TRIPLE PRINCES: An MFMM Menage Romance Page 4

  “Listen Dad, I really need to get to the library, it closes at five,” I said, sneaking a peek at my watch. “There’s a rare book that I really want to check out and someone just returned it. It’s my chance,” I said.

  Usually my dad backs me, he’s proud of my interest in literature and history even if my mom saw it as a waste of time. But this time, he agreed with my mom.

  “Maybe you should listen to Mary,” he said slowly. “Maybe go shopping a little more often, buy something, ah, a little more flattering?” he suggested, eyeing my outfit hesitantly.

  And I was so hurt that I didn’t even reply at first, my cheeks coloring, eyes shocked. Usually my dad and I are tight, he would never criticize my clothing choices. But before I could say anything, Mom cut in again.

  “Tina,” she said sternly, “you know the Sterlings have been in Andorra for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, don’t you?” she said with a frown.

  I nodded, confused. What did this have to do with my outfit?

  “Sure, our lineage is noble, I need to behave like a lady, uphold our honor, all that stuff,” I agreed, still looking at my dad for clarification, my eyes quizzical. But his eyes just pleaded with me to understand, to listen to the coming lecture.

  “The Sterlings have been an aristocratic family in Europe for generations now,” my mom droned on. “Our power and privilege comes from the land itself, which your ancestors rented to tenant farmers, taking a portion of their crops as rent. All of our land and assorted real estate holdings are held in trust, with personal accounts for family members.”

  I nodded. This was old family history, and of course, I’d been reading up on this stuff exactly. Nothing new here, move on folks.

  This was when my dad cleared his throat.

  “Well your trust fund is ah, how do I say this,” he said delicately, “is at a minimal level,” he managed, clearing his throat.

  A minimal level? What did that mean? I shot them a quizzical look, confused.

  My mom was more blunt.

  “Your trust fund is depleted,” she said harshly, “as are mine and your father’s.”

  My mouth gaped open. Holy cow, could that even happen? It was true I’d never bothered to monitor our money, always believing that the family firm had everything in hand. But now, it seemed that we were in dire financial straits.

  “Can we replace the money? Where did it all go?” I asked incredulously. “I thought there was a ton stashed away in a bunch of different accounts, how can we have nothing left?”

  But as you can tell from my questions, I had no idea how much money we had, where it was invested, or in what shape, matter or form it existed. I was just so clueless at seventeen, so self-absorbed, walking among clouds while spending money like water, believing there was an unlimited supply. Well, reality had come crashing down and it wasn’t pretty.

  “What do we do?” I asked, panicked, bolting upright. “Are we going to have to move? Am I going to have to sell Dolly?” Dolly was my dog, a mutt I’d picked up at a shelter years ago on a whim. And it sounds lame, but my little dog was one of the most important things to me, one of the first things to come to mind when my world seemed in jeopardy. Dolly was my security blanket, my anchor in rough seas when times were bad.

  “No honey, we have enough money to last a couple more years,” said my dad shame-facedly, “but we need you to pitch in with the family finances.”

  I looked at him confusedly.

  “You mean, find a job?” I said, looking at him askance. Sure, I could work at the mall or something, I didn’t mind doing that, but I was a teen. What could I possibly do to replenish our family bank account? We needed a lot more than a minimum wage take.

  It was here that my mom cut in again with brutal reality.

  “We need you to marry rich,” she said flatly. “We need you to find a husband with a fortune who doesn’t mind investing it in the Sterling estate, and that means improving your looks so that you can snag a wealthy man.”

  And here, my eyes practically bugged out. It was like I was living in a modern version of Downton Abbey, the British-American mini-series. In the show, the fictional Earl of Grantham marries Cora Leventhal, an American heiress, to support his family’s flagging fortunes, and evidently now I was being asked to do the same. I had to find some rich dude who could provide an infusion of badly needed cash, who could bring some much-needed liquidity to a noble, but impoverished family.

  “Are you serious?” I asked slowly, “Is that really our best option?”

  And my dad waved his hands around helplessly.

