Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
“Still want to be someone different for the night, Princess?”
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips as her eyes darted across mine. A second ticked by, my hand tightened on her hip. And slowly, she nodded.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, I think I do.”
I turned and nodded at the bar we’d been standing outside of — some sort of Parisian version of a Mexican tequila spot with a two for one special banner in the window.
She bit her lip. “Oh, I don’t really do teq—”
“Yeah but you’re not you tonight.” I grinned at her. “Right?”
A small smile crept over her face. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, then in we go.”
It all gets fuzzy from there. Fuzzy, close, kissing, tattooed, a couple of “I do’s,” and a whole bunch of naked from there. And the next thing I know, I’m waking up to the girl of my dreams storming out of my hotel room, leaving me wanting more, leaving me with one very hard cock, and leaving me a married Prince without his bride.
…Oh, but I was going to get her back.
Chapter 4
Faith
Shit.
Double triple quadruple shit.
Two days after Paris and the morning wake up of a lifetime, I was home in Devoney, sitting on my bed staring at the rose inked across my wrist.
Holy shit I was so screwed.
I’d managed to avoid my parents for the most part since I’d gotten back, but this was going to be a problem real fast. I’d called what felt like half of the top tattoo removal clinics on the planet, and they’d all told me the same thing: removing it right now wasn’t going to happen.
Apparently, fresh tattoos need to heal before they start lasering them off of you.
“So, when could I come in then? A week?”
I’d held my breath with that first call, waiting for the doctor’s receptionist on the other end of the line in some top-class clinic in London to assure me that, yes, I could get rid of the glaring little reminder of my night of insanity as soon as possible.
Her long pause made my heart sink.
“Uh, no, hon. More like a few months.”
A few months. MONTHS. I’d almost dropped the freaking phone. And now here I was, twenty calls and twenty of the same answers later staring at my wrist as my spirits dropped.
Okay, I could hide this for a little while, but for freaking months? What was I going to do, start wearing very long sleeves for the entirety of the spring and summer? I could imagine that would maybe start to raise some suspicions. I glared at the rose, scowling at it as I traced my finger over the ink, the glimpses of that night coming back to me in flashes.
I remembered the tequila, and then the God-knows-how-many more after that. I remembered staggering out into the night with him, and somehow there being champagne. I remembered the coins we’d tossed into that fountain we’d found in that quiet little park, and I remembered that when I’d insisted on going to get my coin back because I’d messed up my wish, I’d fallen right in.
He’d come after. He’d picked me up, hauled me against him, and suddenly, all the tension and all the heat and power I’d been trying to pretend I didn’t see was too much to ignore. Suddenly, pressed against him, with my white dress soaked and see-through with my body molded to his, the last of my ability to tell myself this was a bad idea went crashing away.
…And I’d kissed him.
And then I think I’d just kept on kissing him, my body pressing tightly to his and his powerful hands sending shivers of ecstasy through me as they held me so possessively, like no one had ever touched or held me before.
I remembered feeling more complete in that moment, standing knee-deep in a freaking fountain kissing the most notoriously bad boy prince on earth, than I ever had before.
Life is weird.
I shook my head, clearing it as I jerked my hand away from the tattoo. The long-sleeves bit wasn’t the only bad news of the day. I’d also dug as deep as I could about getting the whole stupid thing annulled, but I’d hit another roadblock: you can’t exactly annul a marriage — a real, legally binding marriage — without both party’s signatures. I mean, I probably could have pulled some strings and used the authority of, well, being a princess and heiress to a throne to get it taken care of. But that would get attention. That would get lots of attention, and that was the last freaking thing I needed.
Fuck.
So there I was, stuck with the legally binding marriage to Prince Cole McCabe — tabloid favorite and all around bad boy — and stuck with the damn tattoo to remember it by.
…At least I hadn’t, well, you know. At least we hadn’t done…that.