Kiss the Girl (Naughty Princess Club 3)

“Am I on fucking speakerphone?!”

“We’re on our way to a job, remember? You put it on our calendar. A double birthday party,” Cindy says with a sigh. “And that’s not really the important thing here. You and Eric have done all of those things. Look at you being a cute and girly with a boyfriend.”

“Say that again and I will end you.”

Shit. I am a total girl.

“Anyway,” I continue. “We haven’t done everything on your stupid Cosmo list. I haven’t taken care of him. I’m not going to be some guy’s mother. I’m not taking care of any man. And we haven’t even talked. I mean, not really. Not about anything important. I don’t even know how many skanks he’s slept with,” I continue.

“Do you really want to know how many women he’s slept with? That conversation never ends well,” Belle says.

“Fine. No, I don’t want to know that, but still . . . We don’t do deep discussions. We joke, we eat some food together, we watch Netflix, and we haven’t even gotten to the chill part yet,” I remind her—really, really wanting to get to that chill part soon.

“So, have a deep discussion. Open up to him. You like him and he likes you. You’re dating. Time to step it up and stop being such a pussy,” Cindy orders.

“We’re not dating. We’re . . . hanging out.”

“I’m just saying, you’re scooping his cat’s shit,” Cindy reminds me.

“So?”

She sighs. “So, you hate cats. And up until recently you hated Eric. You wouldn’t even do something like that for me.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. If you started shitting in a litter box we wouldn’t be friends,” I deadpan.

“All right, we just pulled in to the party. Talk to Eric,” she says softly.

“Fine. We’ll see. I’m not making any promises. Also, check the calendar when you’re finished. I just got in two last-minute bookings for this weekend and added one to each of your schedules.”

I hear Belle groan.

“I love you, Ariel, but can you please start stripping? I need a day off. Vincent and I have only had sex five times this week.”

“It’s only Wednesday,” I mutter.

“Exactly.”

“Soon, I promise,” I tell her, hearing Eric’s footsteps on the stairs and feeling more than a little guilty that my friends are stressed because of me. “I gotta go. Text me and let me know how the party goes.”

I disconnect the call and scoop Derrick up in my arms, walking through the living room to greet Eric.

Jesus H, just throw a frilly apron on me and give me a martini to hand to him, and I’ll be in hell.

My irritation vanishes as soon as I see him emerge from the stairs. Not even the conversation I just had with my friends, or the texts and phone calls I’m still getting from Sebastian every day that I’ve been ignoring, can ruin the thrill that goes through me every time I see Eric. I swear, he looks hotter each time. Maybe it’s because I know what his hands feel like on my body now, and how his lips feel on my skin, and what he sounds like when he comes.

Fuck talking—we need to Netflix and chill STAT.

“What are you doing back so early? I thought you were going to be gone all day,” I say as he stalks across the carpet without answering me, grabs my face in his hands, and kisses the hell out of me. He plunges his tongue into my mouth and kisses me like he hasn’t seen me for days. I move closer to him, wanting to feel his body pressed to mine as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, when a loud yowl sounds from between us.

Eric and I quickly break apart, and I look down guiltily at Derrick, who I forgot was still in my arms.

“Sorry about that, buddy,” I say, scratching behind his ears so he’ll forgive me and not come over to my boat in the middle of the night and try to eat my face.

“Did you buy him a sweater?” Eric asks in surprise, taking Derrick out of my arms and turning him around, laughing when he sees what it says.

Derrick lets out a low, keening meow, smacking his paw as hard as possible against Eric’s hand, leaving a bloody scratch behind.

“Son of a bitch!” Eric shouts, putting Derrick down on the floor.

The both stare at each other in anger for a few seconds before Derrick saunters off, probably to go lick his balls somewhere.

“It’s not you. I think he’s still a little salty about the sweater,” I tell Eric, wrapping my hand around his wrist and dragging him into the kitchen.

Turning the faucet on, I let it run for a few seconds until it gets warm, then pull his hand under the water. Squirting some soap into my palm, I gently rub it over the scratch to clean off the blood and whatever nastiness Derrick might have stuck in his claws, then rinsing it off. Grabbing the towel I left on the counter when I washed my hands a little bit ago, I pat it over the top of his hand to dry it off.