Page 42 of The Princess and the P.I.

r/PrivateDicksandJanes

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moneyfancam: The fundie they arrested having brunch in Tysons in a skin-tight yoga top?

moneyfancam: I bet she’s not thinking about repenting now.

“Maurice, if you have us at the IHOP, I will—”

“No, it’s a fancy place with caviar burgers and whatever else y’all princesses like to eat.

” Maurice had a cartoonishly simple palate.

Fiona knew from his countless egg and plain rice and chicken breast meals.

He always knew exactly what he was going to order from every menu, so it struck her as odd that he, with a laundry list of allergies, was winging it with a complex menu.

They made their way out to brunch, and Maurice held back a few paces and walked with her, letting his shoulder bounce off her and their knuckles touch occasionally. He was talking a lot.

Like, so much.

He could have been revealing the secret behind crop circles, and Fiona wouldn’t have known. He was nervous. But she didn’t know why.

Her outfit? This was the least amazing thing in her bags.

The tiny racerback cami was supposed to be her size, but the tops of her breasts were exposed to the world, pushing out of the cups.

The matching jacket skimmed her body, and she zipped it all the way up to her chin.

The pants were so tight on her bottom that they separated the cheeks of her butt and outlined her body in a way that could only be described as extremely anatomically adjacent to nudity.

This wasn’t even the most expensive outfit she’d tried on.

By the time they were seated, Fiona was on her third and final bit of ungoogleable intel.

“Maurice used to love her! But she’s like a trad wife now up in Maine—married to some Native American lumberjack.”

Ca-ching! Maurice held up three slim fingers and then, unceremoniously, suggested that his sisters leave.

Liza grabbed her purse, and the other two clucked their tongues.

“Brunch is on you,” Liza stated, and ordered the famous arroz caldo to go. They left with the same slow-motion, hair-swinging movie-closeup glamour they came with, snatching the attention of the patrons and servers.

Maurice, however, was already focused elsewhere. “Okay,” he said, pushing back his chair and standing. “Now we go.”

“Go where?” Fiona asked.

He didn’t answer, only gestured for her to follow.

They wove through the dining rooms, the gentle clinking of glasses, and low hum of conversation until Maurice turned a sharp left, leading her toward a door marked Private Dining in elegant gold script.

A hostess with baby hairs combed all the way to her eyebrows and clicky nails stood guard outside the doors.

She looked them both up and down first but waved Maurice through with a slight nod. Maybe Maurice was a regular.

The door opened to another world. The low ceiling made the room feel intimate, almost conspiratorial, with wooden beams polished to a bright finish.

Delicate shoji divided the space into private alcoves, their rice paper glowing faintly from the warm light of well-placed lanterns.

Tatami stretched across the floor, and the scent of matcha hung in the air. Everything was meticulously curated.

Almost everything.

In the far corner of the room, an ornate wooden wardrobe sat like a forgotten relic from a Victorian parlor. Its clawed feet and swirling carvings of vines and cherubs clashed wildly with the tearoom’s serene ambiance.

Fiona’s brow furrowed. “That’s…not Japanese.”

“Very astute.” Maurice’s tone was dry. “We’re going to hide and listen in on a meeting.”

“Where?” Fiona looked around at the very intentional minimalism.

“In there.” Maurice pointed to the wardrobe like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Okay, no, I’m not suffocating in a dusty wardrobe. What happens when people actually need to hang their coats?”

“Then we’re cooked.”

“Maurice, this is the stupidest of stupid ideas.”

“Fiona, focus.” He leaned in. “Think of it as a tactical observation point. This place is a hub for DC backdoor deals and handshake promises. You think people come here just for the sushi? People are going to speak freely here.”

“ What are people speaking freely about?”

“Using my non-Reddit actual detective work, I scanned Mark’s secretary’s trash with all of his color-coded schedules and I see these lunch meetings everywhere. He’s wooing buyers, Fiona. At least ten of these meetings set up across the city. This is our shot to hear what he’s selling.”

Fiona stared at the wardrobe, then back at Maurice. “That looks too small.”

Maurice shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’ve been tighter.”

Everything from Fiona’s toes to the whites of her eyes felt like it was on fire. Would this feeling ever die down? This high keening in her ears, the blood rushing away from her brain. She needed her brain.

