Dark Fairy Tales: A Midnight Dynasty Anthology Read online

  My breath catches. This is where we’re going to spend the evening?

  The limo comes to a stop before I’m ready, before I’ve even begun to process the enormity of this event, the crowds of beautifully dressed people, the elaborate decor that makes this feel like some kind of fairy land. Raoul holds out his hand, beckoning, his eyebrow lifted in silent question. Or maybe it’s a challenge. He certainly doesn’t look soft or kissable. It’s hard to believe this is the same man who shuddered beneath my kiss.

  “Shall we?” he asks.

  2

  Raoul

  The outside of the Constantine compound was decorated for the occasion, but it’s nothing compared to the inside. Foliage drips from the ceiling, giving the impression that we’re walking through some fantasy forest. An actual moat moves frothy water through the entrance hall. We’re escorted to the receiving line at the base of a wide staircase.

  “Her name’s Tinsley,” I murmur to Anita.

  Her eyes are wide as she takes in the greenery covering the balcony. She turns back to me, her pretty red lips in the shape of an O. The whole thing’s overwhelming her, which is… well, adorable. I had some idea it would, after she mentioned balloons in the limo. There are no balloons. Lions in cages and acrobats from Cirque du Monde hanging from the ceiling, yes. But no balloons.

  “Tinsley,” she says, blinking once. “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Wow… This is…”

  “I know.”

  She clears her throat. “I thought this dress was a little outrageous when I was in the hotel bar. Now that I see all these costumes it feels understated.”

  It’s true there are people in full Marie Antoinette dresses and velvet suits with ruffles. In comparison, her gold dress and my tux are ordinary clothes. In principle. In reality, she’s the most gorgeous woman in the room, and every man in the vicinity knows it. She’s getting glances—some appreciative, some dark with jealousy.

  “A little outrageous?” I prompt, my gaze flicking to the fabric covering her bare breasts.

  She lowers her chin a little, even as she stands her ground. “Well, yes. I feel like a walking advertisement for Madam Durand’s business.”

  “No one here knows what you do.”

  She looks at me with sudden shyness. “You do.”

  Uncertainty riots in my chest, which is a strange fucking sensation. I’m usually quite comfortable with my mode of operation. Pay for everything so that no one gets hurt.

  When Madam Durand sent me the photos of Anita with her wide, dark eyes and gorgeous lips, I had to have her. That was on the first photo, before I even saw the amazing set of tits on her. I paid the high sum for her virginity without thinking twice.

  Now that the woman is in front of me, nervousness and anticipation written across her exquisite features, I’m wondering if I made the right call.

  Hell.

  If I hadn’t taken her, some other bastard would have. This is the way of the world. Beautiful, innocent women get used by cold, manipulative men like me. At least this way I know she’ll get home safely at the end of the night. That’s the only promise I can offer her.

  “We’ve been dating for two months,” I murmur, my mouth an inch from her ear. “We met at a coffee shop. You bumped into me and spilled your herbal tea. I bought you an espresso to replace it, and you scrunched your nose when you drank it.”

  She’s not the only paid escort at this party, but she’s the only one who won’t know how to be coy about it. She gives a decisive nod. “I bought you an herbal tea. You made a face when you took a sip, so we swapped drinks. And phone numbers.”

  It sounds silly. And sweet. I almost wish that is how we met.

  Except that my coffee arrives hand-delivered by one of my several assistants. I don’t have time to lounge at a coffee shop. There’s money to be made.

  Oh yes, there’s always more money to be made.

  “Our first date,” she asks, her brown eyes twinkling. “Where did you take me?”

  Where would I take this girl? She’s smart and inquisitive. “The Met. You blushed when we got to the sculptures of naked men, and I took pity on you and took you to the next room.”

  “The Renaissance paintings. You blushed when we saw the paintings of naked women. But I didn’t take pity on you, I just let you squirm.”

