Page 6 of LA King

She has a decent body, tall and thin, but her huge tits are obviously fake. I prefer the real deal, but I won’t object. She’s fuckable enough, and that’s all that matters to me.

“What can I do for you tonight, Mr. Montoya?” she says, walking closer.

“Take off the panties and come here.”

She obeys immediately. That’s the thing I appreciate about women like this. They do exactly as they’re told, when they’re told to do it. There are no expectations. No complaints.

Princess slips her G-string over her hips and down her long legs until it lies in a tiny pool at her feet. She moves to stand directly in front of me, so close that I can smell her pussy, yet it doesn’t illicit the usual response from my cock.

Perhaps he needs a little more incentive. “Turn around and bend over so I can see what my buddy sent me.”

She obeys, bending over so her waxed pussy is only inches from my face. “Do you like what you see, Mr. Montoya?” she asks in a low, husky voice.

I ignore her question because I’m not in the habit of giving compliments. “It looks like you’re already dripping wet for me, Princess. Do you enjoy being paid to let men fuck you?”

She giggles. “I enjoy being paid to let you fuck me, sir. In fact, I’d let you do me for free.”

I palm my cock and squeeze it through my suit pants, but it remains stubbornly semihard, which is infuriating as hell. I have a naked woman bending over in front of me with her pussy in my face and I can’t get hard. This has never happened to me before.

“What are you waiting for? From what I’ve heard, you’re not usually so shy.”

What am I waiting for? Why am I only looking at her instead of taking advantage of her body? Doing anything that will make me hard enough to fuck her?

I sigh and down my Scotch. “Get dressed.”

She stands and turns around. “Get dressed? Have I done something wrong, Mr. Montoya?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“No,” I bark. “I’m not in the mood.” I am very much in the mood. Just not for her.

“Well, I could help with that,” she offers. “I don’t mind—whatever you want to do.”

What the fuck is wrong with me? My cock should be painfully hard right now, but even if it were, I still wouldn’t be able to bring myself to touch her.

“Just get dressed and go.”

She lets out a huff of indignation, quickly gathers her clothes from the floor, and gets dressed. A few seconds later, she’s gone.

I sit back in my chair and sigh. Here I am on my wedding night, sitting alone in a hotel room while my wife is on the other side of the city. Not that I care about that fact, at least I try to convince myself of that.

Because I don’t particularly like Alana Carmichael. She’s fuckable too, very fuckable actually. With her long, curly hair, thick thighs, and curvy ass, but she’s too much work. Not to mention she’s a spoiled daddy’s girl who I suspect would fuck me over to save his skin given half a chance.

So, why is she all I can think about? Why couldn’t I put her out of my mind and fuck Princess—a woman who would know exactly what I want and how I want it? Who might make some of the rage blistering my skin go away.

Despite Alana being my wife in name alone, I can’t bring myself to cheat on her for some inexplicable reason. I don’t know what the fuck it means, and I have no idea if I will always feel like this. Maybe it’s a remnant from my childhood, from listening to Mamá and the priest she invited for tea every Saturday harp on about the holy sanctity of marriage.

I throw my empty glass at the wall and watch it shatter into pieces, but it does nothing to quell my ire.

Damn my catholic upbringing.

And fuck Alana Carmichael.

Chapter

Five

Alana

It’s been a little more than two weeks since our charade of a wedding, and for the most part, Alejandro stays out of my way, and that’s exactly how I like it. Only twice in all that time has he slept in the house, and on both occasions, he insisted on sleeping completely naked.