One hot, sweet pussy to claim for the night, have my way with, and never see again.
“Silas!” A voice rings out behind me. The only one that's ever gotten away with calling me that name, without putting Prince or Your Highness in front.
The last fucking voice I want to hear tonight.
I stop dead in my tracks, halfway to the bar. That's all the time she needs to jump me, throw her arms around me, and spin herself around until we're face-to-face.
“Get out of here, Serena. I'm not in the mood,” I growl. Inwardly, I cringe.
I don't have to wonder what this woman's eyes look like when they're rolling back in her head. There's no mystery here. Last winter, I fucked my press secretary, a two week tryst in the mountains north of Bearington City. I was home for a couple weeks on leave from the Marines, and I was desperate for the only pussy still in season.
I remember exactly how she screams. How she twitches and calls out my name, over and over when I'm between her legs, bringing her off for the fifth time in one night.
I remember that I'm one and done, and the fact that I fucked this girl more than once, violating my own cardinal rule, is the reason I'm standing here looking into her desperate, hurt face.
“Jesus. You're drunk again, aren't you?” she says with a sigh, slowly taking her hands off me.
I start walking again, without saying anything. Already know it isn't going to stop her from trotting after me. Her heels scrape the floor, catching up after about ten seconds.
“Silas, you don't have to do this to yourself. You can drop the lonely, broody act when I'm around. Talk to me!”
I don't slow down or say anything until I'm at the bar. At least out here, she'll have to talk business, keeping up the pretense that she's never been anything more than my damned press secretary.
“You've got business for me that can't wait until morning, or what? I don't recall scheduling an appointment at this ungodly hour.” I reach out for the fresh glass of scotch the bartender has laid out for me without asking. We have a special understanding between us, one that lets him read my mind when it comes to spirits.
“Actually, yes,” she says, flipping her light blonde hair back.
I turn and stare at her. If she's trying to be flirty, she's out of her fucking mind.
And business? She can't be serious. That's the last thing I want in the middle of the night, when I can't decide if my cock is throbbing worse than my head.
I was simmering before, but now I'm pissed.
She's staring at me like a puppy waiting to throw her a bone.
“I wasn't serious. You think I'm really going to sit here and talk about my goddamned image at two o'clock in the morning, half blasted out of my mind?” I snap, draining my shot in one pull, and then putting down my glass for a new one.
“I think you will, yes, because I want you to consider something new. New idea, all mine. Strictly off the record, Your Highness.” She adds my title almost as an afterthought, purely because the bartender is eyeballing her. “I haven't vetted it yet with any of my staff.”
“You've got less than a minute,” I tell her, picking up my glass, focusing on how the light hits the scotch on the rocks. Everything glows like gold and crystal coming together.
“You have an image problem. You've been defined, sire, boxed in by the press. There's a dozen playboy jabs every time they say hero. Doesn't matter. Whether you're doing something wonderful, like you did today for that girl and her father, or something...a bit less noble, everybody sees a playboy.”
Yeah, they do. I barely stop myself from snorting and rolling my eyes.
They see the truth, I want to tell her, taking another long drink instead.
The player behind the medals and money is the whole reason I've got at least a dozen girls lined up here every night, offering themselves to me like I'm able to give them the universe.
In the bedroom, I do. I give them a few glorious hours they'll remember until the day they die, pounding them halfway to heaven with the biggest cock they're ever going to take.
And then I move onto the next. One and done.
“What's your point?” I say, my eyes running up and down her trim, skinny body. She's not a bad looking girl, but damn, she's nothing like the models I've had night after night.
Nothing like the curves I felt on that American broad today.
“It's not too late to break the mold. We can force the media to redefine you. It's worked for other royals and men in your class for ages. You've heard about Prince Lukov on the Baltic, right? A year ago he was just a womanizer, a drunk, a man they said had ties to the Russian mob...”
“Please.” I quietly balk at the comparison, sipping my scotch. “I don't have skeletons like Lukov in my closet.”
“Of course not, Your Highness. All I'm saying is, look what at the reports about him now. Loving husband. Family man. He's only a year into his marriage, and with the royal baby, nobody remembers the old Prince Lukov.” She pauses, seeing the skepticism in my eyes. “Or that Sterner kid, the billionaire in the States. He married his stepsister, for God's sake, but nobody cares about that scandal. They just see charity, family, the handsome married man.”
“And? I'm not shoving a ring on anybody's finger, or adopting a kid tomorrow, Serena.”
She smiles nervously, and leans in, just far enough so her leg touches mine. “Even a public courtship could go a long way, sire. A kiss for the cameras with a steady lady, stepping out of your cars with her at the next palace functions, having her come to dinner with you and the Queen. I think –“
“No.”
I only say it once. But I'm thinking no, no, fuck no to all that crazy.
No, no, no, goddammit, because I've heard the same thing tonight. It can't be coincidence.
I don't know what kind of game her and grandmom are playing, but they're hitting me from every side. Trying to push this marriage scheme.
It doesn't take much to see right through her. She clams up when I give her the heavy look, knocking back the last of my scotch.
“Silas, look, I'm not saying you need to get engaged to the love your life. It doesn't even have to be real. You can use me.”
Don't have a clue how I stop myself from choking on the booze. Shit.
I'm staring to see what's going on here. Grandmom's using the stick, and Serena, she must be the carrot.
And does she seem...warmer? I'm used to the stone cold bitch barking orders at the press corps and corralling reporters. Not this soft, smiling stranger I've only met a few times when she shared my bed.
I wonder how many she had down here before me to put her up to this. And she's still talking, trying to convince me with words she can't be crazy enough to believe.
“Use me,” she says again, words that would be sexy if they were coming from anybody else. “I'll do anything you want. We'll be perfect when in front of the cameras, and what a story it'll make! The Prince and his secretary. Can you see the headlines now? If they think you've found love, that you're starting to settle down, all those playboy stories vanish. Poof.”
She snaps her fingers. Smiling like mad. There's crazy eyes, and then there's hers.