  I let out a bark of laughter that makes the people around us turn their heads. I’m actually enjoying her company, which is more than I expected. What had I thought? That she’d be dutiful and quiet, and I’d be horny. Pretty much. Instead, she’s interesting and fun.

  Goddamn her for that.

  I don’t want to like her, not when our time together has a ticking clock.

  “Our second date,” I prompt, unable to stop myself. “Your choice. Where did we go?”

  She considers that. Her dark gaze studies me, and I have the unnerving sense that she can see right through me—past the tux. Past the money. “Coney Island,” she finally says. “I make you ride on a roller coaster because you need to relax.”

  I shudder. “I don’t find roller coasters relaxing.”

  “All the more reason to go on one.”

  My head shakes at her logic, but there’s a smile on my face. “Afterward, I pay you back by having a hot dog eating contest, just the two of us. I beat you by a mile.”

  She laughs. “That sounds fun.”

  It does sound fun. And completely impossible.

  Then we’re next in the receiving line, and I put on a bland smile to greet our hosts. Of course, our elaborate dating backstory is completely unnecessary. But Anita looks more relaxed as she smiles and shakes hands. She even gives a precocious little curtsy to Caroline Constantine, which earns her an eyebrow raise from the matriarch of the family.

  I shake hands with Winston, the eldest son, and Elaine, who looks worried about something. The birthday girl gives us a brittle smile, and I’m struck by how close in age she looks to Anita.

  But Anita is eighteen. Legal. Too young for you, Midas.

  Yes, she’s too young for me, but that’s the way the world works. Tinsley is only sixteen, but she’ll remain cossetted her entire life. I don’t know Anita’s family situation, but it’s clear that she’s had to make her own way, without protection.

  Without money.

  Then we enter the ballroom with its marble tile, gilt molding, and elaborate carvings. An oversized chandelier looms over the hordes of people. I keep my hand light on Anita’s lower back, my thumb brushing her bare skin. The people here may be rich, but they’re still animals. Predators. They would eat her if I didn’t protect her. Devour her the way I want to.

  The orchestra in the center starts a waltz, and I lean down. “Shall we dance?”

  She glances back at me, and my cock hardens at the look of shy acceptance in her eyes. “I would love to, but I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

  “You only have to follow my lead.”

  I place her hands on me, though I have to grit my teeth at the feel of her touch. As she learned in the limo, I like to touch her. Anyone else’s hands on me feel like sandpaper.

  Only with her it seems worth bearing.

  When we’re on the second stanza, she asks, “What about the third date?”

  The third date. Isn’t that when things get more serious? When the woman decides whether she’ll sleep with the man? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on a date. A real one, where I didn’t pay for a woman’s time. “Something simple. Dinner at a nice restaurant. Hours for us to talk about everything and nothing. A long walk back to your place.”

  Her blush covers her neck and her chest. Her breasts. “And then?”

  Because this is a fantasy, because it will never happen, I say, “I would let you touch me, Anita. I’d hold onto the headboard, and let you do anything to me.”

  An audible catch in her breath. “We could still do that, you know.”

  I shake my head, my gaze never leaving hers. “I cou
ldn’t.”

  It’s hard to admit there’s something outside my ability, especially to this woman. But I don’t want to disappoint her. The way it was in the limo—that’s the way it will be.

  She’ll keep her hands at her sides while I touch her.

  The entire exchange will be cold. Emotionless. Empty. And at the end, she’ll get a nice fat paycheck, which means no feelings will get hurt.

  3

  Anita

  After we dance, we explore the other rooms.

  In one there’s an elaborate acrobatic display, with people hanging from the ceiling and eating fire. In another, there’s a feast with cranberry-orange roast ducklings and oysters Rockefeller. Another room has exotic animals lounging—a zebra, a sloth, a baboon, and an ocelot in a cage.

