Chapter 5
ROMAN
Amused, I lean forward, inching closer to where she is, and lower my voice. “Heartless? How can you say such a thing when, last night, I was so giving? Some might even say selfless.”
The apples of her cheeks instantly pinken, and she bats her lashes, gaze fluttering down to the small space between us.
She’s too adorable, all demure now, when her unabashed whimpers and moans from last night—begging for more, for me not to stop, to drive deeper inside her—still ring in my head. I’ve definitely committed all of it, all of her, to memory.
The vein in her neck throbs and her breath quickens as she steals a look at me. She’s only teasing, and I plan to do more of my own teasing.
Moving closer still, I sweep her hair back from her face, and my lips graze the shell of her ear. “While some parts of your body might have forgotten last night, I’m sure your pussy remembers.”
She sucks in a breath and we’re so close, I sense her internal quake as her body vibrates at the mere memory of us, and I love her reaction. Jane’s back there with me last night, in a tangle of lips and limbs.
“Roman.” She bites her bottom lip, eyes shiny with desire. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes, please.” My mouth drops to her neck for a kiss. “I love secrets.”
She shudders. “I had the biggest crush on you when I was younger.”
Pulling back to face her, I twist my features, bemused. “Had? Is that a thing of the past?”
“Funny.” A dimple appears on one cheek as she fights her smile, and something squeezes my chest at how much I like this.
Our conversations.
The fucking unparalleled sex.
Jane.
She brushes a quick kiss against my mouth. “Like you need me to answer that.”
“Well, Jane Hastings, I have the biggest crush on you.” I’m showering her with kisses, each one longer and wetter than the last, when a loud knock startles me.
Dark brows draw together over her ocean eyes. “Who could that be?”
“Oh, shit, I almost forgot. I arranged for us to have massages.” I spring from the table and tighten my robe while mentally reciting the periodic table of elements—I’m no scientist, but as an easily excited teenager, I quickly discovered that shit would kill any boner.
Jane follows me. “What? Massages? Now?”
“Yup. They’ll set up in here.” I motion to the living room. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom, and I’ll join you in a minute.”
She giggles, clearly excited, and sprints away as I swing the door open to greet the two massage therapists standing in the hallway.
The man and woman get to work, moving around furniture and setting up their tables, and as promised, I venture to the bedroom where I find a nervous Jane.
“I’ve never had a massage before.” She bats her arms around. “What do I wear?”
“Nothing.”
Both her eyes and mouth widen. “What? Naked? No way.”
“Well, a massage is best naked. They use oils, and if you want, you can keep your underwear on, but you don’t need to. They cover you with a sheet.”
“I don’t have any underwear on,” she whisper-shouts, and it’s cute to see how flustered she’s getting over something that’s supposed to be calming.
“Hey, relax. Just go out in the robe. I’m going like this.” My hand waves down the robe I’m in and my bare feet.
“I don’t know.” She nibbles on her bottom lip, and my thumb tugs the tender flesh from her teeth.
“Jane, I promise you’ll enjoy this. I’ll be right beside you and afterward—” I gather her into my arms. “—we’ll get into the sauna, then slide into that great big tub together. I’ve been dying to get you in there. I want you to ride me hard.”
She gasps at the same time one of the therapists calls out to let us know they are ready for us.
Over the next hour and a half, Jane utters heavenly groans and mewls while the female therapist works on her limbs.
When we’d first appeared from the bedroom, the male masseuse had instructed Jane onto his table. Uh-uh, no fucking way.
I put a stop to that and we switched therapists. I wasn’t about to let another man touch her body.
Once the massage is over and we’re both loose-limbed and worry-free, I order a light snack while the two therapists pack up.
We linger in the living room as they maneuver their tables and supplies out of the suite.
As they are exiting, our food arrives. Room service waits in the hallway until the doorway is clear.
“You thirsty?” I hand her a bottle of water I’d taken from the hotel fridge before our massages, and she takes it, smiling her thanks.
Soon, we’re alone and take a few minutes to eat. Then, as promised, Jane and I continue our hedonistic pursuits in the sauna and bathtub without any thoughts of leaving the hotel, getting fresh air, or much else.
Much later, perched on the ottoman, she shifts closer toward the fire. “I feel like the world’s laziest person.”
Absentmindedly, I turn on my phone, reluctant to see what’s waiting for me but knowing I should check in again and maybe one more time later tonight.
As much as I want to shut out the outside world, I also want to be taken seriously. If I’m to be the head of a major production company, I can’t disappear whenever I like.
The phone vibrates incessantly the second it springs to life.
There are more than texts this time; there are also three missed calls.
I check the call log, not wanting to dial in and listen to the messages.
No surprise; one is from my father and the other, my assistant.
I’m sure neither of them liked my vague, noncommittal response earlier.
But the other missed call is from Hilary Montrose, the head of the public relations firm that my family employs, and there’s also a text from her.
I don’t open any of the texts. “Shit.”
The bone-melting sensation from the massage suddenly evaporates even though I don’t know what’s happened or why she’s reaching out. At this point, the details don’t matter; it’s never a good sign when Hilary contacts you.
“Everything okay?” Jane sweeps her legs over the ottoman to face me.
I shrug. “Maybe. Just checking messages.” Head still down, I opt for starting with Lainey, my assistant. While only five years older than I am, she’s a straight-shooter and wise. She’ll tell me like it is and prepare me for what Hilary wants.
I click on her name and a string of text messages pop up.
Lainey: WTF Roman?
Why couldn’t you tell me you’re in Houston?
She can’t be ticked off because I didn’t tell her where I am. She works for me. I keep reading.
Lainey: I’ve got your father breathing down my neck. He’s out for blood. And he’s finally sicced Hilary on me.
Who the fuck are you with?
This doesn’t look good.
Call me.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she includes a link with her texts. From the URL, I can tell it’s to a media outlet. My stomach muscles clench, and I hold my breath and click.
This is why I left LA, to get away from all of this crap. If only for a few days.
“Holy shit.”
Jane’s voice barely registers as I stare at my phone. Splashed across the main page are pictures of the two of us.
Jane and me.
From this afternoon.
In my suite.
We’re in hotel robes, and given the angle, whoever took the picture stood in the hallway. Who did this? Was it one of the therapists? I doubt it; they had their hands full, hauling things out of the room.
Was it the room service guy? From our position in the images, it’s plausible, but we had eyes on him. Well, not all the time, but I’ve had far too many years of this shit to miss the guy pulling out his phone.
Dammit, for all I know, some lucky bastard may have been strolling by the room and took the picture. The door was wide open for some time.
Why didn’t I think of the risk at the time?
But the pictures are innocent enough. Jane’s hair is up and her head is at an angle where her face isn’t in full view, but there’s no mistaking it’s me. One of the shots is of me handing her a bottle of water.
While Jane may not be a celebrity, which is fortunate, the kicker is the accompanying article.
My chest spasms.
Lainey’s right. This doesn’t look good for me.
In big bold letters at the top of the page, the headline reads:
Roman Kingsley not fit to be King
The captions under the photos aren’t much better. One says, “Kingsley at it again. So much for mature and dedicated.”
Another still, “If nothing else, Kingsley’s consistent at having a good time.”
And finally, “Who’s the mystery woman Kingsley’s shacking up with?”
My phone rings and a text from my father flashes on the screen. Fuck, he must have seen the news. There’s no way he’s going to let me run AKS now.