“Well, you’re never going to find out,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head. She looks at me, her nose wrinkling like she’s smelling something bad. “Do women fall for this whole Casanova act?”
“Works like a charm,” I say. I don’t have to do much actual work to get women to take off their panties. It’s one of the benefits of being royalty.
Life is a buffet of pussy, and I’m a damn connoisseur.
“Well, just so you know,” she says. “That is not on the table here.”
“What’s not on the table?” I ask. “Sex? I wasn’t thinking of fucking you on the table, luv. Not the first time, anyway. I’d take my time with you, the first time. Or maybe not. You seem like you'd like it hard and rough – something public, maybe? The threat of getting caught turns you on, doesn’t it?”
She interrupts, holding up her hand to silence me. “I just left an irresponsible, no-good, womanizing dickhead. And, well, okay, so I apparently drunkenly married another one in what’s, in retrospect, an extremely regrettable incident. But there’s no going to be no fucking happening here. There’s going to be no coming. In fact, I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were literally the last prince on earth.”
I can’t help but smile, and I don’t even try to hide it. “I’m going to remind you that you said that.”
“You won’t need to remind me,” she says. “Because I’m not going to forget it. Why are you smirking? It’s so annoying. I just said I wasn’t going to sleep with you. How is that remotely funny?”
I shrug. “What can I say?” I ask. “You’re amusing. I enjoy a challenge.”
I can’t even recall the last time anyone told me no. That’s one of the benefits – or drawbacks, depending on your perspective – of being royalty, too. No one ever says no, no matter how ridiculous the request. You have hundreds of people dedicated to carrying out your every ridiculous whim.
It sounds fantastic. But honestly, it’s really fucking boring.
When was the last time a girl told me no?
When was the last time a girl didn’t know who I was when she met me? Or spent a night with me, laughing and talking drunkenly because she thought she’d never see me again?
That’s happened exactly once in my life.
It just doesn’t happen when you’re a prince.
“That’s so patronizing,” she says.
“What is?”
“Calling me amusing. Implying that I’m a challenge,” she says. “I’m not an obstacle course.”
I open my mouth to say something about exactly what obstacles on her I’d like to climb, but she glares at me, speaking before I can.
“Don’t even say it.”
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You were about to make some disgusting, reprehensible comment,” she says.
“You’re so observant,” I say. “Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking?”
“Ugh. No,” she says. “How are you even a prince? Aren’t princes required to maintain some sort of regal bearing?”
“That’s for public, luv,” I say. “All bets are off in private.”
“Somehow I doubt you’re any different in a public setting,” she says. “So how are we going to take care of this catastrophe?”
“What catastrophe are you referring to, exactly?” I ask. “The one where are parents are getting married, sis?”
“Do not speak that word again,” she says.
“Sis?” I ask. “But we’re going to be related now. Would you prefer that I call you wife?”
“Both of those words are off-limits.”
“There’s a giant list of things that are off-limits with you, aren’t there?” I ask. “Has anyone told you that life’s a lot more fun if you loosen up a little bit?”
“You’re loose enough for both of us.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say to your husband.”
“Stop calling yourself that,” she says. “It’s a fake marriage. We were intoxicated. How could they marry us? I don’t think it’s even legal to get married while drunk.”
I shrug. “You’d be surprised what a little extra cash will do.”
“You bribed a wedding chapel?” she asks, disbelief evident in her voice. “Why in the world would you do that?”
Why, indeed?
“What’s that saying -- when in Rome?” I ask. “When in Vegas. I figured I’d never have the opportunity to get married by Elvis again.”