Princely Passions 2(45)

Well, my plan to tease the hell out of him has totally and utterly failed. In just minutes, I’ve gone from having the upper hand, to being this close to begging him to fuck me, and fuck me hard.

This is not how this conversation was supposed to go.

“You really liked running your tongue up the bottom side of my cock, and then playing with the crown of it, if I remember right,” he continues. “You—”

“Hold on, you can’t remember us fucking!” I burst out, and then I hear him laughing. Dammit, he won. I cracked first and admitted I knew who he was.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not used to losing.

“So Gisele,” he says in a normal tone of voice again, “wanna go out with me tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I say in a pouty tone of voice that grates even on my own ears. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I should surprise you. What is your street address?”

Oh fuck!

I get over my prissiness real quick as I realize what his words mean. If he’s going to come over here tonight, I cannot open the door in my PJs, a carton of ice cream in my hand. How pathetic would that be?

As I vault off the couch and begin sprinting through the house, I do my best to keep my voice even as I give him my address. It wouldn’t do to huff and puff in his ear as I run. I begin yanking off my socks, hopping madly toward the bedroom as I go, because dammit it all, I was in the middle of my own pity party and dressed just how I like to attend them. OMG, can you even imagine me opening up the front door wearing Hello Kitty PJs and my warm fuzzy purple socks? I would die. Just die.

“Cool. I’ll see you in fifteen, then,” he says. The phone goes dead and I toss it on my bed while simultaneously tearing through the clothes in my closet. It's time to wow Stone Slayer.

It's time to make him wish I threw my panties at him every night.





134





Stone





My driver pulls up in front of Gisele's apartment building and I tell him it’ll only be a moment as I step out of the stretch limo. Her apartment's … nice. Understated. Not the most glamorous address in the Manhattan phone book, but I’ve certainly seen worse. She's a reporter, not a rock star. It just means that when she does see my apartment, it’ll make an even bigger splash. I cannot wait for her to see the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the City …

I hit the buzzer and I hear, “Hello?”

“It’s Stone,” I say close to the speaker. I feel a little ridiculous; I’m not used to having to ask for entrance like this. Normally I have people who just make doors open for me. It’s their job. But tonight, I want to be just me. Well, me and my driver. Let’s not get crazy.

“Oh, hey!” I hear a buzzing sound. “Come on up.”

I climb the stairs—really, no elevator? She’s going to think my apartment is the epitome of luxury at this rate—and knock on her door. She pulls the door open with a wide, if flustered grin.

“Almost ready!” she says, rushing off to the bathroom, the door slamming closed behind her. I try to hide my laughter until she closes the door behind her, and then I let it all out. She’d just hobbled through the living room with one knee-high boot on … and one foot bare. Likewise, her hair seemed a little more … untamed than normal. Apparently my 15 minutes wasn’t quite long enough for her grooming needs.

But, it was fun to see Gisele rattled. I have to admit, I like having the upper hand.

I wander around the living room, picking up and then putting down picture frames of her and two guys who look enough like her to make me believe that they are siblings. I can hear the water running, then shutting off, some mumbled words that sound suspiciously like a nice long string of swear words, and then a blow dryer turning on.

I know I should probably just sit quietly and wait for her to return, but I can’t. I’m thrumming with excitement and nerves. Just being in Gisele's vicinity makes me feel like I’ve stuck a finger in a light socket. I know I used to do drugs in order to capture this feeling of excitement and thrill whenever I wanted it, but now, having been around Gisele, I realized how fake the drug rush was. Being around Gisele is a thousand times better than that first snort of coke, and a million times better than every snort after that.

There’s a saying that drug addicts are always chasing that first high, because after that, it never feels as good as that first time.

Well, they’ve never met Gisele Taylor. Nothing feels as good as standing next to her.

The bathroom door finally opens, and out spills a cloud of sex and eroticism I never thought I’d encounter. The smell hits me first—sexy and mysterious, with just a hint of roses. I don’t know what perfume that is, but it’s intoxicating.