Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3) Page 8

  But instead she wanted to stay in and make a roast chicken. With me.

  I drew a breath. It shook a little.

  “You’ll put your tiger on a leash?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Of course. I definitely plan on partaking in some funny business after dinner, so…he’ll need to be restrained, yes.”

  I gripped my phone a little tighter. Fuck.

  I did not fuck my marks.

  “What can I bring?” I asked.

  “Just yourself. And Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  A pause. “You don’t have to be a gentleman with me.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. Curled my fingers into a fist and gave it a tug.

  This girl was trying to kill me.

  Another deep breath. Another pep talk, this one internal.

  I could do both—I could live in my lie while still keeping my head screwed on straight.

  I had to. I had no other choice.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jane

  There was a knock on my door right at seven o’clock. Checking my hair in the mirror, I gave my head a quick shake and smiled. I felt my prettiest just like this. At home, fresh out of the shower, wearing jeans and mascara and a simple tank top. I loved to dress up, don’t get me wrong. But I hated feeling like I was trying too hard.

  Tonight, I wasn’t trying hard at all. I felt comfortable in my skin. Sexy. Probably had something to do with the fact that Charlie seemed to very much appreciate me just being…me. Not the princess. Not the public figure. Just a woman who liked whiskey and blackjack. Who liked to talk and laugh and have a good time with a cute guy on a Friday night.

  I couldn’t wait to fuck that cute guy on a Saturday night. Judging by his kiss—that was usually, though not always, a solid predictor of how a man would be in bed—Charlie was going to be a rock star. Although I had to admit I was still a bit mystified by how he’d pulled away like that. The kiss had been good. Intense.

  Maybe a little too intense.

  My pulse thumped at the memory of it. I needed to be careful with Charlie. He was hot. Kind. He got it. Got me in a way no one had in a long time.

  Just tonight. That’s all I’d give him. We’d hang out, have some dinner, have sex. Then I’d send him on his merry way, and I’d go mine. I’d worked too hard to put myself back together. I didn’t want to risk falling apart over someone again. No matter how handsome that someone was.

  I took a deep breath. Squared my shoulders. Then I opened the door.

  And went into cardiac arrest when Charlie’s blue eyes flicked up to meet mine. He had a bottle of Jameson in one hand, a deck of unopened cards in the other.

  Goddamn him. Of course he’d be thoughtful like that. Cute.

  He was dressed in a plaid collared shirt—similar to the one he’d worn last night, but green this time—buttons undone at the throat to reveal an enticing wedge of chest. Jeans and scuffed up trainers and scruff. His hair was artlessly tousled, the strands burning gold in the intense early evening light.

  He looked like a scruffier James Dean. Half hipster, half Hollywood. All handsome.

  I tightened my grip on the doorknob. I’d never needed a cigarette more in my life.

  His eyes went dark, went a little pained, as they moved over me. My stomach flipped. Was I upsetting him again?

  “You look…” He sputtered. Shook his head. His voice had more gravel to it than usual. “Jesus Christ, Jane, you look fantastic.”

  I looked at Charlie. Looked. Something was going on with him. It was obvious he was waging some kind of internal war—holding back—even though he didn’t need to. I’d told him point blank I wanted him. He wanted me, too.

  So why the struggle? Maybe he was just nervous. I was, too, if I was being honest. The good kind of nervous. The kind that came from wondering how we could possibly top last night.

  The kind that came from knowing we’d be naked in an hour or two. Maybe less.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I replied, a little flirty. Trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t want to do deep. Not with anyone. Least of all someone as delicious as Charlie.

  He shook his head again. “It’s not. You look great. I like you dressed down like this.”

  I grinned. Nodded at his bared chest. “I like the chest hair.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Took me thirty four years to grow it, so. Figured I should show it off.”

  “I’m enjoying the view.” I stepped inside, pulling the door open a little further. “Come in, please.”

  He hesitated for half a second. His eyes were on me again. They went a little hazy. My pulse went a little faster.

  Then Charlie blinked, and his eyes snapped back into focus. He stepped up, stepped inside. Now that I was barefoot, he seemed so much taller than me. So much bigger. A frisson of anticipation shot up my spine. His physicality—his maleness—it scared me a little.

  It turned me on.

  He ducked his head and pressed a kiss to my cheek. Even this kiss was delicious. Soft. Deliberate. His scruff felt prickly against my skin.

  He smelled so. Damn. Good. Like sandalwood and spice and soap.

  Heaviness gathered low in my belly. An instant, slow, eviscerating pulse. I sucked a small breath through my teeth.

  Charlie immediately pulled back, eyes clear with concern.

  “Did my scruff get you?” he asked, moving the deck of cards to the same hand that held the Jameson so he could smooth the offending facial hair with the other.

  I shook my head. Looked away. “No. No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I reached for the whiskey. “I told you not to bring anything.”

  Charlie held up the cards. “Thought you’d like to have this stuff on hand. So you could, I don’t know—ply your guests with whiskey, then steal all their money playing blackjack. Because you’re scary good at that game.”

