Dirty Royals Read online

  She thinks she's slick.

  I’m given nods and smiles as I weave my way through the dimly lit bar, none of which I acknowledge. When I drag a chair from another table and take a seat across from Lily, she groans, then pops open a menu.

  Tilting my head to the side, I glance under the table. She’s wearing candy-apple red heels that accentuate her toned thighs. When I fuck her, she better be wearing shoes like that.

  “Are you eating?”

  “No.” I look up, dropping my gaze to her lap. “At least not here.”

  She scowls. “Do women really fall for that crap?”

  “They just fall for me.”

  “Doubtful.”

  I hold up three fingers. “I’ve been voted most eligible bachelor three years in a row.”

  She’s looking at the menu again, and I must say, her disinterest is more of a turn-on than I’d like to admit.

  “You do realize women probably only screw you because of who you are?” Her pouty lips quirk. “You could be the most unattractive man to walk the earth, and women would line up for you just because you’re a prince. It has nothing to do with you. Everything to do with the title.”

  My skin heats while I drum my fingers over the wooden tabletop. That is the thing that has always bothered me. I never know who to trust. Who likes me. Who’s only pretending to make themselves look important.

  I abruptly push up from the table and thump the back of her menu. “Get the steak and ale pie. Everything else here is shit.”

  Then I walk out of Dave’s, fuming because instead of getting under her skin, she just got underneath mine.

  * * *

  The television cast a blue haze across the foot of the bed as I mindlessly flip channels. Nothing holds my attention because I keep thinking about her and those legs and how she isn’t the least bit bothered by me. She made me feel like a jerk, and as messed up as it sounds, I liked it. There’s a certain allure to a woman who will put you in your place—at least for me there is. It’s out of the norm. Makes me feel like I may actually have limits with her.

  She doesn’t care that I’m a prince. Or rich. Or deemed Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor. Why? Because based on her stunning looks, I'd bet most guys fawn all over her, try to romance her, treat her like a princess. I roll my eyes on a laugh. Being nice to a pretty girl like her gets you nowhere. But being an asshole…that will get a guy everywhere, including right between her milky-white thighs. Lucky for me, I play the asshole card with flourish few men are capable of. I have so many tricks up my sleeve that within two weeks, I’ll make her hate me to the point of wanting to fuck me. Yes, two weeks and I’ll have her in my bed and underneath me.

  My dick jumps to life at that thought, and I fist it with the vision of Lily on my bed, legs spread and nothing but those red heels on. I wonder what she sounds like when she gets off; if she’s quiet or whimpers or moans like a porn star. I bet her pussy gets drenched with a mere flick to her clit…

  My palm slaps against my stomach while I work myself hard and steady, pretending it’s Lily’s hand—or better yet, those pouty lips of hers wrapped around me.

  Within seconds, that hot pull forms in my balls and my toes curl just before a warm ribbon of come splatters onto my stomach. I fall back on the bed, arms and legs out like a starfish while I catch my breath, trying to plan the first move I make. Getting piss-face drunk at a strip club in the scummy part of London sounds like a good start. Smiling, I place my arm behind my head. I’m going to make Lily fall for a guy she should do nothing but hate.

  3

  Lily

  Poison’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blaring from my phone wakes me from sleep. I blindly pat around on the nightstand, finally feeling my cell under my palm and pulling it to my ear. I haven’t even said hello before the person on the other line is barking orders.

  “You must go get him.” Mary sounds frantic. Wind rustles over the line and I can just imagine she’s running around the palace in a frazzled state.

  I rub at my eyes, my mind still groggy. “Who?”

  “Prince Alex.”

  Groaning, I glance at the red block numbers on the clock beside the bed. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “He’s at The Bunny Bin,” she whispers as though she’s afraid someone else will hear. “And there's a gaggle of blood-thirsty paparazzi waiting to snap pictures of him leaving that disgusting place.”

  The Bunny Bin—in case the name doesn’t tell you what a high-class place it is—is the seediest strip club in the whole of London. There’s a royal being spotted in a strip club and then there’s a royal being spotted in The Bunny Bin. At this point, I’m pretty sure Alex does things just to tarnish his name. “I’m his lawyer,” I say. “Not his PR manager.”