  “I’ve tried the stock market, buying futures, investing in a New Zealand sheep farm, you know China doesn’t have a secure food supply, they’re interested in clean, fresh food from New Zealand and Australia, I thought the sheep farm was going to be just the thing,” he rambled.

  But my mom cut in again with brutal efficiency.

  “Your father,” she said with an icy glare directed his way, “has squandered what little we have left with his hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes. Unfortunately, Lord Sterling is nothing like his forebears, has no business sense, and has in fact lost whatever we had left,” she said bitterly. “So yes, we need you to marry rich, preferably to a multi-millionaire, preferably a billionaire.”

  I sat back. Man, things really were dire, weren’t they?

  “I didn’t know we were in so much trouble,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. “It sounds like we need a lot, a huge amount.” And Lady Sterling nodded sharply.

  “That’s why we’re sending you away,” she said, her voice clipped. “To a finishing school in St. Venetia where you’ll go to all the right events, meet all the right people.”

  “You mean, all the right men, right?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I’ll be trotted out at parties, balls, society events so that I can be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

  And instead of sounding shocked or horrified, my mom smiled for the first time during the conversation, a self-satisfied, Cheshire cat grin that made me think she’d planned this all along.

  “Exactly,” she said. “That’s it exactly.”

  And so it was settled. Instead of going to college, instead of pursuing History or English as an undergrad, instead I was being shipped off to some finishing school-cum-wedding factory, where hopefully I’d find Mr. Right – provided that he had the right-size wallet.

  And here I was today, standing at Miss Carroll’s as a wizened old lady studied me. It was downright embarrassing, I was wearing nothing but my bra and panties as she looked me over, poking and prodding with a wooden stick.

  “Good bust, ample figure, tight waist, smart buttocks,” she mumbled to herself like I was a prized heifer. “Yes, you’ll do fine,” she cackled.

  I was mortified at the inspection and could barely speak, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my breasts and bolt.

  “Can I go now?” I asked, my voice tiny, barely able to look up from the floor.

  “No, not yet,” she said, glaring at me over her rimless glasses. “All of our young ladies undergo beauty treatments to prepare for their assignations.”

  Assignations? That’s what we were calling the roster of social events to attend, the multitude of polo games, yacht club parties, and other fancy-dress soirees? My shoulders slumped, thinking of the torture ahead.

  But the old lady, Crikers I think her name was, summarily smacked me across the butt with the wooden stick.

  “Ow!” I shrieked, grabbing my ass in pain. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Young ladies stand up straight,” she sniffed, not at all disturbed. “You will stand up straight while you’re with us at Miss Carroll’s.”

  And the searing, lancing sting on my behind made me stiffen immediately through my grimaces, the tears in my eyes.

  “Fine, fine!” I groaned, wincing and rubbing my rump woefully. “Fine, whatever you say.” I just wanted to get out of there at this point, put on so
me clothes and nurse my wounds, mope about my lot in life.

  But Crikers wasn’t satisfied yet. “Go and see the hairdresser first,” she said, “and then the manicurist, then the aesthetician, and then the …”

  Because that’s how I spent the next few days. In the beauty salon, being waxed, buffed, and trimmed until I was a whole new version of me. And whoever says that beauty doesn’t hurt is lying. The ladies waxed every single part of me, hot liquid poured straight onto my private parts and then ripped off with a screech. Tears sprung to my eyes, I was sure this was a form of torture found only in the dungeons of Abu Ghraib, but I guess not. Evidently fashionable women all the way from New York to Canberra indulged in Brazilian waxes, getting their pink parts bare and nubile, completely hairless, soft, plush and puffy.

  But not everything was so horrible. I admit, I love spa services as much as the next girl and luxuriated in the facials, the clay mask, the body wrap, the manicure. The pedicure, I have to say, was a bit weird. They have this new thing where you stick your feet into a basin with live fish in it, who then eat the dead skin off your soles. Isn’t that so gross? But I came out of that with feet like baby’s skin, my toes had never been so pampered.

  And when we were done, I was buffed to a sheen, polished, pressed, looking and feeling like a million bucks. I was a whole new Tina, or in this case, Christina.

  “We won’t be using Tina anymore,” sniffed Crikers, “too plebian.” God, she needed to get that stick out of her ass, Tina was a perfectly good name, people had been calling me that my whole life.

