Executive Engagement

I know they're staring at my jaw. My royal fucking jawline. With my dimples. My icy blue eyes. My tousled hair.

My mates are doing their best to be the peacock, strutting and swaggering their way up the line, making their way for the fucking door. But I know that of the lot, I’m the only royal alpha male.

"Boys, this looks ridiculous," I tell them. "I’m a fucking Prince – we can get in whenever the fuck we want. It's not a big deal that we're skipping the line. We don't have to make a big show of it. People are going to laugh at us."

I'm just looking out for them. I give fuck all if anyone laughs at me. I'll just screw their wife on their bed while they're laughing at me.

I walk through the doors and look at my mates behind me. The boys didn't listen and I realize that maybe I have it too easy - with my looks, my cash, my title. Because what I thought is ridiculous is actually working. They're picking up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that are waiting in line.

I shake my head to myself. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get. Trying to emulate the hookers and the porn stars that they think all the blokes are after. Trying to shuck themselves silly. At least onto me.

I wonder how many of the boys will actually make it into the club and how many will decide to just quit while they're ahead and take these girls home.

Night ending before it even begins.

So much for fucking friendship, huh? After I gave you that giant spiel a few minutes ago about how they have my back and I have theirs, I’m realizing that not all of them may even make it into the club. They just wanted to come with me for the celebrity I afforded them.

Fuck, why am I thinking like this all of a sudden?

I’m just going to enjoy tonight, and try not to fucking think about Daphne. And if at the end of the night I want to fuck, I'm sure there'll be plenty of options.

Not that there aren't already.

Remember how I told you that the plan was working for my mates? Getting out of the Bentley limo early and walking down the street to the club before the bouncer let us in? Well, if they were at

tracting one or two girls, I've attracted at least five.

A fucking gaggle.

They're cute - I won't deny that. But guess who’s in my head? Fucking right.

I need a drink.

Scotch whiskey for me. I order a bottle. $4,000. Only the top shelf liquor for me. And by top shelf, I mean a shelf high enough that only I can reach.

The girls coo with delight as I order, but all I think is how this means so little to Daphne. She doesn’t give two shits that I’m a fucking Prince.

I mean, I’m fucking global, mate. Heir to a First World European island nation, the financial hub of Western Europe.

My face is splashed across the TV screens, newspapers, and tabloids - looking down on at least 4 billion people.

But that wasn’t enough for Daphne tonight.

I sigh as the girls sit down in the VIP section. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. Maybe one of these girls will have something smart going on in their heads. Something that distracts me from thinking of the curves on Daphne, or that beautiful smile of hers, or those soft, wide, innocent looking eyes.

"Well, well, well, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "Who may you be?"

"I'm Carrie," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.

"I'm Anna," next to her.

"I'm Anya," her friend says.

"I'm Dee," one on my left chimes.

"I'm Candy," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back either. "I give good head."

Fuck me. Whatever happened to fucking small talk?