Dirty Thief

His words twist anger in my chest. “I’m not alienating all of north Africa.” My voice is a growl, my back to him as I consider my allies in Tunis, my father’s allies in Morocco…

Greece and Italy stand between us and the frontlines of unrest, but I’ve experienced first-hand how easily criminals cross borders and make their way to our sparkling shores to wreak havoc.

“Turkey is the obvious choice,” Reggie continues, citing the numerous times that country has sheltered our enemies in the past.

“They also sheltered you in the past,” I note, gazing out the enormous window of the war room at the sun making its way toward the horizon.

As if intuitively knowing I’d had a difficult day, two hours ago my wife texted me, I want to make love in the ocean.

Her words made me smile for the first time all day—since leaving her before dawn asleep in our bed at the palace. I texted back, I’ll be at Occitan by twilight.

With every minute, Hajib brings me closer to that luxurious beach estate where my wife waits for me. The sun dips lower, and all I can think about is her body, her wavy dark hair, her long legs wrapped around my waist…

When my father the king died almost a decade ago, I became the youngest monarch in our tiny, independent nation’s history. I’d been twenty-two at the time, and I didn’t just lose my father, I lost my freedom, my youth. I lost any semblance of a private life I would ever have.

The first five years, I focused on proving my ability to lead. My mother wanted to retire from the monarchy, and she was ready to pass the crown to me. Only our parliament was left to convince, and they’d held my Formula One racing days and history as a bachelor against me. It had taken an assassination attempt and my marriage to the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen to change their minds.

All thanks to my uncle.

Now terrorists from the south threaten our security, and I have to decide the best way to demonstrate our stability without jeopardizing the longstanding relationships I’ve inherited.

“Our forces will work with France,” I say, ready to shelve this matter for the day.

“Our tradition is cooperative independence,” Reggie argues.

“Did I suggest otherwise? Monagasco is safe. I will not succumb to the far-right agenda sweeping the continent.”

The ferocity in my tone curtails further discussion. I’m tired, and my body aches for Ava. Passing a hand over my brow, I exhale deeply.

Reggie is right.

I’ll announce some form of symbolic referendum and smooth the ruffled feathers behind the scenes. Perhaps I’ll call my younger brother Cal up from the Caribbean. He’s always been the velvet glove over my iron fist.

The car slows, and I’m pulled from my turbulent thoughts to the present.

“Would you like to be let out at the front?” Hajib asks.

Good old Odd Job. He’s been driving Cal and me around since we were boys poking fun and nicknaming him after our favorite James Bond villain.

“Yes,” I say, and the car slows to a stop.

The air is heavy with humidity when I step out onto the pea gravel. The sky is a brilliant mixture of reds, pinks, blues, and purple. It only holds me a moment before I head inside, taking the steps two at a time and pushing through the wide front door.

We’re safe from everything at Occitan—paparazzi, reporters, prying eyes. It’s the one place we can breathe. I cross the wide-plank wood floors not even noticing the quiet staff doing whatever they do in the small rooms. A large staircase spills out to the first floor, and again, I take the stairs two at a time. Our master suite is in the back corner of the second level.

Pushing the door open, heavy salt breezes slide past my cheek. The room is dimly lit. The French doors are open, allowing the sea breezes to fill the sitting area, and across, standing at the fireplace and facing the mantle, her back to me, is my gorgeous wife.

Her body visibly reacts to the sound of me entering the room. Her chin lifts, and she looks over her shoulder. The stress of the day still weighs heavy on my mind, but the sight of her relocates my tension from above to below my waist.

Ava pivots to the side, and I see she’s wearing a sheer black cami with thin spaghetti straps. Her small breasts rise and fall, tight nipples lifting with every inhale, and my scalp tightens. I want to devour them.

My coat is off, followed by my tie. In one swift move, I unfasten the buttons of my dress shirt as my eyes travel down the length of her body. They tangle at the profile of her ass, the soft swell peeking from under her cropped top. Her thong panties follow a line over her hipbone, and she’s standing barefoot in sheer black hose. They’re held up by a wide band of black lace connected with narrow straps to a black garter belt.

“Ava…” My desire escapes on a hot exhale. “You’re amazing.”

Her body relaxes, catlike, and she lowers her chin, meeting my eyes this time. Dark lashes are thick over an ocean of emerald green and blue. It tightens my stomach.

“Welcome home, your majesty.” Her voice is a purr.