One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(60)

“Morning, buddy,” Sean says, his voice full of mirth. “Have an accident? Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us.”

Glancing up as I stuff my bedding into the bag, I see Tyler biting his lips to keep from laughing as I glare between the two of them.

“You do know,” Sean drawls, lazily cutting through his eggs with the spatula to scramble them. “You can wash the pillowcases, right? No need to toss the pillows, too.”

“Fuck you,” I snap, tying the trash bag before heading up the stairs.

Laughter erupts out of both of them as I grip the rail and take them two at a time.

“He’s so fucked,” Tyler sounds through a chuckle. “I swear to God he was listening to K-Ci and JoJo last night when I popped into his room.”

“It was on the radio, you dick!” I defend, stalking toward my bedroom.

I may have found the song in my cloud and replayed it once or twice.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Sean coos up at me in taunt. “The meaner they are, the harder they fall.”

“Don’t confuse your entrapment with me!” I boom, taking the last few strides to my room and snapping my door closed behind me. Chest heaving, I palm the back of it as if the sheets might come back for me. “Jesus Christ, King, get a grip.”

But I can’t because deep down, I know exactly what this is.

She’s trying to domesticate me!

Scanning my room for any remnants of her, I spot a hair tie on my nightstand and narrow my eyes. Grabbing my trashcan, I walk over to it, flick it off, and into the can—satisfied when I earn two points.

If this is longing or attachment, it ends right here.

Right now.

“Have you ever been in love? . . . It’s not a stupid question.”

“It is if you find love irrelevant.”

“Why is love irrelevant?”

“Because it doesn’t interest me.”

“Never will,” I say to absolutely no one as I stalk toward the shower and turn it on, spotting a tube of lip shit on my sink before swatting it into my nearby trashcan.

Love is a four-letter curse. No bird I know of—who’s been struck by it—has ever flown quite the same way.

She may have the looks to rival every woman I’ve ever fucked, a pussy made for worship. She may even be a decent conversationalist and reading partner, but I. Will. Not. Be. Domesticated.





I’ve been domesticated.

Somewhat.

To a small degree.

Minuscule, really.

What’s worse is that I actually don’t mind it that much.

Reason being is that it brings a modest level of routine to my otherwise chaotic existence.

Cecelia flips a page next to me as music filters from my speakers. Exhausted by the recent short bout of sleepless nights—when the sky fucking refused to break, and rain refused to come—I close my eyes as relaxation sets in. Hand splayed on my chest, I tap along to the song with my pointer. Maman loved Chicago. A few bars in, I feel the unescapable weight of a deep blue stare on my profile.

Cracking one eye open, I see Cecelia’s book sliding from her chest onto her lap. She sits in nothing but stark white panties, her jaw slack as she gapes at me. In the next second, she tosses the sheet up before it hangs briefly midair and lands, blanketing her as she starts rooting around, searching the mattress.

“The fuck you doing?” I ask as she pokes my side with the pads of her explorative fingers.

“It seems I’ve misplaced the motherfucker I came home with,” she says, her tone jovial before she lowers the sheet, a blinding smile in place. “Because there’s no damned way I just busted him lip-syncing Peter Cetera . . . O.M.G. is that a blush? Are you blushing?”

Unable to hide my smile, I slowly extend my palm to her chest and flatten it before pushing her off the bed. She lands with a thud, her hysterical laughter filling my bedroom. Not at all something I’m used to—my chest tightens a little at the idea it could be.

Laughter subsiding slightly, Cecelia’s head pops up into view. Lifting to her knees, she folds her forearms on the bed, brows raised. “Note to Cecelia, a little wine and a few puffs, and your closeted romantic comes out.”

“Haven’t had a drop, and you know it,” I assert.

“Which only further proves my point,” she quips with a shrug. “Your secret is safe with me, my menacing motherfucker, but I feel it’s my duty—as I’ve been told numerous times recently—to tell you to ‘own it.’”

“You’re delusional,” I dismiss.

“Can’t blame you. As they say, ‘they don’t make love songs like this anymore.’”

“They are idiots.”

“Ah, Jean Dominic,” she coos, “but you have to admit, it puts you in the mood, right?” She snaps to her feet and turns sideways, thrusting her pert ass out and positioning her hands on her hips before she starts to gyrate. “It’s all bump and grind these days,” she bellows in a terrifying impression of a man’s timbre before booming, “and ‘get on your knees and suck it biatch!’”

She pops her ass out with each word for good measure which has me barking a loud laugh as she continues to gyrate, adding her arms in the mix. “Stop,” I chuckle, “for your own sake—and mine—and don’t ever do that again.”