Princely Bastard (4 page)

Wildly, he’s swishing his tongue inside me—around and around—lapping at me, and my whole body is shaking and spinning out of control. I can barely think. I can only rejoice.

Eimi Xaipe
. That’s my name.

I think of this as I make sounds I’ve never made—sounds I’ve never even heard, while clutching his hair, and practically ripping it from his scalp.

He could do anything he wants to me. Anything. I wouldn’t stop him. But all he wants to do is feed.

Suddenly, it hits me. I come—I come so hard that I slam my head back against the floor. But the pain, it simply won’t register. Pleasure’s overriding everything.

“Fuck me!” I scream—words I can’t believe are my own. “Fuck me!”

Magically, I rise into the air. He effortlessly picks me up and we stumble forward. We stumble until we smack into the kitchen table, which falls onto the floor—taking everything on top of it, including a glass, which smashes into pieces. We, too, soon smash—right into a wall. We smash into it so hard that it shakes.

This time I can feel the pain—and I moan a little. But this stops when I feel something else—a warm slab of concrete pressing inside me. It’s so big that I reach down to make sure it’s real—and even then I can’t believe it.

At the same time, he grabs my shoulders and slowly forces me down upon him. He’s splitting me apart, and yet—unlike with Julian—it doesn’t hurt, even though Julian was barely the same species. Maybe it’s because Mark’s not using himself as a weapon—he’s not trying to hurt me. If anything, he’s the one in pain. As I inch my way down to him he’s groaning and squirming and shivering—with his eyes clenched closed.

I’m doing this—me! I’m taking down the mountain—tearing it fucking apart. I’ve never felt so good—so strong and omnipotent.

Suddenly, he falls to his knees—bringing me along with him, and I reach bottom. I feel him everywhere. He’s mine—he belongs to me. Not only his flesh but everything that’s him.

Still, I want more—a lot more, and I try to rise. But I just can’t. I can’t budge off him. Our bodies are welded together. So, he grasps my thighs. He swallows them with his huge hands and gently lifts me up.

This causes both of us to scream and shake the whole way there. Finally, I reach the top and he again grabs my shoulders—and he again pushes me downward. And again I come. I come so hard that my whole body flies around. I can’t control my arms or my legs or my head. Or even my mind.

All this triggers him. I can feel him pouring into me, with the concrete jerking over and over inside me—gutting me out. I don’t think it’ll ever stop.

I don’t want it to stop!

Though it does, and he calms a bit. But only to flip me onto the floor. Then he starts pounding himself into me. Just short thrusts. I don’t think even he has the strength to do more than that.

Loudly, he grunts—and we start bucking on the floor—with my back banging against the wood again and again. But I don’t care. I want more.

More!

“Fuck me harder!” I yell, while wrapping my arms and legs around his muscle as tightly as I can. I also dig my nails into his back. I dig them so deeply I can feel bone. “Fucking harder!”

He listens and starts slamming me against the floor. He’s slamming me so hard that I think we’re gonna go right through it.

Once more I come—and I shriek—and still I want more. I want more and more and more.

At this point, he’s no longer human, but something between animal and machine, ripping my flesh apart as he pistons into it. His thrusts are now longer, too—impossibly so, and he’s thrashing all his weight upon me. I can feel my bones begin to shatter.

Suddenly, he howls—and shudders—and cries like a little boy, while emptying everything he has into me. There’s so much that it flows out of me, and onto both my legs and the floor. It’s everywhere, and it just keeps coming.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, and I’m not even sure he’s still breathing. Which makes me smile. I smile not only because I’ve whipped and beaten the mountain, but because I’m alive, and because this suddenly matters to me.

He matters.

What’s more, that first time didn’t happen anymore. It’s been negated a million times over.

And so has Julian.

chapter four

Mark

I AWAKE, AND—with my one good eye—I see the sun pouring into the living room, while realizing everything hurts. Even my hurts hurt. And I’m not sure who’s more responsible for this—Ricky or her.

Suddenly, I realize something else. I realize she might still be here, and I raise my head—causing pain to sweep through my body, along with a fatigue that aches even more than the hurt.

I wince at this. Then, I lift my torso off the floor and glance around.

There she is, looking out the window while rubbing her knees and back—and I can’t help wonder if I’m responsible for that, and if I should be sorry about it.

I also see she’s wearing one of my shirts—one so big that it falls way below her knees. She’s further had to roll up the sleeves almost halfway just to stick her hands out of them. But it looks good on her. Better than it looks on me. She looks good, too. I mean, she’s not beautiful or anything—at least not what most people would call beautiful. She’s not like the kind of girls you see on TV or in magazines. But she looks good. She looks real good, with shoulder-length light-brown hair and greenish eyes, and a nice petite body—a body that somehow withstood everything I brought down upon it.

She actually looks too good. Too good for a shit like me.

This makes me wish she wasn’t there. It makes me wish she didn’t come home with me. But most of all I wish I was someone else, and somewhere else.

But none of these wishes come true, or could ever. So I say to her: “Hey.”

She doesn’t respond, and I think back to the night before and wonder if it all happened the way I remember it—or if the booze just made me think it did. Because, because I’m the worst lay there is—lots of girls have said so. Even to my face. So last night just doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t make sense.

