Royal Disaster by Parker Swift (2)

Once safely at my desk for the morning, I tried to focus on the mountain of work that had piled up over the weekend and get my head in the game for the lunchtime presentation. In the weeks following the fashion show, business had been booming.

Apparently the combination of a well-received, much-touted spring line and a blockbuster news event including one of the gowns (oddly, worn by me) provided a significant push for Hannah’s business. Princess Caroline had worn another one of her gowns when meeting the president of the United States at a summit in Berlin, and the influx of requests for fittings and appointments at Hannah’s private studio was mounting quickly.

Thankfully Hannah had allowed Fiona and me to hire an intern to help cover the spillover, but even with the intern the work was feverish. It had occurred to me at some point between fielding phone calls from eager socialites and hopeful shoppers and scheduling Princess Caroline’s next fitting that we might be able to streamline things if Hannah would consider turning the private studio she’d been planning on opening into a full-on brick-and-mortar shop.

I had eventually floated the idea by my friends. Fiona, my fellow assistant, had been skeptical, or maybe just surprised. I had a feeling this wasn’t in line with the subtle British caste system—it wasn’t exactly standard protocol for the new girl to come barging in suggesting a major business change. But Josh, our fabulously gorgeous and gay receptionist, had been enthusiastic, although I was pretty sure it was mostly because he wanted something juicy to gasp about around the coffee station.

But when I finally summoned the courage to approach Hannah about the idea, bracing myself for her shock at my impertinence, she’d been intrigued and was now allowing me to pitch it to an investor. It felt like a gesture of trust on her part, but in reality it was a test, a test I’d been hankering for. I craved the responsibility, and I was determined to carve my way into the fashion world. This was an opportunity to demonstrate my independence, my ambition.

I’d been preparing for the presentation nonstop for the past two weeks. Deirdre Rocker, the president of the British Fashion Council, had offered to meet with me after Dylan had introduced us at Fashion Week—a meeting I had been unable to get on my own. And, even though her intentions had been to offer me a job as her assistant, I had ended up agreeing to the meeting so that I could pick her brain about opening a designer’s flagship store.

And it wasn’t only Deirdre who had seemed to pop out of the woodwork. The attention had been startling—no one seemed to care about my credentials or background, only that I was front-page news, only that I was on the arm of the city’s hottest bachelor. I’d never realized how gutting that could feel. What a stark indicator it was that your worth was entirely encapsulated by your romantic relationship, by your ability to hold the public’s attention, by your ability to sell newspapers. Dylan’s star status was the result of being the shockingly good-looking and mysterious future seventeenth Duke of Abingdon. For me it wasn’t even that—it was simply being on his arm.

I now understood why he felt the way he did about his title. He was always slightly disgusted when people reminded him of his position or ingratiated themselves to him. I doubted that anyone who didn’t know him could tell, but there was a little twitch of his lip when someone called him my lord or Lord Abingdon. People could praise him to the hilt for his design and architectural accomplishments, and he would open up, engage, possibly even lecture you on the role of sustainability in modern architecture until you elbowed him in the ribs. But the title, Lord Abingdon, closed him down. And I was beginning to see why. It felt dangerous to let it define you, and it was concerning when others defined you that way, because really, at the end of the day, it had nothing to do with who you were.

So I was determined to use every opportunity this new weird Dylan-fueled situation afforded me, but on my own terms.

When I received a phone call from a menswear designer, I had met with him, promptly turned down his offer to model neckties in my birthday suit, and instead laid the groundwork for a potential collaboration that might benefit the new Hannah store.

When I received an offer for free shoes in exchange for telling every journalist that the brand was my favorite, I had politely declined and then parlayed the connection into asking them how quickly they expanded from one store to two and how that affected their approach for online sales.

So when I walked into the restaurant to meet Hannah and the investor at the upscale boutique hotel 45 Park Lane, I was ready. I was armed with a memorized presentation, folders of information, contracts with vendors ready to be signed, and countless statistics and figures, and I knew my ideas were good. I could do this, and I had the pitch deck to prove it.

We were calling it lunch, and by lunch they meant I had an hour and a half and one meal to demonstrate that this whole thing was a good idea, that Hannah’s brand was ready, and that we’d be able to make use of the money if it was given. My textbooks from the one business course I’d taken in college had been dusted off, and I was ready with words like market share and brand awareness.

