Fuck.
I didn’t expect her to be this fucking early and, of course, I also didn’t expect her to catch me red-handed in the shower. But what the fuck, it’s only a leap from imagination to reality, and I’m more than willing to make the fucking jump.
110
Natalie
“Good morning,” I tell the doorman (Anthony, or so it says on his name plate) as I lean into the small window of his booth. “My name is Natalie and I work for Gage --”
“Oh, Prince D’Avington told me to expect you. You can go right up,” he tells me with a quizzical smile, pressing a button on his small desk. The double iron gates that lead into the Dakota courtyard turns their hinges and, when they are wide open, I walk inside after mouthing a thank you toward the white-haired doorman.
As I walk toward the courtyard, I realize that I’m stepping inside a world where few have been. I know, the Dakota is one of most iconic apartment buildings in New York, but its interior remains a mystery to most regular human beings. Only the most rich and famous get to live in these apartments and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not part of that group. Unless having enough money to buy a second-hand iPhone counts as being rich, I mean. Guess not, uh? And my claim to fame isn’t much better; the only place where I’m famous is at my local Starbucks, and that’s because I practically lived there when I was writing my master’s thesis. Oh, yeah, and I’m not a princess. I guess I didn’t win the genetic lottery (or the regular one at that).
In the middle of the courtyard there’s a small garden paved with red bricks, and two small fountains flanking a square of green plans. The building itself towers over me in all its majesty, making me feel like a wealthy New Yorker from an age gone by. I don’t waste my time appreciating the courtyard or the garden, though. Right now, I’m fully focused on the meeting I’m about to have with the most gorgeous and arrogant man I have ever met. Ahem, sorry about that—I meant to say Prince D’Avington. Although, yeah, I have to admit, he’s as gorgeous as he’s arrogant … and charming too. I don’t know, there’s something about him that makes me feel all like—okay, I’m going to stop now. I’m here because I have a meeting, and I’m going to behave like a real professional. Because, you know, I’m a real professional.
I walk toward his apartment door and, before rapping my knuckles against it, I take a deep breath and straighten the front of my skirt. God, I hope I look pretty enough. I’m wearing my best heels (hey, I might not be rich, but a girl has to splurge on some quality high heels from time to time; it’s just the way things work), a close fitting skirt that stops right before it meets my knee, and a deep red blouse that shows just a glimpse of cleavage. And I spent about an hour in front of the mirror, trying to get my makeup just right. Although I’m not one of these girls born with the natural talent for makeup, I think I’ve done a standup job; my lipstick matches the color of my blouse perfectly, and both my eye shadow and eyeliner seem like the work of a pro.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve dolled myself up for Connor D’Avington, aren’t you? Well, you’re wrong; I just woke up wanting to feel pretty and sexy. Why? Because of reasons, that’s why. I mean, can’t a girl want to feel beautiful without being judged?
I raise my fist, ready to knock on the door, but hesitate at the last moment; I’m half an hour early. But I’m already here, so… I knock twice and then wait, shifting my weight from foot to foot while I take deep breaths. Maybe I should've come on time, like I always do. I mean, that’s the reason I’ve been dubbed Princess Punctuality back at the office; I’m always on time, not a minute later, not a minute earlier. So why am I this early today? No, it has nothing to do with the fact that I was more anxious than normal about this meeting, or about the fact that I spent the whole night dreaming of… Well, that’s private. No, I just came earlier because I want it to go well. I will prepare my laptop and folders in advance, and I also want to apologize to the Prince. I mean, I was a bit of an ass toward him, wasn’t I? Sure, he seems like a complete asshole, but it’s not like I really know him. Besides, it wasn’t my place to criticize him back at the UN.
I knock again, wondering if he’s still asleep (probably drunk as… well, as a D’Avington) or if he bailed out on me and left the apartment, but when my fist hits the door it swings back on its hinges. I stand there in place, my heart kicking against my chest as I look into the deserted living room in front of me.
“Hello?” I ask shyly, straightening the front of my skirt once more. “I’m coming in,” I finally announce, taking one step inside and closing the door behind me. “Mr. D’Avington?” I call after him, trying to be as professional as I can be (while sneaking into someone’s house half an hour before the scheduled time, that is).
There’s no answer, so I just throw my laptop and purse on the couch in the middle of the living room, and take a look around. Even though the apartment seems small, it’s furbished like a palace, which, really, makes sense. I
mean, he’s a prince.
The kitchen and the living room share the same space, adding a more modern, open concept look to the whole apartment. The furniture has a classic look to it, and there’s even an upright piano sitting against one of the walls.
I hear something at the end of the corridor, a steady hum, and I take one step toward the sound before I stop dead in my tracks. Am I really going to snoop around inside Connor’s apartment? I know I shouldn’t, but my feet carry me down the corridor all the same. I open a door and step into what seems like Connor’s bedroom; it has a more modern look than the rest of the apartment, but it still looks royal enough. My eyes go straight for the bed in the middle of the room, large enough for more than five people, and I can’t help but wonder how many girls have slept (yeah, slept, right) there.
“Connor?” I call again, dropping all formality. The sound comes from inside a smaller room inside his bedroom, and it seems like running water. Maybe he’s taking a shower? But if so, he’d have answered me by now. Oh, God, what if he passed out? What if he slipped on the floor and bashed his head against the wall? Christ, I need to get there now!
I take two wide strides toward the door and, grabbing at the handle, push it open. My heart is racing, and I feel dizzy as I prepare myself to see him sprawled on the floor, blood dripping from his open skull.
Well, that’s not what I see.
The room is covered in steam, but I can still see Connor’s naked body through the glass walls of the shower. He’s completely naked, eyes closed and head thrown back. His cock is hard and—oh Goh oh God oh God—it’s massive. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It must be, like, twelve inches long! And, the real kicker: he’s stroking himself. Yes, you read that right.
So, facing this awkward situation head on, I do the only sensible thing a professional woman can do: I scream.
“OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” I cry out, and Connor opens his eyes and looks straight at me, his gigantic cock still in his hand. He remains like that for what seems like an eternity, his eyes locked on mine, but then a smile dances on his lips.
“You’re early,” he tells me, stepping out of the shower. I open my mouth to say something, but I just can’t. I mean, I can barely think straight. Just look at his muscles! The man is perfect! And his cock, oh God, his cock… “So,” he continues, talking to me as if he isn’t completely naked and hard, “what do you want to do until the meeting?”
The way his eyes seem to shine tells me that he knows exactly what we can do.
111
Natalie
I’m lost; I’m doomed. One look into Connor’s eyes and I know there’s no way out from this.
How dare he!
Where is the goddamn professionalism!