  But I didn’t want to argue, so just nodded.

  “Fine, I’ll be Christina from here on out,” I said stiffly.

  “Lady Christina,” Crikers corrected.

  “Lady Christina,” I repeated, giving in.

  And here we were, at my first grand event. It was a cocktail party, a shindig where “all the right people had been invited,” per my parents’ hopes and dreams. In fact, Miss Carroll’s had more than delivered because on the guest list was a billionaire – Prince Georg of St. Venetia.

  “He’s supposed to be really cute,” mooned Millie next to me. Millie was a girl I’d made friends with during my first few days here, a tiny thing, about ninety pounds with a button nose. Of course, she wasn’t actually Millie, that was too common. Millie was Lady Millicent Vonnegut, and here for the same reason I was – to snare a rich guy.

  But honestly, the little blonde was really sweet without a nasty bone in her body, bonding over the beauty treatments, the sad fact that it was all for a future husband.

  So I turned to my new friend and smiled.

  “Who’s supposed to be cute?” I asked.

  “The Venetians,” said Millie, “Haven’t you heard?” she asked confusedly. “They’re coming to the party tonight.”

  Oh right. The family of billionaires.

  “Is Prince Georg really old?” I asked slowly, dreading the answer. That was the thing about wealthy men – most of them were elderly dudes, almost mummies in some cases. I was hoping for someone in his fifties, sixties if I was unlucky.

  “No, not Prince Georg himself,” said Millie laughing. “Prince Kristian, his son. I hear that he’s more than just cute,” she said, lowering her voice, “I hear he’s gorgeous.”

  And now, I raised my eyebrows. More gorgeous than two six-four twins, with imposing builds, charcoal black hair and eyes as blue as the sea? I think not. Because during my time in exile, I’d reverted to dreaming about my encounter with them. It was almost unreal and some nights I lay awake, replaying our encounter in my mind, the way I’d raised my knee to show them my sweet kitty, the way Kato had stuffed me in front while Karl had dominated my backside. Oh god, I felt so full just thinking about it, stretched to the max, languorous and sexy, and yet here I was at Miss Carroll’s primped to within an inch of my life, bait for whichever old rich dude. It was depressing, but that was life and I forced myself back to reality. I sighed heartily. Right, the billionaires from St. Venetia.

  “And what makes him so wonderful?” I asked my friend skeptically. I was expecting to hear something like, “He’s so dreamy, so amazing,” a bunch of really vague descriptors, so imagine my surprise when Millie was startlingly specific. “Prince Kristian is supposedly really tall, six four with black hair and blue eyes, and really athletic too. Doesn’t that sound like an amazing combo?” she giggled. “I always like the mix of dark hair and light eyes.”

  Now my senses were on high alert because Millie had just painted my thoughts aloud, practically word for word. It couldn’t be, could it? It was just a weird coincidence that Millie had just described my twin fling, the two men I’d been lusting after since leaving Andorra. Because there had to be a ton of guys out there who were tall with the black/blue combination, it wasn’t unique or some kind of one-time thing. So I shook my head and scolded myself. No way were my twin lovers here, masquerading as Prince Kristian.

  Saying nothing, I followed Millie as we were led to a set of heavy, oaken doors along with the other girls, perfume heady in the air, a bevy of chattering, female forms.

  “Ladies,” nodded a butler before swinging the door open.

  And my eye was immediately caught by a tall figure. Or rather, all of us immediately saw him because he stood head and shoulders above the rest, his aura unmistakable, penetrating blue eyes flashing as we entered the room.

  It was Kato. Or Karl. One of them, I wasn’t sure which, was here in the flesh.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kristian

  The chattering group of girls was ridiculous, like a cage of hens set free in the crowd.

  “Oohh!” sighed one.

  “Ahhh!” sighed another.

  I could swear I heard a third one chirp, “Peep peep peep!”

  I just shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore the women. It’s so fucking annoying. As Crown Prince of St. Venetia, I’m obligated to attend a ton of events on behalf of the royal family, all sorts of shindigs that I have absolutely zero interest in, and this one was no exception.

