When the cab drops me off, I stare at my destination in disbelief.
The Palace Hotel looks exactly how you’d expect—like a palace. A mixture of different European architecture styles has clearly influenced its design, with a little bit of everything from the Kremlin to Buckingham Palace. Inside, the giant lobby is consistent with the “hybrid of all palaces” motif: Russian icons share space with Italian frescos, and the people—probably porters—are dressed in capes, bicorns, and garish pantaloons.
Clarice would love this, especially all the colorful parrots hanging out in decorative cages. If it weren’t for Hannibal, her cat, Clarice would probably own a parrot and train him to sit on her shoulder.
My sister Blue, on the other hand, would have a panic attack if she ended up here. Parrots to her are what Stephen King’s clowns are to the rest of us. Oh, and if Blue could somehow survive seeing the parrots, the peacocks roaming the lobby would finish her off.
Aren’t peacocks a rich people cliché?
When I was little, I mistakenly thought they were called pee-cocks, which isn’t all that dumb if you think about it: pee comes from cocks, while peas and cocks have nothing in common. When I got older, I found it ironic that these birds (like all birds) don’t pee. Instead, they expel a hybrid of urine and poo from an organ called a cloaca. They don’t have cocks either—again, only the aforementioned cloaca.
My etymological/ornithological musings are interrupted by Tigger, who steps out of the elevator and comes my way.
Huh.
He’s actually doing it.
He’s wearing a shirt that proudly states “I want to be a mermaid,” and his jeans are embroidered with pictures of Ariel before she grew legs. How did he get that done so fast? I can’t imagine adult jeans for men are sold this way. Unless they are, and I’m just uninformed?
Is he wearing mermaid underwear too?
Nah, doubt it. Because how would I know it if he were? Also, he was commando last time.
What’s mind-boggling is that despite this outfit, he looks sexy as sin. It reminds me of another ad: “When he holds a lady’s purse, he looks manly.”
It helps that the shirt is tight, and the pants showcase his muscular legs.
“Hi,” he says, dragging a heated gaze over me.
I guess he appreciates the dressed-up vampire look. As anyone would.
I execute a curtsy. “Your Royal Heinie-ness. I bask in your majestic light.”
He responds with a courtly bow that wouldn’t be out of place in one of my twin’s favorite Masterpiece Theater shows. “You honor me, Your Honey-ness.”
“No, the honor is mine… Your Heinous-ness.” I grin. “Nice mermaids, by the way.”
He smirks. “I never welsh on a bet.”
I clutch my nonexistent pearls. “Isn’t that expression offensive to the Welsh?”
“Now you sound like my parents.” He gestures at the elevator. “My penthouse is just a ride away.”
He leads the way, allowing me to enjoy his jean-clad heinie.
Once we get into the elevator, despite it being roomy, I can’t help feeling like he’s taking up all the space.
It doesn’t help that he smells as delicious as the last time: notes of ocean surf mixed with something very lickable.
Stop it, Gia. That way lies catching feelings… and syphilis.
Thankfully, the ride up is blissfully short.
We step out into a spacious hallway and take a sharp right.
A pantalooned porter comes toward us, holding leashes attached to two familiar dogs: codenames Panda and Koala.
Seeing us, the beasts get excited.
I take a step back. “Please don’t let them slobber all over my face.”
The porter pulls on the leashes, and the dogs simply wag their tails with great enthusiasm.
“Afraid of dogs?” Tigger asks.
“I don’t let anyone lick my face, but especially creatures who are happy to eat poop.”
Tigger’s eyes roam over my face with great interest. Is he sad that licking it is now off the table?
The dogs pass by with great ruckus and once they’re gone, Tigger slides a room key through the reader on a nearby door. “In here.”
I step into his not-so-humble abode and do my best not to gawk.
It’s an entire suite, complete with its own full-sized kitchen. The view of Central Park from the nearby wall-to-ceiling window is spectacular, and the furniture is surprisingly modern considering the theme of the hotel. The strangest thing, though, is the assortment of flower arrangements scattered all over the living room.
Did a dozen of his female conquests leave their Valentine’s bouquets behind?
“You like?” Tigger asks, following my gaze.
“They’re beautiful.” I walk up to the nearest arrangement and smell one of the daisies. “Is this how your brother decorates every room?”
“Of course not.” He expertly rejiggles the bouquet that I’ve just sniffed, his hands moving in a practiced pattern that reminds me of a dance. “I make these myself.”
I gape at the readjusted arrangement. It looks even prettier than before, and it was already professional level.
I scan all the bouquets again. “You made these flower arrangements?”
He nods. “I practice a Ruskovian art form called kandelabr. It was inspired by ikebana.”
I hate his damn poker face. I have no clue if he’s messing with me. Ikebana is a Japanese art of flower arrangement—something I can easily picture a geisha doing, not this manly, daredevil prince.
Then again, why not? How is it all that different from something like gardening? And that’s unisex.
“It must be a soothing art to practice,” I say, examining the symmetrical patterns and blends of colors with renewed interest.
