Page 98 of The Proposal Problem

In response, I hear a loud grunt and the sound of Anton’s hand grabbing the balcony beside me.

I got to say, I’m fucking surprised—and impressed—that he made the jump. I shouldn’t be, given that the man is a fucking giant. I wouldn’t be surprised if he used his fucking cock as a pole vault.

From the corner of my eye, I see Anton pull himself up over the balcony as if it’s part of his workout routine.

“Alright, easy now,” he says as his hands wrap around my wrists.

With Anton’s help, I climb over the balcony’s railing. Though it would be more accurate to say he just pulled me up over the railing, and I was just there.

But, it’s not all smooth sailing.

While going over the top of the railing, I lose my balance and fall into him—hard.

He catches me, but tumbles backward into my suite and onto his back. We blurt out small grunts and groans as we hit the floor. I get off of his lap, but Anton pulls me down onto him.

Our lips meet, and it’s like fucking fireworks on New Years Eve, the Fourth of July, and the Superbowl all rolled into one. I want to resist, but it feels so fucking good.

The way he tastes. The way his tongue dances with mine.

It’s raw passion on a level that has me second guessing my resolve.

And I can’t have that.

At my knee, I can feel the heel of one of my shoes.

I grab it and start beating Anton in the arm with it.

Our lips part, and I roll off of him as quickly as I can.

“No, Anton. You don’t get to play dirty like that,” I huff.

I take a couple of deep breaths. I need to focus and re-center myself. Otherwise, I’m going to jump him right here and now.

He lies there looking at me in disbelief as I take several steps away from him.

“I told you in the alley. I don’t love you. We—” I wave my finger between us, “—we aren’t a thing. Look, I’m sorry that I’m not the woman you want me to be. But I’m not wife material, okay?”

There’s a flash of something I’ve never seen in his eyes before.

He’s pissed. And not ‘I stubbed my toe’ or ‘my favorite sports team lost’ kind of pissed.

This is some salt of the Earth kind of primal angry.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Percy!” he yells with the force of a thunderclap.

When he gets up, it feels as though he’s a dozen feet tall as I look up at him.

But I stand my ground.

I’m not about to back down from any man. Prince or not.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work. You know that? You go through life acting like you’re some raunchy, party girl who likes to ride from one dick to another like connecting flights on some around-the-world trip.”

“Well, that’s because I am!” I yell back.

He laughs, and it hurts.

“I’ve heard that record, Percy. It’s a pile of fucking shit. You know what you are?”

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