The Prince and the Player

“Whiskey sour?”

“Whiskey?” I grin, and she looks embarrassed. “No, I’m impressed by the contradiction.”

“What do you mean?” She flashes me a look, and I notice something I missed before. Ava Wilder is secretly feisty. I’m intrigued.

Stepping to her, I touch her chin with my thumb. “I’d like to know this side of you better.”

Her full lips part, and my dick stirs. I have to grab the reins on my lust. We’re in a public place for god’s sake.

“Come,” I take her hand and escort her to the elaborate bar. Like everything else, it’s adorned in oil paintings, sculptures, and heavy golden accents.

The bartender is with me at once, and I place our orders. Ava stands beside me looking at the frescos on the ceiling. I take the opportunity to look at her beautiful throat and shoulders.

“Your grace.” The bartender places a tall, slender whiskey sour, accented with a cherry and an orange wedge in front of me.

She nods to my plain tumbler of scotch. “It’s so fancy compared to yours.”

I lift it and give her a toast. “To garnish.”

“You don’t have to pay?” she whispers. Her lips lightly touch my ear, and fuck me.

“We have a tab,” I say as I lead her through the salons, through the French doors, and out to the patio. She lifts the cherry out of her glass and slips it between her full lips. Everything this woman does is pure sex.

“If you’re hungry, there are several restaurants…”

“I’m not.” She smiles, turning to scan the garden. “I hope we can see the fountain. Do you think the photographers will be there screaming at us again?”

“I’ll be sure you see the fountain in peace.”

She glances over my shoulder at my omnipresent bodyguards. “I noticed we have company. Can’t they do anything about the paparazzi?”

“Engaging with them only makes it worse, I’m afraid. We do our best to ignore them.”

“In America they hide behind ‘freedom of the press’ laws.” Her voice is angry. “Freedom of the press means we’re prisoners of print.”

“You’re very smart.” She leans against the stone archway of the balcony, and I slide the backs of my fingers down the soft skin of her arm. A gratifying sprinkle of tiny bumps appears in its wake.

“So I’ve been told.”

“And you have no poker face.” I’m reading her hand. Her soft breasts are flushed, and her breathing fast. Leaning closer, I touch her chin. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were at the aquarium.”

“I know.” Her eyes are focused on my shirtfront.

“Look at me,” I order.

She obeys, and when I see the heat in her eyes, it’s all the encouragement I need. I cover her mouth with mine, sliding my hands over her exposed back. With a soft moan, her gorgeous body melts into mine. Her shoulders rise, and the tips of her fingers touch my face. I push her lips apart, tasting her sweet mouth. She’s mint laced with cherries, and every touch, every stroke of our tongues curling together fuels the fire in me.

“I want to make love to you.” My voice is rough and hungry.

“Rowan,” she gasps. “We need to stop. We should talk more.”

I’m chasing her mouth, capturing her full lips, threading my fingers in her silky hair. I’m a junkie, and I’m finally getting the hit I’ve been craving for days. “We can talk later,” I say, claiming her mouth again.

She moans a response, and I know she can feel my arousal. I don’t care. I feel hers in every kiss, every touch. I would take her right here against this stone archway if it weren’t for those fucking bodyguards.

“Let’s go across the street.” I glance up at the guards on duty, pretending not to watch.

“What’s across the street?” she pants, one hand on my neck, the other holding my arm tightly, as if for balance.