Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5)(20)

Teal: You’re not my type. Get over yourself.

Ronan: And what’s your type, ma belle?

Teal: My type is at least fifteen years older, experienced, and doesn’t smile the entire time like a gigolo on crack. In short, not you.

I feel a weight slide off my chest as I send that text. I needed to remind myself of that fact as much as letting him know, because that’s what’s bothering me about the whole thing — the fact that he, someone not even close to being my type, is invading my thoughts this much.

There’s a long pause before he sends his next text.

Ronan: And yet you came when I only touched your tits.

Teal: That’s because I didn’t know it was you.

Ronan: Is that why your arousal still coats my stomach?

My cheeks heat and I curse him all the ways to Sunday.

Ronan: It’s all dried up, but it’s there. You saw it on that IG pic. I’m not washing it off.

Teal: You’re sick.

Ronan: I like to think I’m not sicker than you, ma belle, but I love the competition.

Ronan: Cancel the engagement and I might fuck you.

I might fuck you? Might? As in he’s gracing me with his damn cock? The arrogance of this bastard.

Teal: As if I would ever want to fuck you.

Ronan: I think we should both agree that you did tonight.

Teal: I did not.

Ronan: Sure. Whatever helps you sleep better at night.

I can almost imagine his smirk, and I want to smash his face and this stupid feeling of embarrassment with it.

Ronan: Night, ma belle. I’ll dream of your orgasm face.

I throw my phone to the side, seething, my heart beating so hard it’s nearly dangerous.

He thinks it’s fine to play with me? He’ll see what playing means.





9





Ronan





There’s this thing about breaking habits that messes with the human brain.

Or that’s what Cole says. I believe him, anyway, because he reads more than the pope reads the bible.

My point is, breaking my habits is what’s making me weird. I can see it loud and clear now.

I went from throwing a party every other night, smoking my stash of weed, and fucking exotic girls to living like a priest.

The partying part can be overcome. Not only does Lars no longer bitch at me to stop, the absence of night fun also means Mum is home. I get to have breakfasts and dinners with her every day. Needless to say, her presence matters more than all those other strangers who only exist in my life because I have money and status.

Mum being here also means Dad is around, too, and that kind of sucks, especially since he’s been watching me more closely lately.

Lars and I have put on an Oscar-level performance each time he’s asked about a missing item.

Or rather, I put on the performance and Lars follows along. It’s become our thing since that night.

The excuses usually follow the same pattern of What? We had that? We must’ve given it to friends.

Dad reminds me that we don’t have that many friends, and I tell him of course we do. They just visit when he’s not around because they seem to love me. It’s like he’s baiting me to admit something, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like he’s interested in the partying part.

The only untouched things are Mom’s paintings, which she’s spent years collecting. She studied art before she had tremors and had to stop drawing altogether.

Or maybe that’s the version of things my father came up with to convince her to remain a housewife — or rather his bloody secretary, whom he paraded around the globe.

Anyway, back to the point, the lack of sex is the reason behind the shitshow a few days ago at La Débauche. If I’d been fucking like a normal human being, I would’ve never had those thoughts about Teal or sent her those texts.

Or dreamt about an affair between her mouth and Ron Astor the Second.

Now is the time to fix it.

Then, I’ll corner her and have her visit my father and tell him all too politely that she’s breaking off the engagement.

I drag Claire behind me to a storage room at the back of the library. She giggles as we sneak through the rows of books.

Claire is one of the few I’ve fucked more than once. As long as I bring her to orgasm, she lets me do whatever I want.

Except what you really want to do, you mean?

Shush, thoughts.

As soon as we’re away from prying eyes, I flip Claire’s dark brown hair over her shoulder. “Strip for me.”

She licks her lower lip and I wait for her to refuse, but she throws her uniform’s jacket away then unbuttons her shirt. I reach into her lacy bra and twist her nipples, and she sighs.

Sighs? Really?

I ignore that and tease her nipples some more. She leans into me, breathing with delight. Fuck, it’s like I’m caressing her.

Not like a certain someone who detonated all over the floor after I only touched her nipples.

But this isn’t about her.

I lift my hand and grab Claire’s jaw then open her mouth using my fingers.

“Do you want me to blow you?” Claire asks in a sultry voice that’s…wrong.

So damn wrong.

I can’t even get Ron Astor the Second to wake up for her.

I-I’ll be good.