  I didn’t want to smile this hard. I didn’t want to think this was the cutest thing ever.

  I didn’t want to keep liking Charlie. I wish he’d stop already—making me like him. Pressing all the right buttons.

  The sooner I got this guy in bed—the less we talked—the better.

  “You’re sweet. Thank you,” I said. I nodded toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s about ready. What can I get you to drink?”

  Charlie picked up the bottle of chardonnay between us. Raised his brows in silent question.

  I held out my glass. We’d just finished dinner out in the garden. Charlie sat across from me at the rustic farm table strewn with empty plates and a picked over chicken. A pergola of sweet-smelling wisteria arched above us, dappling the soft light that filtered through from a wide open sky. This time of year, it didn’t get dark in London until well past ten o’clock at night.

  The air was soft. Warm without being humid. A rare, perfect summer evening.

  Maybe that explained why my blood was dancing. Couldn’t be the chardonnay. This was only my second glass.

  Or maybe it was the way Charlie was looking at me as he poured wine into my glass. His eyes were playful. Alive. Aroused, too. Just like I was.

  “Honestly. Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked, setting the bottle on the table.

  I grinned. “What do you mean?”

  “You can shoot whiskey. Crush blackjack. You kiss like a motherfucker. And now I know you can roast the hell out of a chicken, too. Here I was, thinking princesses were only good at waving and sipping tea.” He shook his head in mock disgust. “God, I really was a douchebag.”

  My blood danced a little faster at the mention of the kiss.

  I looked down at my wine. I wanted to hate his thoughtfulness. But I couldn’t. Everything was so easy with him. Conversation. Kissing. Confessions.

  “I thought that for a while, too,” I said.

  “What?” He swallowed a sip of wine. “That I was a douche?”

  “Well, yeah. When we first met at least.” He laughed. I d
id, too. “But no, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about me being that perfect princess. For a long time, I thought I had to be that person, especially when I was with my ex. He wanted me to be more polished. More…regal. Remote.”

  “So more douchey, basically,” Charlie said with a smile.

  I smiled back. “Basically. But no matter how hard I tried—and I tried bloody hard—I just couldn’t be his version of a princess. Deep down, that wasn’t who I was. Over the past couple years, I’ve discovered there’s more to me than that.”

  Charlie’s gaze softened. “Funny how everyone’s so quick to judge you for what you are. So quick to—”

  “Pigeon hole you.” I couldn’t resist finishing his thought. I’d had it so often myself.

  “Yes.” He kept looking at me. “When really they have no idea who you are.”

  I grinned. “Exactly. Yes.”

  I tilted my head. I was more curious than I should’ve been about how Charlie’d come across that nugget of wisdom. I’d had to fight tooth and nail for it. I was still fighting for it.

  “And who are you?” I said, leaning my arms on the table. “Outside of the obvious—the self-made billionaire from the Bay Area.”

  Charlie’s eyes bore into mine. They flickered with uncertainty.

  A beat of silence stretched between us. It was almost uncomfortable.

  Then his mouth moved into a grin. “I’m just a guy who’s honored to have the privilege of meeting you. The real you. Not just the princess.”

  Bloody hell. Did he have to be so perfect?

  He was too good at this. Too good at me.

  Which meant it was time to steer the evening in a different direction. Sex I could do. It allowed me to keep a safe distance. I could do physical. It was the emotional stuff that tripped me up.

  I refused to let a man trip me up again.

  “So first-date sex is a no-no in your gentleman’s handbook,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “But what about second-date sex?”

  His eyes flicked to meet mine. He looked—

  I couldn’t tell how he looked. Scared? Turned on? Conflicted? This struggle of his—what the hell was it about?

  I noticed his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass. The knuckles were white.

  “I thought we’d agreed to take things slow.”

  “We agreed to a compromise,” I said. My heart skipped a beat. “Look, if you don’t want to, just tell me—”

  “I want to, Jane, believe me,” he replied, scoffing roughly. “But I also want to do the right thing.”

  I pulled back, confused. “Do the right thing? What’s wrong about having consensual sex with a woman who wants you?”

  Those blue eyes went fiery.

  A pause.

  Then: “Tell me why you want me.”

  The entire universe seemed to contract into the space between us.

  “Because.” I swallowed. Heat pooled between my legs. “I think you’re sexy. Kind. Funny. And you have brilliant taste in whiskey.”

  “You can have sex with anyone you want, Jane. Why me?”

  I blinked. He was really pushing me. Pushing me to go deeper. Think harder. Be honest.

  Wrong that I liked to be pushed toward those things? My ex—he’d pushed me to be someone I wasn’t. He only cared to hear the truth when it fit his worldview.

  But Charlie wanted the truth, whether it served him or not.

  “It’s been a while,” I said slowly. Choosing each word carefully. “Since I felt a connection like this, I mean. And that connection—it usually leads to a physical connection that’s out of this world, you know? It’s been so long since I had decent sex, Charlie. So. Bloody. Long. And I have a feeling you’d be decent at it.”

  His nostrils flared.

  “I’d be better than that,” he said after a beat.