  We continue down the great hallway, which opens onto wide doors. Five of my bedrooms could fit in this balcony. I’m lucky that my scholarship paid for tuition and room and board. It doesn’t cover the thousands of dollars in books. Or the laptop that I’ll need if I don’t want to lurk in the computer labs at 2 am and walk home in the dark after the campus buses have stopped running.

  Swaths of sheer white fabric hang down across the balcony, giving the appearance of private alcoves. Couples lounge in them, doing very private acts even though they’re visible to anyone walking by. Kissing. Touching. Having sex.

  When Raoul leads me to an empty alcove, I know exactly what’s coming next.

  Nerves beat a hurried pace in my veins.

  I gasp at the view. A garden maze is lit from thousands of fairy lights, massive white plumes half covering the aisles. Not enough to obscure the many couples—and groups—moving within them in a sensuous display. I wonder if the masks make them feel anonymous.

  It’s hard to believe that all this is happening at a sixteenth birthday party, but as the night wraps its spell around me, as I become part of the excess and erotic display, it feels inevitable.

  Whatever is going to happen on this balcony, I want this. As I look over my shoulder at Raoul Midas, I want him. His dark eyes glitter with promise. His golden skin and dark hair raise something wild inside me. Call it madness. Call it desire.

  It doesn’t stop trepidation from thundering through me as he approaches.

  He envelops me from behind, and I shiver in the cool night air. His scent has already become familiar to me. It already foretells the pleasure I’ll feel under his touch.

  He directs my hands to the cold stone railing and presses down. The message is clear. Keep them here. Don’t move. I’m trapped by nothing more than his will.

  A single finger. That’s all he runs up the outside of my wrist. It reminds me of the way I touched his face—so careful. Except he’s not exactly careful. He’s more calculating as he draws a line up to my shoulder, to the side of my jaw, to the back of my neck. I shiver.

  His hands move my hips back, and I think this is it. This is how my virginity will be taken. From behind, by a man I barely know, and the worst part is how badly I want it. My insides feel like liquid. There’s an ache at the center of my body.

  He reaches beneath the gold dress. A tug of his hand and the scrap of satin serving as my panties snaps in two. He reaches between my legs and strokes along my sex. I squirm on my toes in these high heeled shoes—gold, of course. Everything he touches is gold, even the thatch of hair at the apex of my pussy. Then he slips two fingers inside me.

  “Raoul,” I whimper.

  “Good girl. Say my name.”

  I close my eyes, not really in defiance, I close them because he twists two fingers to reach some new place inside me, and it feels like I’m unraveling. It’s a whisper this time. “Midas.”

  He flicks my clit. “Not that. That’s for everyone else. You call me Raoul.”

  My hips start moving in a rhythm that matches his fingers, and I’m basically humping the stone railing. I’m gyrating above a hundred other couples doing the same thing. I’m about to—about to— “Raoul. Please. Please.”

  He puts his other hand around my neck, pulling me back to his body. The command of his grip sinks into me, making me enter some other space. My eyes flutter closed. Something about his control helps me relax into his touch, and I come with a wild cry, my hands clenching uselessly on stone, my body shuddering in the shelter of his.

  When the last tendrils of pleasure have dissolved, he lifts his hand to his mouth. I blush as I hear faint wet sounds. He’s sucking the wetness of his fingers, and he moans, as if the flavor turns him on. Something hard and hot flexes against my hip. His erection.

  He didn’t come. Of course he didn’t come.

  I turn in his arms, reaching for him, eager to pleasure him the way he pleasured me, but he flinches away from me. My hand hovers in the air. I’m frozen, horrified that I might have… hurt him? But I couldn’t have. He has a hundred pounds of pure muscle on me. And I didn’t even reach him yet. Why is he so vehement that I can’t touch him?

  I want to ask, but his remote expression warns me away.

  My hand drops to my side, and I turn to face the decadent maze full of people in elaborate costumes. The masks vary from half-size, the way mine and Midas’s are, to full face. There are even some with scary faces, like the long noses of the doctors during the plague.

