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I grin hungrily.

Tell me what you’re dreaming about, princess…

The sound of my zipper is loud in the quiet room as I ease it down and reach inside. I take my cock in my hand and pull it out, stroking it thicker and harder, making it pulse and lengthen in my hand.

My eyes sweep over her as I start to stroke with fuller, tighter jerks of my hand. My eyes stay locked on her body: the way her lips part slightly in her sleep. The way her brow twitches like she’s dreaming.

About me? Or not?

I’ll have to make sure it’s the former.Always.

I roll one of her nipples between my thumb and forefinger—not enough to wake her, just enough to bring a soft whimper to her sleeping lips. Her chest rises, back arching against my hand as I bring the soft pink bud to a stiff point.

My hand drifts back down between her thighs. I stroke a finger over her lips, my dick twitching as I feel the dewy wetness there. The heat. Theneed.

I find her swollen clit and start to roll it gently in soft, slow circles. Milena’s brow caves slightly in pleasure, her mouth falling open a bit more. She moans softly, her body shifting and her hips rising a little.

My hand jerks my cock harder, my blood roaring in my veins as I let my eyes feast on her bare skin. My fingers roll her clit faster and faster. The wet sound of her eager little cunt fills the room. Precum beads on the thick, swollen head of my dick, and it drips down to splatter across her stomach.

Her hips move faster. Her breath catches and quickens. Her thighs clench and her stomach tightens as her greedy little pussy coats my fingers in her slick arousal.

“Yes…”

When she breaks, it’s like a wave cresting as her body arcs slightly off the bed, her breath catching and her swollen clit pulsing against my fingers as she shatters for me.

I’m right behind her.

I come with a slow, controlled exhale, spilling thick ropes of my white, sticky cum across her lower stomach. I groan, painting her flushed, swollen pussy with more of it, and then for goodmeasure I aim higher, spilling it across her tits, watching the pearly white wetness trickle down over her pale pink nipples.

When I’m done, she’s a fucking mess, splattered with thick ropes of cum, from her tits down to her throbbing, pink pussy.

Messy anddeliberate.

Perfection.

I let my breath quiet before I reach for her tank and tug it down. I pull her shorts and panties back into place, relishing the way my cum soaks through them.

She’ll know I was here.

Good.

By the timeI get home, the sky’s starting to shift from pure black to the slight blue it bleeds into before dawn.

“Home” these days is actuallyhome: as in, the one I grew up in on West 72ndand Central Park West—a towering building that's a mix of gothic and mid-century modern next to the infamous Dakota Building, where John Lennon was shot.

I loved this house growing up. Loved that I could look out my bedroom window and gaze into Central Park. Loved being able to walk across the street to Strawberry Fields, the Central Park memorial to Lennon, and to the one next to it memorializing Iggy Watts from Velvet Guillotine.

I loved the joy in this house: my mother playing piano beautifully, my father singing terribly, my sister and I grinning from ear to ear as they serenaded us.

It was a happy home. It’s probably the only reason I survived what happened when I was thirteen. But these days, home is less a home and more a mausoleum. I still have warm memories of the place, but they’re mixed with the ache that comes with them. It’s become a crossroads where memories dance with ghosts.

After our parents were killed, and I was thrust from prince to king, I moved Gabriella and I out of this place and into a modern penthouse further downtown. She was about to start Knightsblood University anyway.

But a year ago, I moved back, mostly at the urging of Aldo, who thought it would be good for the empire if my seat of power was the same as my father’s.

He’s probably right. He usually is. Dominic is myconsigliere, but Aldo was my father's for decades, as well as his close friend. He will forever hold a place of immeasurable importance in this family, plus his intuition isflawless.

Just the same, a year in, I still don’t know how I feel about being back here. Gabriella has her own place in Soho—ofcourse—which means it’s just me in this eighteen-thousand-square-foot memorial to a happier time.