Chapter 2

Vivienne

“Holy fuck!” I yell in surprise. How am I already covered in his cum? I just walked through the door.

And to think, I thought wearing black on my first day would be a safe bet. Now, it looks like this new Chanel dress is ruined, all thanks to King David’s massive amounts of cum staining the fabric. I wish I could say that I’m pissed, but I’m actually impressed.

Yeah, Yeah, I know. I’m sure you’re thinking, What the fuck, babe?! How in the hell are you not pissed that this man just blew a five-pound load of cum on your new $700 Chanel dress, the one you purchased specifically for today?

If it were anyone else, I would be livid. I’d probably walk out of the door, slam it in his face, and never look back.

But it’s King David. The David Lockridge. And I just saw his dick—his impressive, thick, twelve-inch dick, fully erect in his hands.

Not only is he fucking gorgeous—like, other-worldly, too hot for humans gorgeous—but so is his cock. And I’m surprised because I never thought I’d find a dick that’s so damn attractive.

Though, admittedly, I’ve seen it before. It’s been in sex tapes and in random photos printed in tabloids throughout the years.

But to see it in person is a whole different experience. Like the saying goes, the pictures do not do it justice.

I try to refrain from staring at it—no, correction, gawking at it—but it’s too hard. Very hard.

My panties were already soaking wet as I watched him stroke his cock to ecstasy. And now, as I feel the warmth of his cum showering my body, regardless of it was meant for me or not, is making me fucking hot.

I should probably back up because it sounds like I’m a fucking fangirl. Well, to be honest, I kind of am. But that’s not why I’m here.

Unfortunately, my job description doesn’t include fucking the clients. Well, it’s only unfortunate because, now, my client is King David.

Being from New York or the U.S. in general, the idea of royalty has always been a romanticized notion. We fantasize about being a Princess or a Queen and being married to a King. It’s so far-fetched that the only thing we can do is dream about it.

And that’s what I always did.

The tabloids made it easier because I could stay-up-to-date with what the actual royals in Europe were doing. And while growing up, I was one of the billions who followed David’s every move.

He was fascinating. More than the others, especially. It also didn’t hurt that he was so damn sexy—I mean, if you didn’t want to be his princess, you definitely wanted to, at least, fuck him.

Oh, and it didn’t help when the sex tapes came out. Let’s just say, every woman then had a clear idea—and image—of how he is in bed. And it is very impressive.

I would be lying if I said he didn’t star in my fantasies every so often. Or more like every day.

Though now that I’ve seen him in person, I realize my vibrator doesn’t do it justice. At all.

But let me back up a bit.

Those types of stories are exactly why I’m over here now. He has a bad reputation. He’s known for partying too hard, fucking too many women, and, frankly, not giving one damn about his country.

It worked well for him as a Prince, making the headlines as the Debaucherous David—as well as for my highlight reel. But as a King? That type of shit does not go over well. With anyone.

After the tragic incident which resulted in the death of most of his family, he recently was crowned King. The turnover was swift, and before the world knew it, the porn star Prince was on the throne and making all the decisions.

And no one is happy about it.

But with some finagling and spinning, his image can be restored—or, at least, that’s what I told the royal counsel.

I’ve worked my ass off as a Public Relations consultant in New York for most of my twenties. I’ve dealt with all sorts of clients, ranging from strung-out, doped-up athletes who needed to rework their images into wholesome family guys in order to keep their jobs, to philandering politicians who were begging for a second chance.

I’ll never judge anyone for what they’ve done, especially my clients. It’s not for me to decide what’s right or wrong. For me, it’s just business. And I help whoever pays me.

But don’t be too quick to judge me and my approach, babe. A woman has to eat, and, in New York, eating gets damn expensive.

Plus if I’m going to be seen next to any of my high-profile clients, I need to look fucking good. So, yeah, I also use my money to get designer clothes.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And, frankly, I really like doing it. I get a rush every time I know that I saved someone’s career from crashing and burning like a fucking torpedo. Occasionally, I also save a family.

