Why that magic age? I think it was some kind of inside joke my grandfather left behind for future generations. Like: if you don’t settle by then, you never will. He married my grandmother one day after turning thirty-seven, so he made that his rule.
My former guardian, Athol, who has become the most constant figure in my life besides my friends, already has some possible candidates lined up, but none of them excite me.
Obviously, it will be a marriage of convenience. I intend to arrange things so that we’re both satisfied, since I don’t plan on burying myself in one bed for the rest of my life. The problem is that even in a pretend marriage, where the woman gets nothing from me but my name and the title of duchess, I at least need to admire the person.
The list Athol showed me, with résumés and photographs, didn’t make me the slightest bit eager. I don’t intend to sleep with my wife, precisely because I want to continue fucking whoever I want, but I’d at least like to be able to hold a five-minute conversation if necessary, and the heiresses he chose have the depth of rain puddles.
I think about my friend who just got engaged. Against all odds, Kaled actually seems happy.
I talked to them when I arrived and greeted his future wife quickly, since they were in the middle of a jealousy fight. A model he once hooked up with showed up at the party, and as much as I enjoy spending time with Kaled, I hate drama.
I think he also said something about his youngest sister being here, pointing out a girl, but I wasn’t paying attention. I’m roaming alone for one purpose: women.
I look again at the beauty on top of the table.
This part of the yacht is dimly lit, so I can’t see much, but someone with an ass like that has to be gorgeous all over.
How the hell can she be that sensual just by rolling her hips? She has long, copper-brown hair and delicate bone structure, but her ass is the kind that makes a man lose his mind.
The night was shaping up to be like so many others—which, in my mood today, wouldn’t be a bad thing—but suddenly, that delicious dancer changed the whole scenario. I can already imagine grabbing her hips, twisting my fingers in her hair while I fuck her hard from behind. My dick reacts immediately, pushing painfully against my jeans.
I glance at my watch, calculating how long it’ll take to get her out of here with me. Normally, I’d socialize a bit more with my friends before choosing my company, but something about this woman sparks an unfamiliar urgency in me.
I move toward her like a predator approaching prey. It’s not pretension; it’s fact. I never need much time to get the woman I want. And “want” is the perfect word, because it’s been a long damn while since a woman made me this horny.
I’m close now, and the closer I get, the more perfect she seems.
Until she turns around.
Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with her face. Or her tits, God help me. The problem is her as a whole.
It’s Jazmina Faheem.
Kaled’s youngest sister.
The girl I ignored when my friend pointed her out earlier and the one I planned to fuck all night are the same person.
I didn’t know her personally, only from photos, but the ones I saw made her look much younger.
Fuck.
She’s forbidden in bold, capital letters, for enough reasons to fill an encyclopedia.
I feel weird, as if I’ve committed some kind of mental incest. Guilt hits hard.
But it takes only two seconds for desire to drain enough for reality to hit me.
I look around and there’s no sign of her brother, who at this point must be trying to calm Adeela.
I don’t fully understand their culture, but I know Jazmina shouldn’t be dancing, incredibly, dangerously beautiful like that, on top of a table.
Okay, the “beautiful” part isn’t her fault, but dancing on the damn table is.
At least a dozen men are drooling while the clueless princess puts on an involuntary show.
There could be paparazzi anywhere in the marina, and if she’s photographed, it’ll be a scandal in Rheadur and across Europe.
That’s the justification I give myself for acting like a Neanderthal idiot two seconds later.