  “He doesn’t have a PR manager at the moment.” There’s a bit of bite to her tone that leaves me bristled.

  “Not my problem.” I run my hand over my face and flop down onto the pillow. “I’m going back to bed.”

  “You realize you may be able to save yourself the headache of writing up fifteen non-disclosures in the morning if you would just go get him.”

  She’s right. I know she is. The later it gets, the more Alex will drink, and at some point, there will be lewd comments made and racy pictures snapped, and I’ll be spending eight hours of my day trying to track down a stripper named Crystal Chandelier to serve papers to. “Fine.” I throw the covers off and sit on the edge of the bed for a moment.

  “Let me know when you’ve obtained him.”

  Obtained, like I’m the police…I shake my head as I move toward my dresser to grab a T-shirt and pair of running shorts, wondering if maybe I should have read that fine print in my contract. I’m sure, somewhere in there, it mentioned that I may be responsible for picking the asshole up from skanky strip clubs.

  * * *

  _____

  The cab sputters off and I stand under the fluorescent-pink and blue lights of The Bunny Bin wearing an oversized raincoat I bought from Tesco before catching a ride. I figured I could throw this over Alex and scoot him out quick enough he’d go unnoticed. Maybe that’s wishful thinking because there’s about ten men with cameras lining the sidewalk, waiting like lions in the bush to pounce when Alex stumbles out that door, quite possibly with one of the strippers. Or two. I can only imagine the pictures they’d snap and the headlines that would show up on The Daily Mail tomorrow. I huff at that thought when I pass them by, anxious to get in there and get this over with.

  I slip the jacket off and fold it over my arm before I open the door. Once inside, I’m swallowed up by the electronic dance songs pumping through the speakers. My entire body vibrates with each thump of the heavy bass. The doorway to the Bunny Room is covered with a black velvet curtain, and just as I go to reach for it, a man clears his throat behind me.

  “The cover’s ten quid.”

  I turn around with a scowl. “Ten quid? Are you serious?”

  He cocks one of his bushy brows and winks. “Certainly am. Treacle.” He grins.

  With a roll of my eyes, I fish ten pounds out from my pocket and stuff it in the man’s meaty palm.

  “Enjoy the titties.” He chuckles before holding back the drape.

  I duck underneath the thick material and am met with a stench like none other. Cigarettes and stale beer, sweat and cheap aftershave. The room is packed. The few rickety-looking tables along the wall are full of empty beers. The men on the floor sway like they’re on a ship in troubled waters, and I assume their lack of balance is due to an overindulgence in cider or whiskey.

  Shaking my head, I glance at the blinking neon sign of a bunny above the stage. London is full of classy strip clubs where men in designer suits lounge in leather chairs, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking brandy that costs more than most people make in a week. The women are breathtaking, and the way they dance is pure art. The Bunny Bin, however, is nothing like those places. The men in here have stains on their T-shirts. Their slacks are wrinkled
, and the smokes gripped between their thin lips are from Tesco’s value bin. As for the strippers… I glance at the stage where a redhead hangs upside down from the pole. The crowd around the platform erupt in cheers when she slowly lowers herself to the floor. Bank notes are tossed carelessly into the air, raining down onto the platform. With a smile, she drops onto her hands and knees, and the spotlight shines on the Tweety Bird tattoo on her right ass cheek. Maybe this woman was stunning during her prime, but to be honest, that saying “she looks like she’s been rode hard and hung up wet” seems to fit her. Perfectly.

  * * *

  If this is the kind of women he goes for, I can say with one hundred and ten percent certainty that Alex does not have a refined palate.

  Surely a prince would stick out like a sore thumb in this dump, I think as I scan the room. A group of women in G-strings and stilettos totter past, all giggles. They flock to the corner of the room, and there, in one of the private booths that’s only halfway shielded from the rest of the club, sits Alex with a smug-as-sin grin on his perfectly handsome face.