I promise, it’s not all bad and conniving. And trust me, I’m not like Olivia Pope by any means. Though I can get ruthless when I need to be, sure; but it’s just a part of the business.

I would argue that’s why the royal family hired me. They know I’m the one who can get the job done, and get it done really fucking well.

I’m not trying to stroke my ego or paint myself as an angel to you. I’m merely stating the facts. I have a track record of making all sorts of people look fucking fantastic.

And I’m good at what I do because I work fucking hard at it. I don’t just sit and wait for things to happen to me. I make them happen.

When I got the call from one of King David’s advisors, asking me to come and help them, I knew I couldn’t say no. It was an opportunity of a lifetime. To fix David’s reputation and mend his image will solidify me as the best fucking PR consultant in the business.

How could I say no to that?

It also didn’t hurt that I would be working for the sexiest fucking King alive.

But I know…I know. I can’t mix business with pleasure. Especially with my clients.

I have never and—I’m telling myself over and over—I will never have sex with a client, especially one that’s the poster boy for pure unadulterated sexuality and masculinity.

By now, you’re probably yelling at me, wondering why I’m putting myself in the lion’s den, so close to temptation.

And, to be honest, I don’t know. I just know that I can’t let this opportunity go. It’s like gut instinct or something. There’s still a giddy fangirl jumping for joy right now, but I know how to stifle and ignore her—I’ve done it before, I can do it again.

Like I said, I’m a professional.

Thank God TSA allows vibrators on the plane. Because I brought a few, ranging in all shapes and sizes, to help me out if he really gets to me. So, don’t worry, babe, I’ve covered my bases like any smart woman would.

I think after today, I’ll be needing to use all of them—because the way he’s staring at me, like some predator about to pounce on his prey, I need some fucking release.

I look down at his sticky cream now saturating my dress, and I sink into the realization that…I can’t do business like this. I need to change now…but I don’t have anything to change into.

They’ve arranged for me to stay in his manor, in one of the wings, so if it was any other day—say, my second day at work—I would be able to change with no problem.

But my wardrobe is still on its way from NYC.

He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze roams over my body.

“Well…do you have something for me to change into?” I bravely ask him, hoping to fill the air with something other than the sizzling sexual tension.

“Well, love. I don’t think I have anything in your size.” He copies my accent and smirks at me while a glimmer in his eyes dances wickedly.

“Okay.” I sigh. “But I can’t do business covered in your cum. I’ll need to change. Do you have a shirt?” I try to stay as calm and as business-like as possible, but now I’m starting to get flustered, especially with the way his eyes just glinted when I said, covered in your cum.

Fuck.

With him in such close proximity to me, his broad chest and muscles straining against his shirt, almost like it’s about to burst open, I can feel my body begin to melt. My thong is fucking soaked.

Christ save me.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in nothing?” He licks his lips, and I can tell he’s picturing me naked.

I should be offended, but again, I’m not. I feel like a million bucks right now, with him looking at me like that.

Uh. This is already off to a bad start.

“Seriously. Anything? A button-down shirt would do.” I ask, almost begging him.

He sighs, faking annoyance. Or maybe he isn’t faking?

Ugh, who cares. I’m sure I’ll be annoying him a lot more while I’m here. He’ll just have to get used to it.

He gets up and walks to a closet in the back corner of his office.

I watch him and take in the surroundings. It’s an overt display of masculinity and strength.

His desk, in addition the cabinets and bookshelves lining the walls, are all dark wood. The large window is huge, letting in an absurd amount of light.

His cum actually sparkles in it.

Magic cum.

God, really, Vivienne? I have to shake myself out of this lust-fueled haze.

He hands me a white button-down shirt, and I nod to thank him. I unbutton and open it up while he walks back to his chair, sitting down with his legs spread invitingly.

He stares at me, like he’s a patron in a theatre, eager for a show.

Um, hell no, Your Majesty. I am not here for your entertainment.