Princely Passions

“Sure,” the probably-still-a-teenager-who-definitely-has-an–overactive-acne-problem girl says with a shrug. “You’ll be in room 315.” She hands me my copy of my receipt and my two room keys.

“Thanks. Oh, and can you send a bellboy up to my room? I have something I need him to do.” Casual. I’m so casual.

I just hope she can’t smell my arousal. I feel like it’s wafting around me, like the perfume of the horny.

“Sure,” she says with another shrug, and picks up the phone to make a call. If she can smell my horny perfume, you sure could fool me. I hurry over to the elevators. I’ve got to beat the bellboy to my room ‘cause I have shit to do before he shows up.

Plus, I need to hurry my ass up, or my daddy is going to get bored and leave. And he can’t get bored; this is about to be a whole lot of fun.

I walk into Room 315, and closing the door behind me, I quickly slide off my thong. Looking around, I spot some hotel stationery on the desk. I grab an envelope and scribble, “Room 315. Come join me for some fun,” on the front, then slide my panties and the keycard inside.

I hear a knock at the door and, quickly licking the envelope closed, I hurry over to the door, opening it to find a bored-looking, slightly-older-than-a-teenager bellman, waiting for me.

“Hey, thanks for coming so quickly,” I say, rummaging through my purse and triumphantly pulling out a twenty. That is grossly overpaying the kid to deliver an envelope, but hell, it’s totally worth it. “I need you to deliver this to a man about 6’2", dark brown hair with silver at the temples, in the Bemelmans Bar immediately. He’s sitting by himself at the table. His name is Dominic Masters.” I shove the envelope and the twenty into his hand. “Really important,” I say, warning him. The last thing I want is for him to wander off and get sidetracked by something or someone else.

I need to get fucked, dammit. I’m not about to allow someone to fuck that up for me … again.

“Oh sure,” he says excitedly, at the sight of the $20 bill. “Right away.”

He hurries away down the hallway and I close the door behind him, leaning up against the closed door with a sigh.

Now, all I can do is wait, and hope that I’m not completely deluding myself about what I saw in my stepdaddy’s eyes.

Because that would be so damn embarrassing if I am.

Oh my god, what if I am?

I start to panic. I grab my cosmo from the dresser top and throw it back, chugging it like a freshman with a beer bong. Once I swallow it all, I sink backwards, down onto the bed.

He war so totally flirting with me. I know he was. There’s no way that he wasn’t.

I close my eyes and breathe in through my mouth and out through my nose. Or, dammit, is it supposed to be in through my nose and out through my mouth? Now I can’t remember.

The alcohol doesn’t seem to be giving me any extra courage, but it sure as fuck is messing with my brain. Ugh.

I kick off my shoes and start to unbutton my shirt to strip, but then realize, what if he came up here after receiving my present just to tell me no? It’d be even more embarrassing if I answered the door naked, only to be patted on the head and told to go run along.

It’s my birthday. Surely, I can’t have two fuck-awful things happen to me in the same day, right? Isn’t there some sort of universe limit on this?

I go into the bathroom and critically eye my outfit, finally deciding on having an extra button undone. It does a nice job of showing off my cleavage, while also not being “OH MY GOD, I’M HERE TO FUCK YOU!” outrageous.

“Daphne,” I tell my reflection, “if he decides not to fuck you, at least you know you probably won’t run into him again. It’s not like he comes to the family reunions or something. And New York City is a very big city.”

Okay, now I just sound like a drunk version of a tourist guide.

Knock knock

I freeze. Is that the doorman, back to tell me that my stepfather told me to fuck off? Or is that my stepfather, just trying to be polite before he opens the door?

I swear to god, I cannot breathe.

38

Dominic

Okay, I know women like to take a while in the bathroom, but this is getting ridiculous. I feel a tap on my shoulder as I wait, increasingly less patiently, for my stepdaughter to reappear. “Sir?”

I turn, seeing a young kid in a too-big bellman’s suit, holding out an envelope for me. “You’re Dominic Masters, right?” he asks.