  The desire between my legs pulsed. My eyes moved to his mouth. That mouth. Perfect, expressive, pillowy lips. White teeth. A tongue that had worked wonders last night.

  “Is that a yes?” I said, suddenly breathless.

  He looked at me for another beat. Then another.

  “I want you to know that I tried to do the right thing, Jane,” he said at last.

  I blinked. What the hell did that mean?

  “What if the right thing is fucking me as well and as hard as you can? We barely know each other,” I said. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. What I really need. So I’m telling you what I need, Charlie. Fuck me. Please.”

  We looked at each other. And looked. The air blooming with sexual tension.

  “All right,” he said on an exhale.

  I set my glass on the table. He did the same, settling his palms on either side of it.

  We moved to our feet at the same time, chairs scraping against the brick pavers.

  Charlie started gathering the plates.

  “Leave it,” I said.

  He paused. “You sure?”

  The question hung in the space between us. Yes. No.

  “I’m sure,” I said. Then I grabbed his hand and led him inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlie

  My head—my whole body—it felt like a giant echo chamber as I followed Jane upstairs.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  Give her what she wants.

  Don’t break your rules.

  She needs this. You need that money.

  Stop before you go too far.

  Live in your lie.

  It seemed like faulty math—that by fucking Jane I was helping, rather than hurting, her. But I needed this con to work. And to do that, I had to keep Jane happy. Give her what she wanted.

  If she wanted sex, then that’s what she’d get. Even if it meant breaking my rules. Nothing about this job—this girl—was typical. Normal. It was all new with her. I had to think on my feet. Learn as I went along.

  I also had to get in her bedroom, where the Warhol was.

  We climbed the stairs, then hung a right down a short hallway. Her room was the first door on the left. It was like the rest of her apartment: a little cluttered, comfortable. There was nothing stiff or showoff-y about it. It was homey. Her.

  The one exception, of course, was the painting that hung above her dresser.

  The painting. The Warhol. The golden ticket. My freedom.

  My stomach dipped as I took in the pop-art portrait of Princess Grace. The colors were striking: neon yellow and blue, reds and pinks that were electric. Almost as striking as Grace’s expression. The look in her eyes, heightened by a scribble of blue in her irises, was alive. Knowing.

  For something so valuable, the painting was small. Hardly bigger than a record album cover. It was unframed—lucky break. The smaller and less bulky it was, the easier it’d be to smuggle off the palace grounds.

  “You a Warhol fan?” Jane asked, appearing at my elbow. She tugged at the top drawer of the dresser. It opened with a grating wheeze.

  “I am,” I replied. “I’ve never seen this one, though. You have a thing for other princesses?”

  “Honestly?” Jane furrowed her brow as she dug through the drawer. “I chose it because it’s a reminder of how not to be a princess. Grace was always so perfect. So put together. Dutiful wife. Dedicated mother. But I get the distinct impression she wasn’t very happy. Or very fulfilled. In my mind, at least, I imagined she had to sacrifice her true self to be a princess. And that’s a sacrifice I don’t want to make if I don’t have to.”

  I nodded. “So she’s a reminder to follow your passion. To be yourself, even if that person isn’t what people expect for a member of the royal family.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ever consider maybe she didn’t have the same opportunities you do now?” I said. “Times were different back then.”

  “Of course. I’m massively lucky I was born when I was. The rules for royalty are still strict. But they were much stricter when Grace was on the throne.” Jane dug out a sleeve o
f condoms and tore off the top one. She shrugged. “She’s still a good reminder to be myself.”

  I took the sleeve. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she wanted me to fuck her like she said she did—

  “C’mon, Jane. We’re going to need more than one.”

  “Awfully presumptuous of you,” she said, teasing.

  Her lips tugged into a grin. They were bright pink. Made me wonder what color pink she was between her legs. Electric, if I had to guess, like the pink in the painting.

  I drew a ragged breath through my nose.

  I turned to her. Jane looked so damn good tonight. She’d looked gorgeous at the Ascot, too, in her designer dress and heels. She’d looked great last night as well. But tonight—tonight she looked transcendent. No makeup. Ripped jeans and a tank top. Her hair was tucked behind her bare shoulder, and a simple gold chain hung around her neck.

  Live in your lie. If I was going in, might as well jump in with both feet.

  I shoved the hesitation from my thoughts. Shoved the creeping guilt aside. The doubt.

  An entirely new tidal wave of want rushed into its place. I wanted this to be real. Not a job. Not a con. I wanted this to be really happening—a guy and a girl hitting it off. Having a good time. Falling into bed together.

  I wanted to focus on her. Her pussy. Her cries when she came. Not on that fucking painting.

  My hands were shaking again. I curled them into fists.

  “You okay?” she asked, gaze softening.

  I didn’t have to lie here. I didn’t want to.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” I said.

  Her eyes searched mine. They were lit up from the inside, glowing in the low light of the room. “And you’re fucking shameless.”

  “You’re the one who asked me to stay.”

  Jane’s chest was rising and falling now. She was breathless.