The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Page 5

  I continue fucking her with her own cum acting as a lube, letting me slide in and out of her more easily. She’s so far over the edge that she’s leaned back with her bottom lip bitten and her hands in her hair gripping tight.

  I rotate my hips around and maneuver my cock into the rest of her pussy, hitting the inside of all her walls. My thrusts grow more powerful and dramatic.

  With no notice, or warning, Percy sprays cum onto my abdomen and my cock. Some of it even reaches my face.

  I close my eyes and start panting under her. My muscles are all tense, and I’m sure my veins are pulsing through my skin. I’m glistening with sweat and Percy’s cum.

  I wrap my arms around Percy’s waist, and I pump hard into her as my cock starts shooting my cum into her pussy. Each pump is another jolt of pleasure coursing through me.

  With her tits pressed hard against my cum-soaked shirt and her pussy wrapped tightly around my cock, I’m in heaven. Percy grabs my face and kisses me passionately as the last few spurts of my cum gets into her pussy.

  We make out, both of us high from orgasm. I notice Percy’s hair is slightly damp from all of our intense choreography as I push my fingers through her mane.

  She hops off of my cock and stares at me, fairly dazed from it all. She sits back in her seat, and I watch her slump down and breathe heavy, trying to relax herself from the latest round of crazy, wild sex that just comes out of nowhere when we’re together.

  I feel a bit guilty that I haven’t let her experience the beauty of the universe, but on the other hand, I feel like she’s having a hell of a time from this.

  I pull Percy off her chair and have her curl up in my lap, so she can sit back and enjoy this gorgeous view. I stroke her sweaty hair and kiss her forehead.

  10

  Percy

  Saturday 11:23 Am

  Shit. That all really fucking happened. I really fucking bumped uglies with some random guy last night.

  I don’t even have any idea who he is. For the life of me, I can’t picture his face or remember anything about him other than riding his magnificent cock.

  I can’t say I’m shocked I hit the rebound already. I did definitely break up with Anton last night, and I wouldn’t admit it if someone asked, but it kind of fucked with me.

  I have some real feelings for my handsome Silver Fox, but I just cannot stand the thought of being tied down forever. I don’t know how to be someone’s wife.

  I take a sip of my coffee, trying to concentrate to form a face on my mind. If I can remember what he looked like, surely I can find him somewhere in the city.

  If we were all here, there’s got to be a good chance he’s still around today. At least I hope.

  I swallow the hot liquid and sigh. We’d have to be pretty fucking lucky to find him though. It’s not exactly like we can just go around and ask.

  Like, excuse me, have you seen a possibly attractive man with an unusually large cock around?

  “Awfully quiet there, Perce. What’s up?” Mysti asks, a look of concern spread across her face.

  “It’s this fucking mystery guy! I can still feel his cock inside me, but I can’t remember his face for the life of me.”

  Everyone’s eyes grow wide.

  Oops.

  “Oh, right. So I just had this massive recollection of being here last night. So like, we drank that absinthe. When I started tripping, I got a little handsy with someone in this coffee shop, and we ended up fucking on the table.”

  “Oh,” Becky interjects. “Well, that’s something. Was it light or dark out when we were here?”

  “I have no fucking idea. I was seriously tripping hard; the sky could have been green for all I know.”

  “Touché,” Sammi adds. “Well, at least that’s something. Maybe the more we think about the night and just go through it all, the more we’ll remember what happened.”

  We all pause, silently trying our best to recall anything and everything we can from last night. Much to our dismay, we make no headway.

  “Oh! I know! Check your pockets!” Becky shouts.

  “Good call!” I reply.

  We all fish through our pockets, turning the lining inside out and putting everything shy of pocket lint onto the table.

  I pull just a handful of money, my earrings, and a bottle opener from my own pocket. When my hand rests on the table along with the others, I notice something really strange.

  We all have the same stamp on our right hands. It’s a circle with some kind of tribal symbol.

  I pass my finger over it. It doesn’t smear, but because it doesn’t hurt at all, I can be sure it’s not a fucking tattoo. Because that’s all any of us would need right now.

  “Where is this from?” I ask. “Have any of you seen this symbol?”

  “Nope. I have no idea.” Mysti responds.

  “I think I might know!” Sammi chimes in.

  Thank fucking God.

  “Okay, great! Where?” I ask.

  “Okay, so I kind of remember seeing a lot of people with this symbol on their hand around us. We were at some kind of bar or club,” Sammi divulges.

  “Perfect! So we just need to find out where,” I say. I look around the coffee shop, spot our waitress and hail her.

  “Can I get you all something else?” she asks kindly.

  “Oh, no, we’re fine. I was just curious. Do you know where this stamp is from?” I ask, raising my hand so she can look at it, putting the marking into full view.

  “Of course! It’s Ménage à Fête. We aren’t terribly far. I can write down the directions on foot for you if you’d like to go check it out.”

  “That would be so helpful! Thank you!” I exclaim.

  “No problem, ma’am. Give me a moment, and I’ll give you what you need so you can be on your way,” she responds.

  Thank God. We need some kind of answer for what we’re dealing with right now.

