The reporter grins, wide and toothy, like he won the lottery. “I want to know about your sister, Aralynn.”
“What about her?”
“Are the police reports true? Did Aralynn funnel money through charities and organizations illegally? Was she selling drugs in Italy?”
“My sister is innocent,” he states firmly.
“Is she, though?” he challenges. “According to police, they have dozens of records showing her illegally moving money. Some witnesses say they’ve seen her offering drugs to locals.”
I know that has to be a load of shit. No way is Aralynn Beaumont stupid enough to sell drugs where witnesses could see and testify. She wouldn’t be her parents’ daughter if she did. The rumors people come up with are wild.
“What the fuck did I just say?” Kingsley’s voice echoes between them, causing other nearby heads to turn.
He glares daggers at the reporter, making the man’s face redden, and he looks around anxiously for someone to save him. Kingsley, for the first time, looks as if he’s about to blow a gasket.
His sister is a hot topic, and this man just kicked a hornet’s nest. I don’t want to see what will happen next.
Impulsively, I stand up from my chair and slither my arms gently around Kingsley’s neck. “Forgive him. I don’t know if you overheard, but King hasn’t been feeling his best self. Actually, I think it’s time for him to go home.”
I lift Kingsley out of his chair. He resists at first, but then I give his side a tight squeeze, and he complies.
Thomas’ brow furrows. “Go home?”
“That’s what I said. I’ll take King home, and you stay with Shawn.”
Thomas and Shawn’s brows furrow in unison, their eyes darting to Kingsley with a shared, uncomprehending stare.
Kingsley struggles to find his words. “Rip is probably right; I should go. Shawn, make sure Thomas gets home. I’ll have the driver send out someone for you both.”
The boys stare at us as if we have two heads, but I don’t have time to wait for them to process the words. I lace my fingers with Kingsley and pull him out of the gala, ignoring the obvious stares flowing our way.
His driver is on it—he’s already outside waiting for us when we get through the double doors. I open the door for my fake-sick prince, and he slides into the back seat. I let out a heavy sigh. Finally, the cameras are out of sight.
The thought of messing with him again comes to mind, but judging on his clenched jaw and his labored breathing, I’d say he’s too pissed for my silly games.
“My finger slipped the last time, I swear.”
Kingsley looks at the driver, who’s too busy singing along to his music to pay attention to us. “Sure it did.”
“Does that mean you liked it?” I whisper. “Or are you going to tell me to fuck off when we make it back to your place?”
Kingsley chews on his bottom lip, and he shifts in the seat. I glance at his crotch, and it’s aimed right at me. There’s my answer.
“Wait until we get back, okay?” he mumbles.
Of course, I’ll wait. It isn’t exactly ideal to fuck around in the backseat of a car with his driver right there. I mean… unless he’d be down for that.
What am I even saying?
But there is something off about Kingsley’s tone, besides the underlying anger from before. He’s silent the rest of the trip, in a way that suggests he’s thinking hard about something. Like he’s plotting.
When we finally make it to his house, we have to get through the side quests of chatting with his sisters and parents before we make it to his room. Once we’re in his bedroom, I lock the door while Kingsley takes off his tie and jacket, barely paying my presence any mind.
I appear behind him, resting my arm over his shoulder and watching us in the mirror. “Do you think you handled it?”
He’s stripping off his pants and underwear, breathing out in relief as his hard cock springs out. “Yes, Rip. I handled your stupid ass test. I’m so fucking hard right now I have blue balls.”
My dick twitches. “Do you want some help with that?”
