Natalie Vs. Prince

Without saying another word, I turn on my heels and storm off.

3

Connor

I slide my keycard against the slit and, after hearing the familiar metallic clink of the lock turning, I push the door open and step inside my apartment. And when I say my apartment, I really mean my fucking apartment. Even though the D’Avington royal family has an apartment at the Time Warner Center, I privately own this one in the Dakota building. I always preferred the Upper West Side and, besides, I like my own space like I like my women—always available.

“Fuck,” I groan as I look at the time in my cellphone and, with the back of my other hand, wipe the sweat from my brow. It’s only 8 am; can you fucking believe it? Yeah, that’s right, today I woke up at six in the morning. What the fuck’s wrong with me, right? I managed to roll out of the bed before the sun had even risen, and that’s a pretty huge thing if you take into consideration that’s the time I usually get home from a night out (and, well, I go out pretty much every night).

If you’re wondering how the fuck I managed to go to bed sober and alone last night, don’t worry. I’m wondering the same. But that’s exactly what I did, and as a consequence I woke up at six in the morning. A quarter past five and I was already at the gym, clocking in 5k on the treadmill before hitting the weights. I wonder what Natalie would think if she saw me acting all responsible and shit. She might think that I’m a loser, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth. She doesn’t really know me … yet.

Speaking of Natalie, it’s almost time for our scheduled meeting. I take my shirt off and cross the living room, turning on the intercom by the door and pressing the button that connects me to the doorman.

“Yes, sir?” The voice from the almost retired doorman, Anthony, comes from the speaker, and I clear my throat before speaking.

“Anthony, I’m going to have a visitor. You can let her come up right away. Her name is Natalie, and she works for Gage Price.”

“The usual discretion, sir?” he asks me, and I can almost sense the grin in the old bastard’s face. Good ol’ Anthony, always the discrete one. Every time I come to New York, I rely on him to get women out of my fucking apartment without the whole world hearing about it. He’s saved my ass from the media quite a few times. Too bad he refuses to come work for me; he’s been working at the Dakota for almost thirty years now, and he refuses to be “disloyal to his employers,” as he puts it.

“No, there’s no need. It’s strictly business,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

“No problem, sir,” he says, and I press one button to end the call. I check the time one more time and head straight for the bathroom. I undress, place all my sweat-drenched clothes in the laundry basket and finally step inside the wide shower stall. I turn the faucet on and, a few seconds after the water starts running, a cloud of steam starts to rise in the air. I groan as I step under the hot water, my tense muscles relaxing from the workout.

Fuck, I really hit the weights hard today. Every fucking time I thought of Natalie it seemed as if I gained access to a hidden reservoir of strength. I don’t know what the fuck it is about her but… Okay, okay, I know what it is about her, I’m not going to lie to you.

When I first laid eyes on her, I knew I was standing in front of a woman different from all others. Her blonde hair spilled across her shoulders and, even though she was wearing a simple formal black dress, she looked fucking stunning. Let me be honest; I fucking devoured her with my eyes. I imagined what it would be like to slide my fingers up her leg, toward the hem of her dress, and then further up… I imagined the curves of her body, and the way her smooth skin would feel under my fingertips. And her lips, Jesus fucking Christ, they were ripe for kissing.

Fuck, thinking of her is getting my blood pressure up. My heart is racing and I can’t stop myself. I take one hand down my stomach and grab my twelve-inches of cock. I start moving my hand up and down my shaft, my cock hardening against my fingers until it becomes as solid as fucking concrete.

Now, I must tell you something: I think this is the first time in months that I fucking jerk off. I don’t really need to fucking do it, you know? There’s always someone willing to lend a hand… and then some. But, right now, I don’t think that any woman in the world would help to ease the fucking pressure. Unless we’re talking about Natalie, that is. Sweet Natalie… The way her name echoes inside of my head makes me close my eyes, and I let my imagination run fucking wild.

In my mind’s eye I can see her naked body, her hard nipples aching for my touch as I lean in to kiss her. I imagine how it would feel to press my body against hers, to hold her in my arms as she parts her legs and I slide one hand between her thighs…

“OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” I open my eyes as a feminine voice cuts through the fog of my imagination and snaps me back to reality. She’s standing in the middle of the bathroom, shrouded in steam, and I just look at her wordlessly. Yeah, if you’re wondering, I’m talking about Natalie.

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.

4

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.