Chapter 11

David

“Uhh!” I grunt, punching the standing bag in front of me.

“Harder!” my trainer, Mark, yells at me. Once a lieutenant, always a lieutenant.

Perspiration begins to trickle down my skin, and I take another swing, harder this time. I do a combination of front jabs, hooks, and uppercuts, with a side kick, and I get swifter with each movement.

It feels good, and I want nothing more than to release some fucking tension. And as my muscles begin to ache, I can feel it gradually dissolve.

I still can’t believe we’re fucking engaged.

For fuck’s sake, I’ve barely had a relationship before. And now this. It’s ridiculous how she thinks she can just come in here, all brazen and sexy as fuck, and completely uproot my life—changing me from the Debaucherous playboy to a shackled-up twat.

Her argument is compelling, though, I’ll give her that. I suppose, given that I was on my knees last night, she can reframe it as a proposal, but still.

How in the hell do you go from savoring a pussy one minute to being engaged the next?

Has that ever happened to you, loves? Because I can safely say it’s a first for me.

I hit the bag of sand repeatedly with my fists, imagining what it would be like to be engaged to Vivienne.

There’s a part of me that knows I’d never get sick of having those long, toned legs wrapped around my head...or ass. Every time I see Vivienne, I want to fuck her senseless, make her beg for me again and again.

I love the way she fucking says my name.

I admit, loves, if there was one woman I had to be engaged to, Vivienne is definitely the ideal broad. She’s fucking gorgeous and knows how to handle my shit—it’s impressive. And that’s something that I can’t say about just anyone...

But I don’t do engagements or commitments. Being King is commitment enough.

“Go get some water,” Mark instructs.

I get one last jab in and walk over to the bench to grab my water bottle. I quickly check my phone to see if I have any missed calls or emails. Kingship is a twenty-four-hour job; never know when shit’s about to hit the fan. Like, say, when you randomly get fucking engaged.

Shit. Scott texted me. I haven’t heard from him in a while.

Here’s the thing: Scott, unlike Charles, knows how to get me in some trouble. He’s always up for a good time, which usually ends with my face down—or my cock—in some desperate woman’s pussy.

So, clearly, Vivienne would not approve of this guy.

Damn it. She’s already in my fucking head.

It’s a video, so I open it quickly before heading back to Mark.

The lighting is terrible, but I get random glimpses of tits bouncing up and down.

“Tell the King how much you want his cock!” Scott says, pointing the camera up at the waving nipples.

“Ahhh, yeah...I want King David’s cock in my mouth, my cunt...” the woman moans out, pulling at her nipples and platinum blonde hair.

From what I can make out, she looks attractive, but it’s very clear to me that she’s fucking Scott. Yeah, that’s another thing we always do—tag team women. I guess you can call Scott my Eskimo brother.

With her still in motion, he says, “Call me.”

God fucking damn it. I close the video and throw my phone down on the bench. If I didn’t just get engaged—no, fake engaged—I would cut this session short and run to that busty blonde.

Even if she did nothing for me, it’s the precedent that matters. I can’t just go now. If I did, especially off somewhere with Scott, Vivienne would have my balls on a platter for breakfast.

I return to Mark, and we do another combination. All the stress and tension I worked out before has now amplified ten-fold. I’m more riled up than when I found out I was a fiancé.

This is so fucking frustrating. But I need stop being such a damn pussy and suck it up.

I’m the fucking King. And I need to get my affairs in order, play the part, and get this shit done. I’ll need to just approach this like any other business deal or trade agreement.

Play nice and wait until the shit blows over, and then I can do whatever the fuck I want.

“One, two, three...” I grunt out while bench pressing two-hundred-fifty. Now, this is how you get those marble-like muscles I mentioned.

All it takes is a little dedication and hard work, and you can get yourself looking like a fucking Greek sculpture.

And that’s what I have to keep reminding myself of. I just need to give this arrangement some time, perfect it, and make it believable—though it’s still fake—and then I can be the King everyone wants me to be. And, hell, I guess the King I want to be to.

Soon, if it all goes according to Vivienne’s plan, everyone will be marveling at my actual sculpture someday.

I wonder what it’ll look like and if they’ll be able to get accurate dimensions. A twelve-inch cock might be hard to perfect.

“Same time tomorrow?” Mark asks, distracting me, and I finish up my work out with some stretches.

“Yeah, please. I’ll need this work out more than you know.” I laugh somberly.

It’s so fucking true, it almost hurts when I realize it.

Toweling off, I grab my stuff to leave. Looking briefly at my phone, I see four text messages all from Vivienne back to back.

There’s a press conference tomorrow morning to formally announce the engagement.

We will be interviewed, so prepare your answers. There’s a list of possible questions on your desk. Look them over.

Look presentable.

And don’t fuck this up.

God, this woman is relentless and fucking exhausting. This better work.

But here goes nothing—I am now Vivienne Taylor’s fucking doting fiancé.