marty sinks into a chair, staring like he’s trying very hard not to blink.
I wonder how long he can keep that up.
Ellie’s hands fold together in front of her. “We should talk. Get to know each other—Prid Cocoa, Clarice.”
I chuckle—cuteness runs in the Hammond family.
“Do you mean quid pro quo? It’s Latin, meaning ‘something for something.’”
She shakes her head with disappointment. “That was a pretentiousness test. You failed.”
“Damn.”
“Who speaks Latin anymore, anyway?”
“I do. As well as French, Spanish and Italian.”
Her fair eyebrows rise. “Impressive.”
“My language tutor would be happy you think so. He was a crusty sod who admired the beauty of language but detested actually speaking with people. And I made him miserable—I was an uncooperative pupil.”
Ellie takes a seat at a table. “A bad boy, huh?”
I shrug, sitting down across from her. “It was a phase.”
And suddenly the situation feels very familiar—like an interview.
“Would you get punished if you misbehaved or did they use a whipping boy?”
She’s done research. Whipping boys were used back in the old days when corporal punishment was all the rage but princes were thought to be too sacred to be struck. So, an unlucky lad—usually poor—would be chosen as the prince’s companion, and that child would take the beating in his place. The idea being that the prince would feel guilty watching an innocent boy receive his punishment.
Obviously the forefathers knew fuck-all about children.
“Whipping boy?” Martin pipes up, raising his hand. “I volunteer as tribute.”
I laugh. “Whipping boys haven’t been used for a few hundred years—how old do you think I am?”
“You’ll be twenty-eight on October twentieth,” Ellie replies.