  Sproul, my social secretary cum butler cum personal assistant, had briefed me on tonight’s event.

  “I believe, sire,” he said, looking at me over his glasses, “that you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s event.”

  I yawned and stretched, looking out the window of our library. Yeah, my ancestors spared no expense building and furnishing the St. Venetia Palace, and the library was no exception. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and there were quite a few collectors’ items scattered about, the antique books opened to pages with especially beautiful coloring or calligraphy. In fact, one of the original Gutenberg bibles was a few feet to my right, enclosed in a glass case, the temperature carefully monitored, lighting carefully controlled.

  “Oh really?” I said disinterestedly. “What going on tonight? Wine tasting? Bourbon tasting? Whiskey?”

  Sproul frowned at me. I’d been so bored and disillusioned lately that I’d been drowning my sorrows in Jim, Jack, Johnnie and Jameson. The Four Horsemen had been my constant companions, the hard liquor carrying me through these painfully dull parties.

  But Sproul continued to look me over disapprovingly. He’s been with us since I was a baby, and knew me inside out.

  “Sire,” he said frostily, “maybe you should hold back tonight because there will be young ladies in attendance.”

  Oh that. I slumped in my chair, already bored again.

  “Whoop dee doo,” I grunted, twirling my finger in the air. “What else is new.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. After all, I’m the Crown Prince of a small city-state, heir to a vast fortune, with every asset at my disposal. You want lands? I got ‘em. You want estates? I got ‘em. You want far-flung mysterious overseas holdings which could potentially be illegal, but assuredly worth billions? I got ‘em. So as you can tell, I’ve been hunted by young ladies ever since I was a baby. Okay, maybe it was their parents doing the hunting at that age, but seriou
sly, as long as I can remember, girls have been throwing themselves at me non-stop.

  “Oh Kristian,” they’d breathe, bosoms heaving theatrically, pushing out their boobs. “Oh Kristian!”

  And I just fucking hated it. I fucking hated these “aristocrats,” the inbred air, the predatory looks, the way dollar signs practically appeared in their eyes, cartoon-like, when they saw me. So I wasn’t excited at all, but Sproul cleared his throat to clarify.

  “Tonight the girls will be from Miss Carroll’s,” he said, shooting me a meaningful look.

  Um, ok.

  “So?” I asked, bored. “What about it?”

  Sproul looked at me disapprovingly.

  “Miss Carroll’s is known for accepting only the most eligible young ladies,” he said with a sniff. “None of the riff raff you’ve been associating with lately.”

  And I rolled my eyes. Of course, Sproul knew what I’d been up to in my free time. It’s not that I hate women, I just can’t stand the type that populate these stuffy society events. They’re always so thin, so skinny with elbows jutting, knees knocking, that sometimes I want to offer them a hamburger out of pity. Yeah, a Big Mac with a large order of fries would be just the thing. The emaciated look doesn’t turn me on, you know? My type is a lot curvier, with ass, boobs, and a sweet, wet cunny. And I’m not shy about bedding them, I just do it on the downlow.

  Take Mama, for instance. Yeah, that’s her name. I met the woman at a bar last week, around 3 a.m. after a boring dinner and drinks at the Austrian Embassy. They were raising money for something or other, I’d already forgotten, and I’d hit the Jiving Rooster for some liquid relaxation afterwards, the seedy dive joint just my style, a place where I could blend.

  “Hey stranger,” a brunette breathed, approaching me as I downed another shot of bourbon. I took a deep breath slowly, inhaling through my nose. Damn, the burn felt so good, my esophagus on fire, a pit settling deep in my belly.

  I turned to look at her. I wasn’t expecting much, most women at the Rooster are pretty beat-up looking, but this one was better … sort of. She had a tramp tat on her lower back, something big and ugly, but I couldn’t see clearly in the low light. Her boobs were barely held in by a halter, busting out on top, below, and both sides, and her midriff was bare, showing a little pooch, but whatever, that was my thing. I like flesh, jiggly, soft, the kind you can squeeze in the middle of a long orgasm, hold onto as you’re losing it. And this girl had more than a little extra, so I leaned back, appraising her leisurely.