Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Well, maybe one day you’ll get along, Victor. Now, kiss me.”
“That’s precisely what I intend to do, Luxury. To kiss you a trillion times. I had this notion the first time I saw you sleep.” Victor’s breathing skips against the freckles on my shoulder. With each word, his mouth falls over my skin, leaving my flesh taut, agonized, and desperate. “That I’d kiss all your freckles. Now that we’ve dropped all pretenses.”
“Excuse me. You weren’t claiming me.”
“Ahem, I was speaking.” Harsh teeth nip at the junction between my neck and shoulder.
Though pain and adrenaline douse through my veins, I squeak, “Victor, we are equals!”
His mouth is against my skin, words muffled with a smile. “Not in bed, remember?”
My fingernails chew into his forearms as I glare him in the eye. Victor unzips his pants, aligns his cock with my slit, and slithers over the tender folds until he’s collected a reservoir of my desire. “Do we have a problem, Little One?”
“Ye . . . no . . . no problem.” My tone melts into desire, and my hips rock upward to pursue his dick.
Victor teases me, gliding into my honey an inch at a time. “I’ve never known such satisfaction as I do while holding you in my arms, nor do I deserve it.”
“Ohhhh, yes, you deserve it.” I gasp, unable to do anything but sing Victor’s praises and try to spear me with him.
“But for you, my Luxury, I will be a bloody good bloke.” Finally, Victor’s massive cock is fully seated inside of my core. “No more tragedy for us, Little One. Now, let’s make a baby, yeah?”
I smile like I’ve never endured a single moment of heartbreak and breathe in the scent of him. “Yeah.”
EPILOGUE
Luxury
Five years later
Manhattan, New York
Damn, where’d the time go? I wonder, glimpsing out of the sliding glass doors. The sun is fanning around the sides of skyscrapers in an effort to warm an autumn evening in New York. Victoria and I are just inside the entrance to the opulent location of Urban Gardens. I take a silk scarf and attempt to hide much of my four-year-old’s jet-black hair. I fuss with tugging her thick, coiled strands. The little princess opted on a tweed dress with a matching jacket.
“Mommy,” she grumbles.
“You should’ve worn the hoodie. Why do you have such an old lady fashion sense? Now, I’ll be the one in trouble.” I place her on my hip and stride out of the sliding glass door, attempting to make a beeline straight toward our driver. Halfway through the throng of wealthy New Yorkers, a camera shutter blinds me. A battery of questions come from the man looming between us and the curb. He asks about my various flower shops. Then the questions are about Victor.
I shove out a hand, blinking back orbs of light. “Please mov—”
“No! My dad is the Duke of Tudor,” Victoria cuts in. Her squeaky tone overshadows my argument that the paparazzi has no right to violate our privacy.
“But, sweetheart,” the guy sputters, “your father is Duke of Arling—”
“He’s duke of that too. In fact, he’s duke of the entire world, Tsk.” Her argument causes the businessman strolling into my shop to pause and smile.
“Are you five yet?” the paparazzo inquires.
“Can you stop?” I ask. Every step I take to the side is thwarted. Left to right, he’s on us like flies at a county fair. Our driver opens the back door. With his other hand, he reaches up to push the camera from the man’s hand.
Leaning over my shoulder, Victoria says, “Hey, dude, my momma said our Queen of the Night is opening tonight. You wanna co—”
I plaster a hand over my genius of a daughter’s mouth to stop her from speaking. Because we’re being watched, I don’t toss her into the backseat like a sack of potatoes.
“Victoria, what did I tell you about saying dude?” I slide into the seat next to Victor’s miniature ray of sunshine. They share the same striking blue gaze and shock of dark hair. But my genes kicked ass in that department, adding volume, oomph, and all. As the scarf’s already sliding back over the crown of her head, I yank it off. “Remember when Grandma Mary heard you say dude?”
“Oh, yeah!” Victoria drops the back of her hand to her temple, wilting against the seat as the driver pulls away from the curb.
“Don’t say it tonight, please.” I sigh. We’ve gotta hurry home. The Queen and Princess Mary should’ve arrived. Nevertheless, there was a slight gleam of appreciation in Her Majesty’s eye as my snarky child called one of her guards a dude the last time we saw her. I believe she was pleased to see her daughter-in-law falling to pieces.
Lord, if Mary faints, I’m gonna laugh. As the car turns onto the private tarmac, a slight grin finds its way onto my face at the thought of how Victoria’s grands have behaved.