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She’s a fucking goddess. The urge to stroke my cock is so fucking intense that I might have to sit on my hands to keep them still. But I also might need to keep them in my lap to prevent my zipper from busting open.
One of the only drawbacks of being so well endowed.
Vivienne pauses for a moment in front of her reflection, giving me one last look at her heavenly body before she takes my shirt off its hanger. Then she dresses herself slowly, leaving the collar turned up and a few buttons undone at the top like she’s just gotten out of bed. It’s so fucking sexy.
I wonder if she knows that I can see her nipples through the white fabric of the shirt. She runs her hands over her breasts, plumps them with her hands, and smiles at my reflection.
Yes—like the fucking minx she is—she does know, and I don’t think she minds one bit.
“I’m done now. You can turn around,” she says in a professional tone.
It’s not what I would’ve expected from a woman who just stripped naked in front of a stranger. But I’ll keep her secret; we both know that’s she affected. Her self-control is admirable though.
Compliantly, I swivel in my chair to face her. “So, love—to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“My company?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not here to keep you company; I’m here to fix your public image. Your advisors have hired me to turn the Prince of Debauchery into the King of Propriety.”
Is she really trying to do business with me? After that peep show, and dressed like that? Damn, this woman is shameless.
“I would much prefer to be called the King of Kink,” I scoff. “The alliteration makes the name so much catchier, don’t you think?”
She slaps her forehead. “See? You’re already doing the media’s job for them. I think that’s been your problem all along.”
“What do you mean?”
I cross my arms and scowl at her to indicate that the question is rhetorical. I don’t need her fucking opinion.
“Let me show you,” she says, ignoring my social cues.
She takes a magazine article out of her purse. I can see that it’s dated five years ago—a very good year.
She reads aloud, “‘Meet Prince David: six-feet and five inches tall and twelve inches long. Our sources tell us that he’s the standard by which all other royals are measured.’”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a very positive review of my services. And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s all true.”
“Yes, but how does the writer know you have twelve inches?” Vivienne asks, and I notice she isn’t disagreeing with me.
“When I first read this article,” she continues, “I suspected that an ex-lover was leaking personal information about you to the press. I came prepared to scroll through your contact list and find the little tart who did this to you.”
She steps closer to me, and my heart beats faster. “But now that I’ve met you, I know exactly who did this.”
She reaches down and taps me ever so gently on the tent pole inside my pants
Fuck, that feels good. I was thinking of putting a book in my lap when I first turned around, but now I am so glad I didn’t.
“Reporters are like generals,” Vivienne explains. “You can’t go around waving your sword in people’s faces; if you want to avoid a war, you must keep the contents of your arsenal to yourself.”
“So…what does that fucking mean? I have to keep it in my pants forever? Pretend to be the Virgin King?”
“That’s a much better moniker than the one you currently have,” she retorts.
“You’re hearing insults where none are intended. My debauchery is part of my charm.”
Vivienne narrows her eyes. “Until it isn’t.”
“How so?”
I can tell I’m going to hear her opinion whether I want it or not.