  “Hey! Stop that!” Mysti shouts, chastising the toddler for tugging at her bracelets.

  Wait. Bracelets?

  As the child wails in discontent, I look down at my wrist to see the same colorful jelly band bracelets stacked on it. Becky and Sammi are wearing them too.

  I bet they came from the same place.

  “Hey, baby. It’s okay! Don’t cry! Here, do you want the bracelet? You can just have it,” I hear Mysti say, trying to get the kid to stop screeching.

  Today serves as a perfect reminder as to why I didn’t want to settle down in the first place. I’m not the kind of woman that can just be someone’s wife and eventually someone’s mom.

  The very thought shakes me to my core. I’m out for myself and myself alone. I don’t need a man, I don’t even need a pet. I’ve done just fine my entire life without.

  Mysti finally gets the toddler to stop hollering, instead the kid is now taking sips of water on her lap.

  Becky is gazing at her, probably jealous of how well Mysti is handling everything. Being pregnant, I bet she’s terrified of making mistakes as a parent. It stresses her out about eighty six percent of the time.

  Speaking of pregnant.

  “Hey. guys! Why the fuck are there loads of positive pregnancy tests in the hotel room?” I ask.

  I’m a little worried about the answer. One of us is already knocked up, and I’m already weirded out by that.

  “I don’t know! I was wondering the same thing!” Sammi says.

  “Yeah, I’ve got no real clue,” Becky says.

  “Well, of course you don’t. We all know you’re pregnant,” I say.

  Which leaves Mysti. We all stare hard at her as she pats the head of this small kid. She notices that we’re waiting for her answer.

  “Me?! Pregnant?” she shouts. “Do you know how much of a train-wreck I’d be right now if I am?”

  “Well, they’re someone’s!” I reply.

  “Okay, so why don’t we all take one and find out?” Mysti snaps back.

  “Not right now. There’s some really important shit
I need to know before I even think about getting into all that.” I answer.

  “Here you go!” the waitress says, approaching the table with a folded piece of paper. “This should get you there just fine. It’s only a few blocks, maybe thirty minutes or so.”

  “Okay, great! Thank you so much!” I say. “Alright, everyone. Let’s go.”

  We all stand from the table. I leave cash to pay for our drinks, and we make our way to Ménage à Fête.

  11

  Anton

  Saturday 12:07 Pm

  Even in the early afternoon the club—my club—is filled with the hottest young bodies the city has to offer.

  The club has been busy since nine o’clock in the morning and it’s been a party since.

  Everyone is on the dance floor moving and grinding as if they were fucking rather than dancing. And—given the foam everywhere—I’m pretty sure more than a handful of them are fucking.

  Shit, I was fucking in it just last night. And this is exactly how I want it.

  Ménage à Fête is where you go when you want to let it out and enjoy all la petite mort that life offers.

  Isabella brings me a bottle of Heineken to the VIP lounge with a smile.

  “Thank you, Izzy.”

  “Or course, Mr. Lanteri. Anything for you, sir.”

  I look her up and down, admiring her. Her cheeks turn a rosy pink, and she looks away as she blushes.

  Isabella is a leggy brunette with all the right curves. Her shiny, silver dress hugs her shapely body in all the right places.

  She’s sex in heels. It’s why I hired her.

  It’s also why she makes a killing in tips being my VIP hostess.

  But as hot as she is, she’s no Percy. Nonetheless, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy and appreciate the view. And I know with certainty Isabella enjoys the attention.

  The woman would be on my cock in under five seconds if I asked her to wrap those pouty lips of hers around it. And not because I’m her boss.

  No, she’d do it because she want to.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Those dark chocolate eyes of hers are begging for me to ask her to fuck.

  “No, not right now, Izzy. Though I may ask for your services later,” I tease with a lick of my lips.

  She turns and walks away with an extra sway in her hips.

  The problem with women like Izzy is that they are just too damn obvious, even if they don’t come out and say it.

  They flaunt their tits and shake their ass to entice you, but they don’t have the fucking balls to take it. They play coy even when their cunts drip because of an extra long gaze.

  Percy, on the other hand. That’s a woman who takes what she wants, when she wants, and where she wants. Consequences be fucked.

  And if Percy doesn’t want it—which is pretty fucking rare for that woman—she’s not afraid to let it be known.

  She’s a woman with balls bigger than most men I know.

  The chill of the dark bottle touches my moist lips as the sight of Percy and her friends comes into my view.

  From the VIP Lounge, I can look down onto the entryway and the dance floor without being seen. I could have Percy bouncing on my cock like I was a bouncy castle, and nobody outside the lounge would ever notice.

  Every time I see Percy, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time all over again.

  Her hair is as golden as the afternoon sun and shines just as brightly thanks to her fair skin. It sways likes waves cascading against the shore that is her body.

  Her eyes are this incredibly sexy mix of amber and jade that no gem on Earth could ever hope to match in beauty.

  But if I had to pick my favorite feature, it’s got to be her mouth. Percy’s lips are so full, soft, and supple that feeling them on my own—and my cock—is more akin to a religious experience than anything else.

  And then there are her curves. Those cock stiffening curves.

