The Dirty Series 1(87)

That was cold goddamn comfort. It was painful walking back to the town car in the chill evening air, my cock rock-hard anticipating all the things I had planned to do to her gorgeous body.

So now, even though I want to lock the door behind me right now and fuck her until she’s incoherent with pleasure, I instead escort her down to the lobby and usher her into an even finer car from the royal fleet. It’s a black Rolls-Royce Phantom, and even Nate can’t hide the joy he takes in driving it.

I’m perplexed. Jessica still looks mildly disappointed.

The tension is thick as we ride through the streets of Sainthall, and it doesn’t help that Jessica, with a wicked grin, slides her hand over the front of my pants, cupping my visible bulge before she gives my cock a squeeze. She keeps her head turned toward the window.

“Oh, what’s that?” she says innocently, as she strokes me through my pants, pointing with her other hand toward an art gallery with an interesting facade.

“An art gallery,” I say, my voice hoarse, as I clear my throat.

Nate intuitively knows to keep his eyes facing forward on the road the entire drive.

We pull up a few minutes later in front of the Diamond Circle, without a doubt the highest-caliber dining establishment in all of Saintland and many of the surrounding European nations. Ultra-wealthy members of high society come from all over the continent to eat here.

I precede Jessica out of the car; she steps out gracefully, only looking a little surprised when cameras start flashing.

I slip her hand into my elbow and pat it, leaning down to speak softly in her ear. “I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you for the press on the way over—it slipped my mind.”

She beams up at me, her cheeks a little flushed, and I know her panties must be soaked already. “I can’t imagine how you could have forgotten.” Then, because she continually finds ways to surprise me, she turns and gives the photographers standing in a group next to the red carpet runner leading into the building a little wave. They go wild, whistling and calling out questions, which she ignores.

Once we’re inside, being led to our table by a uniformed waiter, I say in a low voice, “So you’ve encountered the press before?”

“I should have mentioned it,” she says casually. “Our mutual friend Christian has been known to attract some attention from time to time.”

A woman who can handle media attention with grace. Damn. The more I learn about Jessica, the more perfect she seems.

As we make our way through the restaurant to the best table in the house, I pause every few steps to nod in greeting to one citizen or another. As we move through the tables, I notice there’s a wavelike hitch in the conversation. The citizens of Saintland want to remain casual in my presence, but they’re a little starstruck, too—likely by Jessica and not me.

The waiters begin their dance, bringing sparkling glasses of wine and plate after plate of delicacies, and Jessica delights in it all. It doesn’t take long for us to run out of small talk, but there’s something I’m dying to know before this budding relationship goes any further.

“Jessica,” I say, and she finishes a bite of scallop and looks up at me, her eyes glittering with happiness in the candlelight.

“Yes, Prince Alexander?” She giggles a little after she says it, and I can’t blame her. It must seem so strange to an American to have fucked a member of royalty.

“What made you reconsider?”

“Reconsider what?”

“Your no-strings and one date policy.”

She puts down her fork, her face turning serious, and then she glances around to make sure no one is within earshot. After taking a deep breath, she speaks. “That…that’s a rule I set for myself after a bad experience I had with a guy.”

I notice the worried reaction in her eyes, and I reach for her hand, covering it with mine. “You don’t have to—.”

“No. No, we’ve come all this way—.” She looks to the side and bites at the inside of her cheek. After a moment she looks me straight in the eye. “I was in a relationship for two years with a man named Michael. He was…he wasn’t a good man, and he had a lot of anger issues. He was volatile and vindictive and awful, and I stayed with him because I was afraid of starting over. I don’t know why. Shit, I—” She censors herself, glancing around at the dining room. ”I’ve always made a point of being independent. The moment I feel something’s wrong in my life, I make a plan to change it. But with him…” Her voice trails off, and she looks down at her plate again. I notice she is trying not to let me see her tremble. “He terrified me, but he also made it seem like leaving him would be a fatal mistake.”