“Lydia,” Hannah started as she and a fit older man rose from their seats to greet me. “This is Giles Cabot.” I firmly shook his hand, took a hopefully unnoticeable deep breath, and we were off and running.

For an hour and a half I did my thing. When he reminded me that we were on the heels of another designer’s failure to launch, I reminded him that other designers hadn’t had production lined up in advance—we did. When he suggested that perhaps it was too soon for Hannah, that we should wait another season, I pointed out that both Diane von Furstenberg and Vera Wang had had their first shops at similar stages in their careers. Not only did I know every figure to the exact pence, but I was pretty sure I’d charmed the pants off good old Giles. Apart from the one embarrassing five-minute period during which I was pretty sure I had ketchup on my cheek, I knew I’d done the best I could.

So by the time dessert forks had been placed down and my folders put away, I felt confident. Not certain by any means, but confident—I’d given it my best shot. I stopped talking, probably for the first time during the entire meal, and I saw Giles give Hannah a generous smile.

“You’re quite impressive, young lady.” He was folding his hands together over the tablecloth and looking between me and Hannah.

I knew it was technically premature, but the corners of my mouth were already rising. He raised his glass towards the middle of the table. “Congratulations,” he said in his thick posh accent, and Hannah and I looked to each other and then raised our own glasses towards his. “To Hannah Rogan, the woman, the brand, and the shop.”

Inside I was screeching one of those foot-stomping, excited, could-barely-breathe screeches, but on the outside I was managing to keep it all cool and say things like thank you and I’m really look forward to working with you in a reasonably calm tone. It was really going to happen, and I was going to be responsible for it. I knew the holy-shit-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into freak-out would come later, but for now, I was still in the glowy oh-my-god-I-did-it phase.

As he launched into a story about the early days at his investment firm, a waiter tapped me on the shoulder. “Miss Bell?” he said, and I nodded. “I was asked to deliver this to you,” he continued as he handed me an envelope.

Hannah and Mr. Cabot were cheerfully discussing something in voices tinged with middle-of-the-day glasses of wine. I discreetly opened the small envelope on my lap and pulled out a shiny keycard to a room at the hotel with a Post-it note stuck to it. In Dylan’s unmistakable handwriting:

I felt my pulse quicken and cheeks flush. He’d said he’d meet me after my meeting, and by this point I should have known he never joked when he said things like that. I tried to stop myself from smiling stupidly and rejoined the conversation just as it was entering that slightly awkward die-down phase. We all quietly beamed at each other with the energy of people who were about to embark on an artistic business venture together, and I tried not to rush the closing remarks the way I silently wanted to.

When I was finally freed from the meeting, I quietly explained to Hannah that I had to run an errand and would be back in the office soon. Then I texted Frank and told him I’d be another hour. And then I basically sprinted across the lobby, my heeled boots clicking along the shiny floor.

“There’s my girl,” said Dylan as he swung open the door. “Well?”

I was still standing in the doorway, taking him in, his expectant gaze and open posture. He was shirtless, wearing only his suit pants, and his lean, muscular body spanned the doorway. I knew the smile on my face must have made me look like a kid. I was giddy. I was giddy because my deal had just gone through and because the glorious man in front of me was just about to make my afternoon a hundred times more interesting.

“Well what?” I asked, not able to stop looking at his abs.

“How did it go?” His blue eyes were studying me, expectant, hopeful. “You got the money?” I smiled widely, and he beamed back at me, leaning in to sweep me into his arms. “You got it!” He spun me around.

“I got it!” I jumped and danced a little as he put me down, letting my excitement take over.

“I’m terribly proud of you.”

“Thanks.” I sighed and dropped my bag on the floor. “I can’t believe it’s going to happen. I’m heading up the opening of Hannah Rogan’s first store. In London.” He looked at me with a sweet smile and a slight shake of his head. “What?” I said.

“You. I can’t remember the last time I felt about work the way you do now. About you? Absolutely. Work? Well…”

“Babe, you’ve just been so busy. Between all these meetings with your dad and wrapping up the Athens hotel and the other projects…You just need a break. Or to start a new design, something you feel passionate about.”