  “What do you think of the party?” he asks.

  Maybe it’s the orgasm, or the genuine curiosity in his voice, but I tell him the truth. “It’s insane.”

  He gives a low laugh, and it sounds faintly like approval.

  4

  Raoul

  She doesn’t understand why I’m this way.

  Which is just as well. I barely understand myself.

  My parents didn’t hug me as a child. If I said that to someone, they’d assume it meant we weren’t a cuddly bunch. They would not understand how it is to never be touched, not even once in my entire memory.

  When I was five, I broke my leg. My mother told me to sit in the dining room until the paramedics arrived. When I was eleven, I stumbled down the stairs and hit my head. I slowly lost consciousness while my father glared down at me.

  I woke up in the hospital three days later.

  You would think a barren childhood would make me starving for human touch, but it’s had the opposite effect. I can’t stand for people to touch me. It’s like a physical pain when they do.

  I threw myself into academics.

  Into business.

  And I’ve built a fortune of cold, empty cash.

  That was enough for me until I saw Anita’s photo from Madam Durand. I grew immediately hard, and that night I dreamed about her touching me.

  It wasn’t even a sexual touch.

  She reached for my hand—and I held it, without flinching.

  Even that strong reaction didn’t prepare me for meeting the real flesh and blood woman. It’s like thirty-four years in the desert meeting a torrential rain.

  I want to touch her, but more than that, I want her to touch me.

  “Are we leaving?” she asks, still dreamy from her orgasm.

  “Yes. Unless you want to stay and watch the fireworks.”

  Her laugh runs through me. “Insane. Is this what rich people do all day?”

  “For the most part, they sit in their offices and make even more money.” At least, that’s been my experience. I attend events like this mostly to mingle with associates. Although I’ve done no mingling tonight. I’ve been too wrapped up in my escort.

  My hand touches the small of her back as I lead her to the entrance where my limo waits. The driver opens the door, and I help her inside. These brief, impersonal touches don’t bother me. I could do this with any woman, usually. Any woman who I’ve paid for the evening. It’s important to be courteous to a call girl, the same way I would thank a maid or tip a valet.

  With Anita, it doesn’t feel like that.

  And that’s fucking terrifying.

  I settle her into the limo, and we drive toward the city. It will be an hour and a ha
lf, and I alternately want to fuck her blind and tuck and roll from the moving vehicle. She threatens everything I know, and that makes her dangerous.

  She’s still humming with sensual energy, and I’m goddamn hard under my tux. Those bedroom eyes turn to me. “Are we going back to the hotel? Or your place?”

  The thought of taking her in the cold anonymity of a hotel room makes me shudder. Then again, my opulent mansion, with its lavish art and empty rooms, feels too intimate. Where the hell can I fuck her? Streetlamps shine briefly into the cavern of the limo. Here.

  “We aren’t going to the hotel. Or to my place.”

  That pulls her out of her post-orgasm bliss. She frowns. “Why not?”

  “Get on your knees, Anita.”

  A sharp gasp. Even with my fingers on her pussy, it had felt almost sweet with her. That sweetness unraveled me, every barbed wire part of me. I need to build that fence back up. “Here? Now?”

  “Here. Now. Get on your goddamn knees.” I put enough sternness into my voice that hurt fills her big brown eyes. Good. That’s good, I tell myself. I ruin everything I touch. The sooner she learns that about me, the better.

  Half of me expects her to balk at the order, but she shifts off the leather bench to the thin carpet. It must be rough on her knees. She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes are wide as she crawls forward. We rumble over something. A turn, and then the limo speeds up. We’re getting on the freeway. My driver knows to ride around until he’s given a destination.

  Her lips shine red in the faint moonlight. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. It’s a cruel pantomime of a willing woman, but my body doesn’t know the difference.