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“What the fuck is your problem?” I shout as he shucks the white coat off his shoulders and hangs it on the hook.

“Oh, Princess, you have no idea how many problems I have.” He laughs darkly and runs his hands through his hair. “And getting you off is the least of them.”

He grabs the door handle and I probably only say it because he’s not facing me. “You can’t do it?” I know what I felt when I touched his crotch. Nothing. Flat and unaroused. But I also saw the look in his eye. “You do like women. And you do find me attractive.” I slide off the table. “You just can’t get it up, can you?”

I wait for something, a spark of denial, that angry, dirty, mouth to lay into me. But he just leaves the room–leaves me wanting once again–this time for answers. Because who the fuck appoints an impotent man to be the Prince?

18

Wicker

Some girls’whole strut changes when they’re in a skirt. Their asses are a little perkier. Their shoulders are a little straighter. Their legs seem a little longer. Verity always wears skirts, but she wears them like she wears pants. Just clothing. There to cover up her ass, but nothing special in her mind.

This morning, it’s different.

I know the second I enter the dining room, laying my eyes on her calves, that something has changed.

She’s wearing fishnet stockings.

All the blood rushes to my cock. There’s something about watching a good girl try to be bad that flips my switch like no other, and right now, all I want to do is see how far she’s committing to the role. Apparently pretty far, because when her kohl-lined eyes peer up at me, it’s to slot a bright red cherry tomato between her lush, garnet-painted lips, and I realize why my cock surges so eagerly.

It’s because she doesn’t look like a Princess.

She looks like a cutslut.

People can say what they will about West End, but Jesus fuck, their girls know what’s good.

I’m still soaking it in when she rises to her feet, planting her hands on my shoulders. She shoves, sending me sprawling into the chair behind me, and then she climbs into my lap, one fishnet-covered leg at a time.

“Fuck,” I breathe, running my palm up a thigh. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”

Finally.

Some real action.

“Stop humping my leg.”

I grab her hip, pulling her close. My cock slots between her legs and—

“Goddamn it, Wicker! Wake up, asshole.”

My eyes flutter open to find Lex glaring back at me. The sight of my brother’s annoyed expression does nothing to quell my erection. I hear Pace snoring softly behind me.

“You were drilling into my thigh,” Lex says, voice quiet. “If you come on my leg, I’ll castrate you.”

“Fuck.” I scrub one hand over my face and the other down to my throbbing balls. “What time is it?”

He twists, the face of his watch illuminating his forehead. “Three.”

“In the morning?” I ask, but I’m already moving, kicking my way out of the sheets. I hadn’t even meant to fall asleep here. I’d come into Lex’s room to pass the time until midnight, but these two fuckers were already asleep. No one to keep me occupied. Between hockey, cello practice, academics, Prince bullshit, and my varied obligations to Father’s businesses, I’m running on an empty tank.

Time to fill that sucker up.

Pace huffs as I jostle him, grabbing the edge and rolling into his pillow. After boarding school, a few years of Father, dorms, prison fights, and non-stop noise, he can sleep through almost anything.

“Where are you going?” Lex asks, propping up on an elbow.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Oh, I was just gonna pop out to play a game of cricket.” I jab a thumb at the door. “It’s three hours into my day, and I haven’t nutted yet. Where the fuck do you think I’m going?”