He sighed and then looked back to me and nodded, cutting off that thread of conversation. “Will you tell me who the investor is now?” His hands were on his hips, all businesslike, as though he were prepared to take the gloves off and fight me hard if I continued to refuse him the information he’d been wanting for weeks. I hadn’t wanted to tell Dylan details about the deal on the off chance that he would stick his nose in. I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Giles Cabot. Have you heard of him?”

Dylan’s arms fell to his sides and he stepped closer. He raised his eyebrow. “I have. He’s a good man. He might seem a bit chummy, but the man does not part with his money easily. He’s very discerning. You must have impressed him, damsel.”

He placed his hands on my hips and walked me backwards until I was leaning against the caramel-colored leather desk. I felt so warm, so perfectly happy—I was sure the smile wrapped clear around my head. I finally took in the luxurious hotel room: warm, dark brown accents; sea-green walls; and an endless expanse of crisp white sheets spread against the bed behind Dylan.

His warm hands untucked my silky red blouse from my pencil skirt, first in the front and then in the back. I automatically raised my arms and he lifted it above my head.

“Giles said that—” I began as he continued to undress me, but Dylan placed his finger over my lips, slowly shaking his head.

“I want to hear about it, but right now I need you to be quiet.” I sucked in my breath. “I’m going to make you come, and then,” he said as he reached between my legs and pulled his hand up, bringing my grey pencil skirt with it, “I’m going fuck this sweet cunt of yours.” My eyes locked with his, and I nodded in a daze, unable to focus as all my blood sailed from my extremities to the aching knot at my core.

“How?”

“However I want. No talking,” Dylan replied with that rakish smirk. His hands roamed appreciatively over my ass, smoothing over my cool skin. “God, you’re like silk.” He reached behind me and unfastened my skirt, lowering the zipper and shoving it past my hips so it fell to the floor. He pulled off my boots and dropped them to the side. To see him in the bright afternoon light, in this beautiful but foreign room, felt like such a wanton secret. It’s not that we hadn’t made love during the day, but it was always on a weekend, buried in the sheets of one of our beds, indulging in our limited free time in private. But this felt naughty, stolen.

I was now only in the black lace La Perla panties and bra that Dylan had given me. I was not even sure why he’d bought me the panties, since I rarely wore underwear these days, per Dylan’s “no-knickers rule,” which I protested for good measure but not-so-secretly loved. My hair was still in a soft, clean bun at my neck, my bangs swept aside. Dylan’s hands slid into my panties. Both his hands cradled my ass, the ribbons of the thong holding them to my skin, and then the panties were sliding down my legs.

“There. All’s right with the world again,” said Dylan, as he shoved the tiny black scrap of fabric into his pants pocket. I rolled my eyes and gave him a playful, mocking look. He gave me an equally playful look of warning and lifted me onto the desk, pulling me forward by the backs of my knees until I was barely perched on its edge.

Dylan sank to his knees and firmly pushed my legs wide, spreading me open before him. I shivered in anticipation and let my head fall back, bracing myself on the desk surface behind me, arms locked. The room was so bright, and I strangely felt so exposed—not by my nakedness or the gorgeous man between my thighs but by the high windows, the bright afternoon light streaming in, the sound of traffic outside, all the reminders that we were playing hooky.

Dylan gripped my inner thighs, holding them apart, as he drew his nose along my leg.

“Ahh, Dylan. Please, please get there.” I exhaled breathily as I said each word, and my eyes flung open when I felt a sharp sting on my inner leg. Dylan had bitten me. Hard.

Right.

No talking.

Dylan worked me deliberately, carefully, masterfully. I could feel everything—his midday whiskers brushing against my inner thighs, every flick of his tongue, every rough stroke against my clit. Each gesture drove the energy inward, coiled my body tighter, and each goddamn retreat made the sweet ache deepen, made my chase feel more desperate. I grunted in frustration, nearly ready to pull his head up to my own, to try to kiss him. To attack him the way he was attacking me. He was driving me crazy, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

My nails were digging into the leather-covered desk so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if we ended up with a bill for damages later. Then he finally delivered on his promise and sent my head flying backwards, my breasts aiming for the ceiling, and my body collapsing under me. I came once, and then when I was sure I was too sensitive, too tightly wound, again.