He grins. “That’s it exactly. My nanny taught this to me. The proverb ‘idle hands are the devil's workshop’ was particularly true in my case, so kandelabr was a godsend to everyone around me.”
I picture the adorable image of little Tigger playing with flowers, and a goofy grin twists my lips.
He clears his throat. “So… what lessons have you got for me today?”
Right. This isn’t a social visit.
I explain the breathing techniques I want him to work on, and he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by any of them. In general, he’s taking this seriously, so much so he’s prepared some medical gizmos to measure his body’s responses to the training. I only recognize two of them—an oxygen monitor that goes on his finger and a wristband to measure his heartbeat.
At my suggestion, he lies down on a nearby couch and practices each technique as I explain it.
I’m not an expert, but I think he makes a great student. I don’t have to explain anything more than once, and he excels in each technique straightaway.
Too bad all of it turns me on. When he exhales through pursed lips, I picture how they would feel on my clit. When he slides his finger into the oxygen monitor, I wish he were sliding it into me, and so on for the rest of the exercises.
“Great job,” I say when I run out of items to teach and feel like I’m on the verge of a libido explosion. “Now there’s just one more thing. Please stand up.”
He leaps to his feet and stretches, like a cat. Or a tiger.
As I approach him, his eyes widen, but he doesn’t say or do anything, just watches me… probably for a chance to pounce.
Acting as blasé as I can, I unbutton the top of his shirt.
For the first time today, his heartrate monitor starts beeping.
As I work on the next button, my inner magician can’t help herself. Furtively, I reach for his family-crest belt buckle with my other hand.
His eyes turn slitted and distinctly feline.
I unbutton the last shirt button. “Take it off.”
As he peels off the shirt, I decide he’s distracted enough to miss me stealing the belt, so that’s what I do while trying not to look at the smooth, hard-muscled male flesh revealed to my gaze.
By the time the belt is hidden behind my back, his shirt drops to the floor.
I gulp hard, stepping back.
If I had a heartrate monitor on me, it would short-circuit.
I can no longer not look, and what I see sends heat streaking straight to my clit.
Tigger has the lean, powerful, sharply defined muscles of a Greek god. I bet he can bench-press me—and if he did, I wouldn’t hold it against him… though I can think of other things, like body parts, that I do want to hold against him.
Is it even healthy to have so little body fat? At least for women, less than ten percent is dangerous, and he’s probably in the low single digits.
Well, good for his health or not, it looks amazing, so much so my ovaries go into overdrive. Or rather, ovarydrive.
A cocky smirk lifts the corners of his lips. “Like what you see?”
My cheeks burn as I flash back to the other time when he said that exact phrase: on the first day we met, after His Royal Hardness made an appearance.
Before I can make my mouth move, Tigger pounces.
Stepping closer, he dips his head.
Shocked, I stagger back. “What—what are you doing?”
The cocky smile disappears, replaced by confusion. “I’m sorry. I thought there was a vibe.”
“You were going to kiss me?” The question comes out in a squeal.
“Sorry.” He grabs his shirt and yanks it on. “I should’ve asked before going for it. It just seemed—never mind. My bad.”
He was going to kiss me?
Kiss me.
Him.
I shake my head to clear the fog in my brain. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to send you mixed signals.”
He buttons his shirt, sending my ovaries into mourning. “I take full responsibility.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I bite my lip. “I should’ve warned you why I asked you to take your shirt off.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
I swallow the drool left over from earlier. “According to my research, losing weight could help you hold your breath longer. More bang per your lung-capacity buck.”
“And?” The smirk is back.
“You don’t have much to lose. Here.” I pull his belt from behind my back without any flourish. I wish I hadn’t stolen it in the first place. “Remember how you wanted to see this trick once again? Now you have.”
He looks impressed as he takes the belt. Then a devious expression settles on his face. “Since the belt is already out, do you want to see if my legs have some fat I can shed? I’m sure that’s why you stole the belt in the first place—and not because you hoped things would go just like the last time.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Are you commando again?”
His smirk widens. “I don’t renege on bets. I owed you mermaid underwear, remember?”
Oh yeah. Thanks to the hormone overload, I almost forgot.
“I guess I have to check now.” I wish I felt as confident as I sound. “But no kissing.”
He looks amused as he drops his pants.
Houdini’s cock!
A distant part of me acknowledges that his briefs are indeed decorated with mermaids, but the rest of me is focused on how much His Royal Hardness is tenting said briefs. One of the mermaids looks like she’s lounging on a battle cannon.
I drag my eyes away and scan his legs.
Bad idea—assuming the goal was to tone down my horniness, that is.
His legs are as sexy and muscular as his upper body and almost make me want to put kissing back on the table.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he drawls.
“Nice mermaids,” I manage to say, returning my gaze back to his face. “No fat, though. Seems like losing weight won’t be a part of your curriculum. Please put your pants back on.”
As he dresses, his expression is darkly amused.
“So,” I say, doing my best to hide any disappointment from my voice. “See you next time?”
“No,” he says with the imperiousness befitting his station. “You must let me take you to dinner.”