  I shoulder my way through the crowd, watching him like a hawk as he grabs one of the blondes and yanks her onto his lap. His hand moves up her thigh, up her stomach, then he freezes and glances over her shoulder. Right at me.

  He motions one of the other girls toward him and whispers something in her ear with his gaze still glued to me. When she steps back, she holds up a phone. One corner of his lips curl and he gropes the girl straddling his lap, twisting her nipple just as a camera flashes. He wants this smeared over the front page! What a dick…

  I shove past a man chugging a beer, past one trying to sweet-talk one of the waitresses, and then I wiggle right between the harem of women gathered around Alex.

  “I was waiting on you to show up, kitten.” He winks and fire erupts over my cheeks. It’s too early in the morning to deal with his shit.

  The women turn around to glare at me—all except the one grinding against his crotch. I tap her shoulder and she stills, coyly glancing over her shoulder and batting her fake lashes.

  “The ride’s over, honey.”

  Alex places his hands on her thighs. “Don’t move, Starlet.” He shoots a challenging glare at me.

  First things first, I guess. Pulling a wad of cash from my pocket, I turn and motion the girl with the phone toward me. “I’ll trade you for the phone.”

  With a shrug, she passes the phone to me then snatches the money and trots off, fingering through the crisp bills. When I direct my attention back to Alex, the girl has her breasts in his face. “Did you sign the non-disclosure?” I gently poke her arm. “Not trying to impose on your work here, Starlet, but I just wouldn’t want you to get thrown in jail.” It’s bullshit, but it gets her attention.

  Slowly, she puts a little space between them and I notice most of the color has drained from her cheeks. “Jail?”

  “Mm-hmm. You aren’t supposed to touch him unless you sign the appropriate paperwork.” I wave my hand through the air. “Some royal protocol bull crap that allows commoners to touch his royal highness.” I can feel Alex’s eyes boring into the side of my head, and I smirk like the Cheshire cat.

  Starlet’s heavily made-up eyes widen and her brows pinch together. I see it when it sinks in, and at that very second, she clamors off his lap like it’s a pit of fire. “I…uh… He didn’t give me any paperwork. I’m sorry.” And she speed-walks off as fast as her six-inch heels will allow.

  I toss the raincoat onto Alex’s lap, unfortunately unable to miss the massive erection tenting his pants. “Put that on, please.”

  “You just cost me a lap dance from a very talented stripper.” He swats the rain jacket from his lap to the grimy tile floor.

  “And you just cost me eight hours of good sleep.” I grab the coat from the floor and throw it back at him, then snap my fingers. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Did you just snap at me?” He throws his head back on a laugh and claps his hands together. “This is rich. Oh, it truly is.” There’s a hint of annoyance dancing in his steel-blue eyes.

  Before I can react, his warm hands are on my hips and he’s pulling me onto his lap.

  “What are you doing?” I screech, flailing about.

  “I’m owed a lap dance.”

  The second my crotch hits his, I feel a very large, very hard dick underneath me, and ashamedly, I struggle less—only just enough to brush against him. I imagine how it would feel if we were both naked. Closing my eyes, I swallow. I shouldn’t be straddling his lap. I most definitely shouldn’t like straddling his lap. “Alex.” His name was meant to come out stern, but instead it’s nothing but a breathy whisper.

  He leans in by my cheek, brushing my hair behind my ear. “One lap dance, Lily, and I’ll be a good boy from now on.” His hands tighten on my hips and he thrusts up, his hard cock pressing against me in all the right places.

  Fucking bastard. I don’t believe him. Not for one second, and even if I did, there’s no way in hell I’d give this asshole the satisfaction of—

  “Does it feel good?” His heated breath fans across my neck. The club lights dance over his sculpted face, and I realize I’m circling my hips against him like it’s my job. A few more thrusts and my clit tingles. My eyes close. I could come in three seconds. I freeze, dropping my hands to his shoulders as a small fissure of panic ripples through me.

  A triumphant grin brightens his face when I inch my way toward his mouth. He thinks he's won, but he underestimates the level of control I have.