Fuck, my boyfriend was good at that. Whenever he tore me apart that way, there was a tiny voice, a voice I wanted to hurl off a cliff, that whispered there was a reason he was so good at it. How many girls, exactly, had he gone through to get that good?

The air moving over my damp skin brought goose bumps to the surface, and I involuntarily shook slightly, still raw from my orgasms. Dylan must have stood, because his hands were now firmly placed at the sides of my face. “Open those brown eyes for me.”

I looked up into his stunning smile and marveled. This man was mine. He was so sickeningly beautiful. His hair had grown out a bit in the past month. He needed it cut, but secretly I hoped he wouldn’t do it. This roguish hair looked more like the Dylan I knew—slightly wild, a little less stiff.

I gave a lazy smile back as I ran my fingers through it. “That was almost as good as winning over Giles Cabot down in the dining room.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Almost?”

I smiled bigger—there was nothing more fun than winding him up. He reached beneath me and lifted me, practically throwing me on the bed behind him, and I skirted around the shifting fabric as he hastily removed the duvet. “On your knees, you ungrateful little thing.”

I rolled over immediately, desperately. Yes. This was going to be—swack.

His palm. Right across my right ass cheek.

“Yes,” I said, inviting him. In an instant he was behind me on the bed, his bare thighs resting against my ass. He must have dropped the trousers. His hands roamed and groped as I was presented before him on all fours. They stroked my legs, smoothed over my back. He unclasped the bra I was still wearing and roughly shoved it down my arms so it rested on the bed below me. My breasts filled his hands, and he rolled my taut nipples between his fingers, kneading them.

I don’t know what in the hell he was waiting for other than to torture me—I was so blissfully ready for him, but bliss would soon turn to agony. He wanted me writhing.

“This is for you, my impressive, business-minded, smart-as-fuck girl,” he started, his hardness barely grazing my entrance, taunting, teasing. “And you. Are. Going. To. Take it.” The heels of my palms dug into the sheets, and I nearly collapsed with the force of him entering me. He hit the desire in my belly square-on, and I called out in needy satisfaction.

Dylan’s firm muscular legs met my ass with each thrust, and as he rolled back and hit me in just the right place, I squeezed around him, desperate to hold on to him. “Fuuuck, Lydia. Do that again, and I’ll deny you…Oh, fuck it—please do that again!” I smiled and couldn’t help but let go of a breathy giggle as I complied with his request.

Dylan fucked me like he meant it. He always meant it, but since our over-the-top confession of love at Primrose Hill, every time we’d made love, no matter how adventurous, kinky, or brazen, the reverence of our feelings for each other was always there, making it deeper. But this time, we were in it for no more than the fun of it. It was sex as celebration. Our feelings were by no means forgotten, but they weren’t the point. This—this was a reward, not a profession. This was strictly fun. I was pretty sure that when I came I screamed his entire endless aristocratic name: Dylan William Lucas Hale. And when he came a moment later, I don’t think what he screamed was even words, or if it was, it wasn’t English.

My body collapsed beneath his and sank into the luxurious mattress. He fell next to me and stroked my back. We lay there for several moments, catching our breath.

“Baby, look at me,” he said. I had been facing the window, away from him, my eyes closed in recovery. I turned, and my hair fell in front of my eyes. He promptly brushed it to the side. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You said that.”

“I meant it.”

“Thank you,” I said, basking in his pride. “So you got an expensive hotel room to celebrate my success? What were you going to do if we didn’t have anything to celebrate? What if I hadn’t gotten the money?”

“Then I would’ve done the same thing, only to make you forget.” I looked at him staring back at me, and I was floating. I was completely blissed out, in love, gazing starry-eyed at my perfect boyfriend. Then I had the misfortune of catching the time on his enormous gold watch: 3:25 p.m.

“Shit. I have to get back to work,” I said and let out a sigh. “I wish I could stay here with you all afternoon and do what we just did again and again.” I was already standing, pulling on my boots.

Dylan sighed and stared at me appreciatively. “As do I.”

