Even in the early afternoon the club—my club—is filled with the hottest young bodies the city has to offer.

The club has been busy since nine o’clock in the morning and it’s been a party since.

Everyone is on the dance floor moving and grinding as if they were fucking rather than dancing. And—given the foam everywhere—I’m pretty sure more than a handful of them are fucking.

Shit, I was fucking in it just last night. And this is exactly how I want it.

Ménage à Fête is where you go when you want to let it out and enjoy all la petite mort that life offers.

Isabella brings me a bottle of Heineken to the VIP lounge with a smile.

“Thank you, Izzy.”

“Or course, Mr. Lanteri. Anything for you, sir.”

I look her up and down, admiring her. Her cheeks turn a rosy pink, and she looks away as she blushes.

Isabella is a leggy brunette with all the right curves. Her shiny, silver dress hugs her shapely body in all the right places.

She’s sex in heels. It’s why I hired her.

It’s also why she makes a killing in tips being my VIP hostess.

But as hot as she is, she’s no Percy. Nonetheless, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy and appreciate the view. And I know with certainty Isabella enjoys the attention.

The woman would be on my cock in under five seconds if I asked her to wrap those pouty lips of hers around it. And not because I’m her boss.

No, she’d do it because she want to.

“Anything else, sir?”

Those dark chocolate eyes of hers are begging for me to ask her to fuck.

“No, not right now, Izzy. Though I may ask for your services later,” I tease with a lick of my lips.

She turns and walks away with an extra sway in her hips.

The problem with women like Izzy is that they are just too damn obvious, even if they don’t come out and say it.

They flaunt their tits and shake their ass to entice you, but they don’t have the fucking balls to take it. They play coy even when their cunts drip because of an extra long gaze.

Percy, on the other hand. That’s a woman who takes what she wants, when she wants, and where she wants. Consequences be fucked.

And if Percy doesn’t want it—which is pretty fucking rare for that woman—she’s not afraid to let it be known.

She’s a woman with balls bigger than most men I know.

The chill of the dark bottle touches my moist lips as the sight of Percy and her friends comes into my view.

From the VIP Lounge, I can look down onto the entryway and the dance floor without being seen. I could have Percy bouncing on my cock like I was a bouncy castle, and nobody outside the lounge would ever notice.

Every time I see Percy, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time all over again.

Her hair is as golden as the afternoon sun and shines just as brightly thanks to her fair skin. It sways likes waves cascading against the shore that is her body.

Her eyes are this incredibly sexy mix of amber and jade that no gem on Earth could ever hope to match in beauty.

But if I had to pick my favorite feature, it’s got to be her mouth. Percy’s lips are so full, soft, and supple that feeling them on my own—and my cock—is more akin to a religious experience than anything else.

And then there are her curves. Those cock stiffening curves.

I’ve always loved Percy’s body—even at her biggest I loved all of her—and I was more than a bit concerned that she was going to lose all those curves when she told me she had sworn off carbs.

Fuck, I tried to talk her out of it.

She didn’t listen obviously.

But when I saw her after that conversation, I took her then and there in the hallway of her apartment building.

Percy’s tits stayed round, firm, and as plentiful as the Swiss Alps.

Her ass is still just as bountiful and glorious that Sir Mix-A-Lot would shed a fucking tear at the sight.

And her slender waist makes the sway of her hips all the more obvious and eye catching.

But then Percy has always known how to carry herself in the sexiest of ways.

It’s likely the reason as to why my mother—The Queen of Menage—detests Percy and my relationship with her. To my mother, Percy is just a gold digging slut of common blood.

‘Unsuitable for a man of my station and pedigree,’ is what she would say whenever Percy came up. I’ve been exposed to many royals from different countries and bloodlines all my life. None of them could ever hold a candle to Percy.

Not only does Percy make my cock stiff. Not only does she fuck me like she’s the living embodiment of sex—which I personally think she is—but the woman is far more intelligent than people think.

I’d dare say that even her friends don’t realize just how incredibly brilliant Percy is.

Percy is the total fucking package.

She can suck my cock and swallow every last fucking drop of my cum one moment, and then talk about the economic collapse of Germany after the end of World War I the next.

She’s a far cry from the blonde bimbo that most mistake her for.

Like my mother. The woman is adamant that I get over my feelings for Percy and move on to someone “more appropriate.”

That is complete fucking bullshit.

I refuse to allow my marriage to ever be one of dullness and frivolous fucking boredom.

I need a marriage that brings excitement. A wife that challenges me intellectually just as much as she does in the bedroom.

Any wife of mine must hold a zeal and lust for life and adventure as much as I do.

I don’t need—and can’t fucking stand—these prissy, stuck up princesses who would act like I pissed on the bones of their ancestors because I decided to shove my cock in her ass and call her a “slut.”

That is a life that has never been—no will it ever be—for me. Percy gives me all of that and more. As I’m the future fucking King of Menage I fucking deserve it.

Prince Anton Lanteri doesn’t settle for less than he fucking deserves, wants, or demands.

Period. End of fucking story.

Mother will come around.

Eventually.

And if not? Well, she’ll croak eventually.

Besides, it’s not like she can really say shit anyway after last night.

I tilt the bottle up and finish the beer in one long drink.

Standing from the plush leather couch, I watch Percy venture into the sea of gyrating bodies and foam.

I fasten the top button of my jacket and stroll into the crowd as well.

Memories of last night dance about in the back of my mind has me smiling and my cock twitching with excitement.

Moving through my patrons isn’t all that hard when everyone moves the fuck out of the way.

There’s no need to say “excuse me” or “pardon me” when you’re me.

I’m an imposing figure. I’m nearly six and a half feet tall with a body that looks as though it was sculpted from marble by Donatello and Michelangelo themselves. Even Sammi’s husband Lock has to look up at me.

But even without all that people know better than to get in my fucking way.

I expect a decent amount respect and courtesy.

Even if Menage is a small, lesser known country, I’m still fucking royalty.

I’m a future fucking king.

So when a man of my station and stature moves through a crowd, people fucking move because they know better.

Especially when I want to go dance with my sexy fucking queen.