Chapter 7

David

The way Vivienne turns me on is like flipping a fucking switch.

One minute, I’m standing at the bottom of the staircase in my hand-stitched vicuna wool tuxedo, with my thick, heavy cock tucked safely against my muscular thigh. The next, she’s standing at the top of the stairway, and I’m practically creaming through a pair of sixty-thousand-dollar tuxedo pants.

You’ve heard of vicuna wool, I’m sure. Terribly fucking expensive—it can only be shorn every three years, and the fabric that comprises it is often laced with real gold.

So, for obvious reasons, I like this tuxedo. You’d like it too—trust me. It’s tight in all the right places and tailored to perfection.

Broad shoulders on the jacket to accommodate my hard, thick muscles. Nice, tight trousers.

So, it’s a shame that as soon as I see Vivienne in her ball gown, my cock goes so hard it nearly rips right through my fucking slacks.

“You look…lovely,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

She looks so much more than lovely. In this dress, with those heels, and that body, she looks like a Michelin 3-star meal that I’m about to devour course by fucking course.

“Lovely?” she repeats, calling my bluff as she descends down the staircase in a pair of fuck me stilettos and a skirt that has a slit going all the way up to her hip bone. “Someone’s minding their manners.”

But then her eyes trail down my pant leg where my cock is threatening to start bursting seams, and a wicked look registers in her gaze.

“From the waist up, anyway.”

“Half a gentleman is progress,” I remind her, watching the way her hips sway as she approaches me.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she teases. Those pretty eyes haven’t left my sizeable bulge yet. “Looks like you’ve progressed well past the halfway point.”

Christ. If she doesn’t meet my gaze, I won’t meet hers, either. The dress I’ve got her in has a neckline that’s cut all the way down to her navel—and, good Lord, the tits on Vivienne Taylor could make a Playboy centerfold shed tears of envy.

I bet they’re real, too—and the way they’re nearly popping out of this gown, it would just take a little twitch of my fingers along the seam of her bust to find out for sure.

Easy access, the way I like it.

She dismounts the stairs and all I can think about is, how the hell am I not fucking her already? She wants me. I want her. Usually, the only thing that’s hard at this point is the twelve inches of cock I’m about to sink into the cunt of my choosing; but Vivienne is something else.

She might look easy at first glance, but the second she opens that pretty mouth, she proves to be more difficult than anyone would ever imagine.

“You can stare all you like,” she reminds me, leaning in. Her breath is hot and humid against my ear. It makes me think about how fucking good her breath would feel a little further south—catch my drift? “But it won’t make this dress any less opaque.”

“Lucky me, then,” I counter. “You’re not leaving much to the imagination.”

“You’re a King, David. I’m sure you’re familiar with charity work.” She sashays past me and I follow on her heels like the hungry dog that I am. “Imagining me out of this dress is as far as you’ll get.”

We’ll see about that.

Vivienne Taylor. She fucking excites me. In a world full of women who will throw themselves at my royal boots just for a chance to slob the royal knob, she’s a challenge.

What kind of King would I be if I wasn’t willing to rise to the occasion?

In more ways than one, for that matter.

Walking isn’t easy with twelve inches of hard, throbbing dick pressed against your thigh, but I manage. Vivienne moves like a fucking dream, and I move like a caveman preparing to club her over the head and drag her back to my fire to have my way with her—but it’s the only way to reach the royal limousine.

There are benefits to having a driver after all, and one of them is that for the entire ride to the ball, I have Vivienne and her perfectly slutty ball gown all to myself.

“So,” I say, climbing in next to her. “if there’s no chance of getting you out of this gown…what does a King have to do to get into it?”

“It’s not your color, darling—and you don’t have the legs to pull it off, I’m afraid.”

Ouch. Ice cold, Ms. Taylor.

I can tell I have to up my game with this woman. But, luckily, getting it up has never been a problem for me.

“Why don’t you pull it off for me, then?” I take her gorgeously shaped chin between my index finger and thumb, so I can turn her face toward mine. “I’m sure you’d look just as lovely with your skirt over your head.”

I place my hand on her exposed knee and start moving it north, up the long, slender expanse of her warm, smooth thigh.

“Mmm, King David…” she moans, and I’m sure that I’ve got her. But then, she looks at me in that way—with a sparkle in her eye that I know means she’s far from surrendering quite yet. “If only you looked so dashing with your foot in your mouth.”

She catches me inches from my destination and twists my arm hard enough that I know I’ll feel the tremendous pain in the morning.

Worth it.

“Let me remind you of our ground rules, David.”

“King David. I’m not overly fond of rules, love.”

“That’s exactly why I’m reminding you of them,” she says, leaning into me with a smug little whisper on her lips. “No fucking anyone. No alcohol. And you’re going to play nice tonight.”

“Darling,” I coo at her, leaning in even closer. Now our lips are just fractions of an inch apart—a gap that I’ll make her close before this ride is over. “You should know by now—I always play nice.”

She still has hold of my wrist—one of her many mistakes tonight, the first of which was to accept the invitation to this event in the first place. I grab her wrist in return and turn it over beneath my strong, broad palm. Vivienne might like to play tough—but I know how to play tougher.

She hisses as I do it—seems that my little pet for the evening doesn’t like receiving the way that she’s giving.

“You call that nice?” she asks, scowling at me. But there’s a hunger in her eyes that she can’t deny, and, as I inhale, it’s only further confirmed.

“I do, especially considering how naughty you’ve been.”

“Naughty? Me?”

She raises an eyebrow at me in question, and I grin, teasing the hem of her skirt once again.

“Word to the wise, love.” I dip my nose to the crook of her neck, breathing her in—but it’s not just her skin that I’m smelling. “If you’re going to get this wet around me…wear panties next time. You smell like a bitch in heat.”

I expect her to stiffen at my mention of how fucking dripping she is with desire right now. But instead, as I slip my fingers beneath her skirt, she gives me a single, coy smile and shifts her knees a little further apart.

Well, well.

Looks like I’ve got a long night ahead of me—and the first of Vivienne’s rules is ready to be broken.