Maurice was already striding toward the wardrobe, opening its heavy wooden doors to reveal an interior lined with velvet. Wire hangers and an old pashmina shawl swung slowly from the hanging rod inside. The space was just big enough for the two of them to squeeze in.

He stepped in and turned back to her, holding out a hand.

“Trust me,” he said.

Fiona hesitated. This was insane, but she stepped into the wardrobe anyway, and Maurice pulled the door closed behind her.

Maurice knelt on the creaking velvet floor of the wardrobe, his shoulders hunched to fit beneath the low-hanging rail.

His breath came in shallow, measured puffs, and Fiona couldn’t help but notice the way his head ducked, his face angled away from her.

He would break his neck trying to avoid her protruding bosom.

Fiona had the distinct, rising sense that he was trying not to touch her. Why?

That night on the couch, had it not meant what she thought? Her sister’s warning ran through her. He had gotten what he wanted.

But Fiona hadn’t.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He looked instead at the wall, the ceiling, then quick flickers at her breasts, her hips. He flinched each time, like he’d burned himself.

Oh this won’t do. I will do the time for stealing, but I am not going down a virgin.

She swallowed and reached for the zipper of her jacket. Slow. Casual. Feigning heat but watching his throat bob once, hard. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

What kind of vow had he made to himself? Some internal rulebook? Don’t kiss the suspects? Don’t touch the girls behind the glass?

“Are you comfortable?” she whispered.

“It’s tight, but…” he muttered. His voice rumbled against her belly, where his chin nearly rested. “I don’t mind being on my knees. I just need something soft under me.”

He tugged the shawl from the wire hanger and folded it into a cushion beneath his knees. He teetered forward, and she released a shaky breath.

“There’s this tag on the inside,” Fiona said, shifting closer. “It’s driving me crazy. Could you…get it?”

“Me?” His voice cracked.

“You,” Fiona said. Too close now. On purpose.

His fingers found the hem of her tiny top, and with a slow motion, he rolled it up.

The fabric gave way, inch by inch, his knuckles grazing her skin.

The fabric shifted even higher, and suddenly the undersides of her breasts were bare.

Before she could react, his lips brushed against the sensitive skin, sending an accidental gasp up into the room.

“Yeah, I’ll find the tag.” His voice had dropped a register, and Fiona knew she had won something, because he gave up whatever gallantry was holding him back and snuggled—there was no better word for it—right into the curve of her breasts, his soft cheek and then his mouth brushing the peaks of her breasts until her nipples hardened.

Slowly, he pushed the fabric higher. The cool air kissed the dark, pebbled skin of her areolas.

But it was his gaze that burned. He looked at her like he had always planned to be right here with her.

His mouth closed over her nipple, hot and silken, tongue sweeping over the sensitive peak. Her breath left her in a rush. Every muscle in her body tensed. She clamped her lips shut to keep from crying out, from giving herself away.

His tongue curled, teasing, his lips tugging her deeper into a slow, wet pull that had her head knocking against the wardrobe.

Footsteps shuffled just outside.

“Look, I can lose my job for letting folks in here. So, whoever is slurping—” Fiona clapped a hand over her mouth.

The voice continued, exasperated. “We can hear y’all’s asses in the hall!”

Silence. Then the footsteps retreated.

Maurice pulled her top back down, smoothing it over her wet, aching nipple, then—because he was an actual menace—patted it. Apologetically.

Fiona let out a shaky sigh, chest rising and falling like she had just run a marathon.

“We’re losing the plot.” Maurice sighed shakily.

She nodded and zipped her jacket back up to her neck.

She had to tell him, right? I think we can really be something?

No. Maybe a simple We are perfect together.

All of this felt false. But she was too chicken to say what was really happening—that he had taken root in her somehow, somewhere between her lungs and solar plexus, and she wanted to nurture it. I will not shrink , she thought.

“Maurice,” she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his words were low, almost dangerous in its softness.

“This isn’t easy for me to say ’cause I’m harder than a Bangladeshi crossword puzzle right now, but you know this can’t go further.

You…You’ve got a deadline, Fiona. November fifteenth.

We’re doing what we can for the murder charges, but…

you’re looking at a couple years for that vest.”

Fiona’s eyes burned. “So hands off the doomed girl. Got it.”

The footsteps outside the wardrobe grew louder, voices carrying over the hush of the matted room. Maurice shifted, his grip on her left hip tightening momentarily before he let her go.

He put his mic on.