  When I'm barely a breath from his lips, I smirk. “With something so small, I can only imagine how many girls have asked you if it’s in yet…” With a cock of my brow, I swing one leg over his lap and place both feet firmly on the floor, trying my hardest to ignore how damp my panties are.

  I pick up the coat one last time and hang the hood over his head. “Put the damn jacket on already.”

  Of course, he snatches it off like a spoiled child when he storms past. I figure I’ll wait until we get to the exit before I try to throw it over him one last time. Alex’s broad shoulders easily clear a path in the crowd. Just when we reach the edge of the bar, someone grabs the sleeve of my shirt.

  “Hey there, sweet’art.”

  I spin around to face a middle-aged man with a toothy grin, his eyes crossing when he attempts to focus them on me. He holds up a few crumpled pounds, and I go to sidestep him, but he blocks my way.

  “What’dit take to get a blowie from a pretty bird like you?” He leans in close, the smell of cheap vodka and halitosis permeating the air just before he grabs his crotch. “I got a hard one for you.”

  Heat flames my cheeks. “Go fuck yourself.” I shove away from him and when I turn on my heel, he snatches me by the hair, yanking me back. My heart hammers in my chest. Panic shoots through me as I try fruitlessly to loosen the man’s hold from my hair while swinging my leg back to hit him between the legs.

  “Fucking slut,” he slurs, and then a loud smack resounds before mass chaos ensues.

  I’m shoved out of the way by a group of men closing in, the whack of fists pounding skin reverberating above the loud, club music. I stumble a few steps, frantically glancing around for Alex.

  “Shit,” I mumble when I spot him. Alex has the man pinned against the wall, with his forearm over his throat.

  The bouncers break the fight up before I can reach them.

  The crowd parts like the Red Sea for Alex. Every phone in the place is lit up, recording Alex storming through the strip club, face taught as he wipes his bloodied lip over the sleeve of his shirt. I assume he’s going to fume right past, but instead, he stops in front of me, narrowing his eyes as his gaze scans my face. If it were any other man looking at me with those soft eyes full of concern, I’d expect him to ask if I’m okay, but Alex doesn’t muster a word. He simply grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine as he leads me toward a door at the back of the club.

  In the alleyway, a black Mercedes idles
. He opens the back door and climbs in, leaving the door open for me.

  As tempted as I am to climb in the backseat, I’m not that girl. I thank him for watching out for me, then shut the door, ignoring the tug between my legs as the taillights disappear in the roundabout.

  The entire way home, I recall how feral it felt to straddle him like that. To see how his eyes flared with want and lust while I timidly grinded over his lap. I’m more than annoyed that I’m turned on instead of ashamed or repulsed—or experiencing any of the negative connections I should have to my encounter tonight. But it's hard to be ashamed when all I can think about is how close I was to coming from dry humping him in that club.

  By the time I reach my flat, the first hint of the sunrise peeks through the bleak clouds. There’s no point in going back to bed.

  I unlock the door, put a pot of coffee on to brew, then hop in the shower. The hot water serves as a relief to my tense muscles. God, why does he have to be such an arrogant dick? I’ve worked for countless celebrities, many of whom are known to be unbearable divas and womanizers, but they all pale in comparison to Alex of Lancashire. None of them had his sense of entitlement or those sultry eyes and full, lush lips that I wanted between my thighs. Throwing my head back beneath the spray of warm water, I groan, finally admitting that I want a complete asshole. The strong independent woman inside me wants to hurl while the horny little bitch wants to fuck him.

  I’m tired. Turned on. Annoyed. One of those things definitely needs to change before I see Alex again.

  Swallowing, I reach between my legs and circle my swollen clit before placing the heel of my foot on the ledge of the tub. I swipe over my slit, gentle at first. Teasing myself the way I imagine that dick would. Guys like Alex want you to beg for it, so I taunt myself with my finger, the hot water stinging my back and running along my sides until I’m panting. Then I slam two fingers inside, deep and hard, because that’s how I’d want Alex to do it. I wouldn't want him to be gentle or nice about it, just take what he wanted and leave.