  I’ve always loved Percy’s body—even at her biggest I loved all of her—and I was more than a bit concerned that she was going to lose all those curves when she told me she had sworn off carbs.

  Fuck, I tried to talk her out of it.

  She didn’t listen obviously.

  But when I saw her after that conversation, I took her then and there in the hallway of her apartment building.

  Percy’s tits stayed round, firm, and as plentiful as the Swiss Alps.

  Her ass is still just as bountiful and glorious that Sir Mix-A-Lot would shed a fucking tear at the sight.

  And her slender waist makes the sway of her hips all the more obvious and eye catching.

  But then Percy has always known how to carry herself in the sexiest of ways.

  It’s likely the reason as to why my mother—The Queen of Menage—detests Percy and my relationship with her. To my mother, Percy is just a gold digging slut of common blood.

  ‘Unsuitable for a man of my station and pedigree,’ is what she would say whenever Percy came up. I’ve been exposed to many royals from different countries and bloodlines all my life. None of them could ever hold a candle to Percy.

  Not only does Percy make my cock stiff. Not only does she fuck me like she’s the living embodiment of sex—which I personally think she is—but the woman is far more intelligent than people think.

  I’d dare say that even her friends don’t realize just how incredibly brilliant Percy is.

  Percy is the total fucking package.

  She can suck my cock and swallow every last fucking drop of my cum one moment, and then talk about the economic collapse of Germany after the end of World War I the next.

  She’s a far cry from the blonde bimbo that most mistake her for.

  Like my mother. The woman is adamant that I get over my feelings for Percy and move on to someone “more appropriate.”

  That is complete fucking bullshit.

  I refuse to allow my marriage to ever be one of dullness and frivolous fucking boredom.

  I need a marriage that brings excitement. A wife that challenges me intellectually just as much as she does in the bedroom.

  Any wife of mine must hold a zeal and lust for life and adventure as much as I do.

  I don’t need—and can’t fucking stand—these prissy, stuck up princesses who would act like I pissed on the bones of their ancestors because I decided to shove my cock in her ass and call her a “slut.”

  That is a life that has never been—no will it ever be—for me. Percy gives me all of that and more. As I’m the future fucking King of Menage I fucking deserve it.

  Prince Anton Lanteri doesn’t settle for less than he fucking deserves, wants, or demands.

  Period. End of fucking story.

  Mother will come around.

  Eventually.

  And if not? Well, she’ll croak eventually.

  Besides, it’s not like she can really say shit anyway after last night.

  I tilt the bottle up and finish the beer in one long drink.

  Standing from the plush leather couch, I watch Percy venture into the sea of gyrating bodies and foam.

  I fasten the top button of my jacket and stroll into the crowd as well.

  Memories of last night dance about in the back of my mind has me smiling and my cock twitching with excitement.

  Moving through my patrons isn’t all that hard when everyone moves the fuck out of the way.

  There’s no need to say “excuse me” or “pardon me” when you’re me.

  I’m an imposing figure. I’m nearly six and a half feet tall with a body that looks as though it was sculpted from marble by Donatello and Michelangelo themselves. Even Sammi’s husband Lock has to look up at me.

  But even without all that people know better than to get in my fucking way.

  I expect a decent amount respect and courtesy.

  Even if Menage is a small, lesser known country, I’m still fucking royalty.

  I’m a future fucking king.

  So when a man of my station and s
tature moves through a crowd, people fucking move because they know better.

  Especially when I want to go dance with my sexy fucking queen.

  12

  Percy

  Saturday 12:11 Pm

  I may not recognize the club, but my body fucking does.

  As we walk through the entryway, my nipples get hard and my pussy wet. I feel like Pavlov’s fucking dog, only instead of steaks and whistles—it’s a club floor wreaking of alcohol, and my pussy that wants feeding.

  The place doesn’t hold that much appeal to me. It’s not the look—the club is swanky as fuck—but it’s the DJ’s choice in music.

  I hate fucking techno Eurotrash music. Give me something you can really fuck to—like a bitching 80s Hair Metal band. Like fucking Mötley Crüe.

  Now that’s a band you can get down and fuck to.

  I know this because I’ve done it, sometimes even behind closed doors.

  The club’s music has a good beat—I could totally get into a blowjob listening to it—but it lacks soul that you get with hair metal. But that was the beauty of the 80s. They sang just as much from the heart as they did from the hair.

  “Hey Sam—”

  I turn, expecting to see Sammi beside me, only she isn’t there.

  Then I turn the other direction hoping to see Mysti May, but she’s gone too.

  Fucking bitches.

  The sound of Mysti’s giggle from behind me makes me spin around.

  I can’t help but scoff when I see them.

  Mysti and Becky are throwing foam around at each other like they’re giddy little school girls.

  Sammi looks like she’s trying to make a foam party shark—which she’ll probably want to save later since it’ll be the only one of its kind.

  Between them, a tiny bear-wearing toddler—with enough foam around his face that he looks like a rabid cub—is chasing bubbles like a bubble junkie.

  When Becky and Sammi get into this shit, it’s all hands on deck. But when it’s me in the driver seat, it’s fucking party central.