“Hey,” I say again—this time a little louder.

Slowly, she turns to me and smiles—a nervous one, like she’s afraid what’ll happen next. I’m afraid, too—but I don’t think she knows this. At least I hope she doesn’t.

“Hey,” she utters. “How you feeling?”

“Not good,” I answer.

She shifts her eyes a bit at this, and I think I’ve insulted her.

“Not because of you,” I add.

“You never told me what happen to you,” she replies. “Did you get into a fight or something?”

“That’s what I do.”

“You’re a boxer?”

“Not exactly.”

“How then?

“Let’s talk about something else.”

She does, by pointing out the window and saying, “Do you always have lots of reporters outside your building?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Reporters. You know, newspeople.”

“What?”

With lots of pain, I struggle to get myself off the floor—and with even more pain I ramble toward her, and I look out the window.

“Shit,” is all I can blurt out, as there must be fifty people outside—including camera crews, and more seem to be coming.

“I hope . . .” she begins.

“Hope what?” I growl.

She won’t answer, so I grab her arms and growl again.

Still she won’t tell me.

“Come on,” I insist, while shaking her arms a little—“what’s going on?”

“I’m in trouble,” she mutters.

“Great. Just fucking great. This is all I need.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s what they all say. I should know.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“
Kill?”

“I swear I didn’t!”

“All right, all right—I believe you. There’s a fire escape outside the bedroom. It leads to the alley behind the building. You get out of here, and I’ll go downstairs and try to throw them off somehow.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“You think I could . . .”

“What?”

“My shirt,” she says, while pointing to the one she has on, “it’s kind of ruined.”

“Sure,” I reply. “Keep it.”

She then walks over to her jeans and slowly puts them on. And I can tell she’s waiting for me to say something—about last night. But I don’t know what to say, and maybe she doesn’t, either.

“So,” she mumbles while putting on a pair of laceless Vans.

“So?” I mumble back.

“Nothing.”

I nod, even though I know it’s not nothing. I know it’s anything but nothing.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, while struggling to control her emotions. She actually looks as if she’s about to cry, which is the last thing I want to see. So, I turn from her. I turn from her and say, “You need, you need any money?”

“You don’t have to,” she says back.

“Do-you-need-money?”

“I don’t have any.”

With a bit of a sigh, I look around for my pants, and see them not far away—and I ramble toward them, again with lots of pain. Then I fish out my wallet and look inside, and see there’s about thirty dollars.

“It’s not much,” I tell her as I hand her the cash, which is all the money I have in the world. Though I don’t tell her this.

“Thanks,” she replies. She also puts on her coat and backpack and slowly heads toward the bedroom—and away from my life forever. And this upsets me, no matter how much I don’t want it to upset me. The truth is, the truth is I don’t want her to go anywhere. I want her. I want her right now. I want to dig into her and never stop digging, even if I only imagined how great it was.

“Aimee,” I call out.

Instantly, she stops, and she turns to me looking surprised.

“You remember my name,” she whispers.

“I remember,” I tell her.

“I remember yours, too. Mark.
Mahk
.”

I want to laugh at this. But instead I say, “Aimee’s a pretty name. You’re pretty.”

“You don’t have to say it.”

“But I did.”

“You, too.”

“Me what?”

“You’re pretty.”

“And I thought
I
was having problems seeing.”

She giggles, and I see she has a nice smile. Too nice. Too nice for a shit like me.

“I’m sorry,” I utter.

“About what?” she asks.

“About . . . about nothing.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just, I’m just the wrong guy.”

“And I’m the wrong girl.”

For a moment she pauses, and then she turns around and heads into the bedroom—and I just stare at the door afterward, trying to summon the courage to call her back. I even open my mouth. But the words won’t come. So I put on my pants and head to the front door, which I now see is wide open.

SHIRTLESS AND YAWNING, I walk outside the building, and at once the sea of people there converge on me, as if they had been waiting for me.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“Mark Stuart?” a woman dressed in red yells, as she jumps in front of me and puts her phone in my face.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I tell her.

“Any comment?”

“Comment on what?”

“On being a prince.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The story this morning in the
Telegraph
.”

“The
Telegraph?”

“It’s a British paper. They just ran a huge story about how you’re the son of Prince Charles.”

“There must be some mistake. You got the wrong guy.”

With a bit of aggravation, the woman shows me her phone, and I see a picture of myself next to that goofy-looking idiot from England—and she says to me: “Does that look like a mistake?”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” I howl, before pushing her arm away. “It’s a mistake. My dad, he, he was in the Marines.”

“Donald Stuart?”

“Yeah, that’s right—that was his name.”

“According to the
Telegraph
, there is no such person, and never was.”

“What are you talking about? He was killed in Somalia.”

“Your Highness!” some guy calls out.

“Call me that again,” I holler, “and I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“Is it true,” he continues, with obvious fear, “is it true you have a criminal record?”

“What’s it to you?”

“And that you have two warrants out for your arrest?”

“That’s a lie!”

“How many is it then?”

“None!”

“Not according to the
Telegraph
.”

“Fuck the
Telegraph!
And fuck you!”