I lean forward as our waitress disappears, tracking her ass with my eyes until she disappears around the corner.

It’s a nice ass, the kind of ass I can just imagine bending over a table in front of me as I slide my cock along the cleft between her cheeks. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time I went for breakfast after a big night and had a side of pussy with my eggs and toast.

And this girl? Blonde and blue-eyed, lush red lips, and she’s got this rosy-cheeked innocence thing going on that I’d fucking love to ruin.

“Earth to Grayson,” Beckett mutters. “Could you stop staring at the waitress for one fucking second?”

“I’m sure you were saying something really important,” I say, my eyes still lingering on the spot where she disappeared.

“More important than you thinking about getting your dick wet,” he says, glaring at me from his chair. “Give it five minutes off, man.”

My head pounds, and my mouth feels like it’s being scrubbed with cotton balls dipped in acid, but I grin at him anyway, even though I’m pretty sure I look like hell.

“No rest for the wicked,” I say.

The three of them all roll their eyes.

“This weekend,” Beckett’s best friend, Kieran, says. “The World Cup. In Florence. You two coming or what?”

Next to me, Declan groans and rubs two hands over his eyes.

“After last night, I’m taking up a life of baking cupcakes and watching soap operas,” he says, and we all laugh.

“Hell yes, we’re coming,” I say, sneaking one more glance at the corner where the waitress disappeared. Now I’m thinking about the way she just barely pursed her lips when I told her to make the coffee strong.

And I’m thinking about how those lips might look wrapped around the head of my thick cock, sliding down my shaft. Fuck, it’s a good mental image, one that gets me hard as a rock sitting here at the breakfast table.

“Jesus,” Kieran says, waving one hand in front of my face. “Hey, your royal goddamn highness.”

I snap out of it.

“What?”

“If you want to head over Friday, we’re taking the private jet straight from here,” he says. “Otherwise, you can find your own goddamn private jet.”

“I have got one,” I point out. “Two, if you count the little jet.”

“Yeah, but ours will be way more fun,” Beckett says, grinning through his hangover. “Our staff has been interviewing stewardesses for days.”

The application list for the position of stewardess on Prince Beckett’s Private Plane is a mile long — and when the rumors about Beckett and Kieran got out, the list only got longer.

They’re both notorious playboys in their own right, but their absolute favorite thing to do? Share a woman. The thought’s never done it for me, so I’ve never tried it, but the two of them would fuck the same woman all day long if they could.

“Are you taking requests?” Declan asks.

“Let me guess,” Beckett says. “Blonde, long legs, make a good champagne cocktail, and doesn’t have a gag reflex.”

We all laugh.

“You forgot the most important part,” Declan says. “Must like big dicks.”

Across the restaurant, the waitress comes out of the kitchen and walks across the room to another table, two old ladies who just sat down. Instantly, the guys’ chatter turns to noise as I watch her hand them menus and take their order.

She’s not my type. My type is barely-there skirts and low-cut dresses, women who lick their lips when they look at me and who whisper things like is everything I’ve heard about His Royal Hardness true?

My type is women gasping with delight when they find out that the rumors are true, then invite their friends over so they can all take turns riding my massive pole.

Not sweet, beautiful breakfast waitresses.

Or at least, not yet, because I’m changing my mind pretty damn fast. There’s something about the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the way she cocks her hips when she stands that’s making me achingly hard, even though she’s just wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

“Just fuck her,” Kieran says, his voice cutting through thoughts of my cock pressed between her perky breasts, her eyes half-closed with desire.

“Seriously,” Declan agrees. “Go bang her in the men’s room and then come back so we can have a goddamn conversation.”

My eyes caress the curve of her ass one more time, and then they return to the table.

“Because you’re a scintillating conversationalist when you’re hungover as fuck yourself,” I say.

Declan just rolls his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” he says.

I look over at her again as she takes the old ladies’ menus, smiles, and turns back toward the kitchen, still stiff as fuck in the tuxedo pants I’ve been wearing for twelve hours. Not that it’s going to matter. I’ve bent women over bathroom sinks and fucked them so hard they forgot their own names wearing way worse than this, and I can probably do it again now.

No problem. Give me two minutes and I bet I can have this sweet, innocent girl screaming my name.