The Prince and the Player

“So about the Paris Hotel… Do you have a standing reservation? Should I ask for The Playboy Prince Suite?”

“I wish. It’s more a byproduct of having an owner’s share. We get amazing rates.”

“Your family owns the hotel?” We emerge from the garden path, and the full façade of the enormous building comes into view. My mouth drops open, and I stop walking.

“Wow,” I whisper.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

I follow him up the stairs to the ornate, dark-wood entrance of the elaborate hotel. Inside it’s decorated to match the casino, with blue Persian rugs and tall, white ceilings covered in statues and scrollwork.

Cal goes straight to the desk, where the attendant recognizes him at once. “Your majesty.” He does a little bow, and Cal only waves.

“Is the Garnier suite available?”

“Ahh,” the man whispers, leaning forward, “I’m afraid not. Your brother—”

“Right, nevermind. How about 3-2-1?”

“Of course. One moment, sir.”

The card is passed across the desk, and Cal pulls me to him, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we walk to the elevator. “You’ll like this one. It’s all the way at the top and lots of champagne.”

He kisses my temple, and I laugh.

“How is it at the top when it’s numbered 321?”

A momentary pause, then he seems to understand. “No, it’s a countdown. Three, two, one. The theme actually changes quarterly, depending on the sponsor.”

“Sounds like you stay here a lot.”

“When Rowan is in the Grand Prix, it’s the best place for watching the race. Otherwise the traffic is prohibitive.”

The elevator is all mirrors and gleaming, dark wood. Once we’re inside, he slides his card before hitting the button for the top floor. The doors close, and he pulls my arm, positioning me between his body and the mirrored wall.

“Feeling better?” Hazel eyes hold mine a moment.

I trace a finger along the line of his jaw, thinking how this might be the last time we’re together. It’s a sad thought, I decide to put out of my head.

“Yes,” I say softly, and in that moment, the space between us disappears.

His mouth is on mine, pushing my lips apart. A little whimper squeaks from my throat as our tongues curl against each other’s. I have to hold the lapels of his coat to keep from sliding down the cool wall in a puddle. Warm hands are again on the bare skin of my waist, but this time, his thumbs slide to the front of my dress, teasing the skin on my stomach. I groan as the bell rings, and the elevator stops.

“I’m ready to get you out of that dress,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me out of the shiny, mi

rrored box to the gleaming entrance of the suite.

“Dom Pérignon?” I read on the plaque above the numbers 3-2-1!

“I told you,” he slides the card and the door opens. “Lots of champagne.”

We stop just inside the door for another kiss, and as it closes, I feel his fingers working behind my neck, sliding the zipper down the back of my dress. His lips chase mine, and my top falls to my waist, revealing the pink satin demi-bra that only covers the lower half of my breasts. My nipples play peek-a-boo over the tops of the lace edges.

“Jesus, it just gets better,” he groans deeply, leaning down to cup the bottom of one and pull my beaded nipple between his lips, soaking the lace.

The sensation registers directly between my thighs, and I let out a little moan, threading my fingers into the sides of his hair.

“Cal,” I gasp. “You’re getting my bra all wet.”