“Where’s my blouse?” I asked, now stalking the room in my boots and bra, holding my skirt in a viselike grip. Dylan rose and helped me look. I was standing in the middle of the room, the tingly post-orgasmic feel quickly being replaced by anxiety at my need to get back to work. Then I saw the red silk poking out from the garbage can by the desk. I pulled it out, only to find one side smeared with what must have been Dylan’s lunch. “Curry?! You dropped my blouse in a curry?!”

“Shit, baby. I’m sorry. I was distracted.” He glanced down at the blouse apologetically. He was stroking my shoulder, giving me these adorable and seriously smoldering puppy-dog eyes. I sighed in resignation.

“Do you have a spare shirt in your car?” I asked. Dylan always kept spare clothes handy—he was constantly going from meeting to meeting, and he was Captain Prepared. He nodded. “Good, then give me yours.” He looked at me, eyebrow raised, but clearly didn’t dare disobey.

As Dylan texted Lloyd to retrieve a clean shirt, I stood in front of the mirror and tweaked, stretched, fussed, and pulled at his bespoke pale blue button-down. I somehow managed to twist it into a kind of collared wrap shirt that tied at the small of my back. I rolled up the sleeves into tight cuffs above my elbows and layered my necklaces over the shirt, hoping they’d distract anyone from noticing that I was clearly wearing a man’s dress shirt.

“Impressive,” said Dylan, standing behind me, his hands resting on my hips and looking into the mirror with me. “Are you sure you’re not interested in the design side of fashion?”

I turned around and settled into his arms just as a knock at the door announced Lloyd’s delivery of Dylan’s shirt. I waved at Lloyd with a smile before he let the door close, leaving us alone in the room once again…“I should have taken the clean one,” I said, eyeing Dylan as he unboxed the freshly laundered shirt.

“No. This is better,” he replied, looking at me sternly as he put on the shirt. He pulled me back into him, buttoning his shirt one-handed so he could keep me trapped. “This way you’ll smell like me the rest of the day.” I hid my smile in his warm chest. “Come on, let’s get you to work.”

We stood outside the hotel for a moment, both of our cars behind us, ready to take us to our respective workplaces. He brushed his fingers under my chin, and I reflexively looked up into his waiting eyes. I got one sweet kiss, a deep pressing of his lips onto mine, and we parted.

I wasn’t a half a block from the hotel before my phone rang.

“Miss me already?” I answered.

“Always.” I could hear him smiling. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I forgot to mention that I won’t be home until late tonight.” It was Monday, and we’d settled on weekends at mine and weekdays at his—I couldn’t deny the advantages of a housekeeper, especially on weekdays.

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“A meeting with my security team, and then I’ve got a dinner. Might go late. You’ll be in my bed when I get home, damsel?” He wasn’t usually so vague, and actually I’d been accompanying him to these dinners lately. I was quiet.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted asking. If he wanted me there he would have asked me.

He was quiet for a moment. “Tonight is business. You’d be bored, trust me.”

“I’ll just go to my place—we can see each other tomorrow night.” It didn’t make sense for me to go to his place if he wasn’t going to be there anyway. Plus, the little nagging part of me that wasn’t quite ready to move in with him was getting its turn at the microphone. Sometimes I felt this little tug-of-war in my brain—one side saying to never leave Dylan’s side, the other hastily retreating to my own independent world.

“Lydia.” He was using his I’m-the-boss tone, which was sexy as hell in the bedroom but drove me crazy outside of it.

“What, Dylan?”

He sighed deeply on the other end of the line. “Christ. I’m having dinner with my father. It’s about family business…He’s been impossible lately.”

“Oh.”

Three weeks after seeing his parents at the party, and I still knew next to nothing about them or Dylan’s relationship with them, except that it wasn’t exactly rosy. I knew he’d been seeing his father a lot lately—he’d referenced lunches and weekday meetings, and I knew the difference I saw in him in the wake of these encounters. He was tense. Frustrated. Cold. He emerged as the hardened Dylan I saw with other people. The ruthless, closed-off, my-way-or-the-highway architect and businessman. I’d asked him a few times, probed gently for him to tell me more, but I never got more than a vague huff or disgusted grunt.

“I’d really prefer to come home to you than to an empty bed,” he said in a way that, even if I didn’t know the details, somehow spoke to everything he wasn’t saying about the dinner.

“I’ll be there.” I could almost hear the weight on his shoulders lighten as I said the words.