Stuck With The Four Hotties

I smack him in the chest, and he sets me on my feet, almost triumphantly. “Are you guys really gonna play a game without a bet?” I ask Zack, as

Windsor comes trotting over on the back of his beautiful black horse. Apparently its name is Bergamot. You know, like bergamot oil in earl grey tea. Not surprising, right?

“Pretty sure this whole game is about showing off whose cock is the biggest,” Zack says, eyes narrowed as he glances over at the prince.

“Well, she hasn’t seen mine, but how about the rest of them?” Wind asks, swinging his, erm, polo stick up over his shoulder. I have no idea what the damn thing is called. It looks like a long, skinny croquet mallet. I’m having a hard time worrying about polo terminology however, because I can’t stop staring at the boys in their outfits.

They’ve all got on tight pants, riding boots, and button-up jackets with polo shirts underneath. At least this time, they’re wearing helmets I think, trying to decide who looks hottest in their uniform. It’s impossible to tell.

“Um, this girl doesn’t kiss and tell,” I say, and then pause, frowning. “Well, okay, so I tell you guys once that I’m sexually active with the new boy, but …” Windsor laughs and taps my hat gently on the brim with his polo stick. Sounded dirty, huh? I thought so, too.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“I love the hat, Milady. You’re a vision.” He grins, and I find my eyes drawn up to him, perched atop the rippling ebony muscles of his horse. His pants are white, and beyond tight, with a leather strip on the side of each leg and under the crotch. The boots he’s wearing remind me of the ones he wears most every day at Burberry, black and shiny, knee-high. The only difference between the two teams seems to be that Windsor’s group has on black jackets with gold buttons, while the others are sporting red.

I have to say, with Creed’s blue eyes and pale hair, the bold color really suits him. And Zayd? All those tattoos showing from underneath such a proper looking outfit, the dichotomy has me drooling. Mentally drooling that is. I manage to keep all my saliva properly tucked behind closed lips.

“You really are beautiful, Marnye,” Zack says, his outfit so properly fitted to his massive frame that I have to wonder if this game wasn’t pre-planned in advance. Sneaking a sideways glance at Windsor, I figure that it probably was. Nothing the prince does is accidental.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat as Zack steps up close and puts his big hands on my shoulders, leaning down and giving me a proper kiss. It’s much more polite than the bloody one he gave me on the field, when his tongue stole through my mouth with a possessive, ardent fire. He was claiming me on that field, in front of all those people.

If Charlie hadn’t been in the stairwell at that exact moment, he would’ve figured out my err, poly relationship much sooner. This is a polyamorous relationship, right? I mean, of sorts?

“I’m going to kick their asses for you,” Zack says, rising up to his full height. He’s intimidating as fuck. I would not want to be playing against him.

“We’ll see about that,” Creed drawls, walking across the field and pausing in his red coat. He glances up at Windsor and cocks one, perfectly smooth blond brow. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing a red coat, considering your lineage and all that.”

“Please, you Americans and your British insults. They’re nothing but sad. Frankly, I find them quite pathetic. If you were to really come at me, you’d know I hadn’t been laid in years, and you’d call me a fuck-useless tosser, and be done with it. Now piss off, and let’s start the match.” He gallops his horse into the field as Creed looks me over and offers up a smile that’s nothing sort of lascivious.

“You’re scary, when you smile like that,” I tell him, but he seems to take it as a compliment and moves over to stand above me, brushing aside an errant strand of hair from my face.

“Good. I want the whole world to know I’m not afraid to fuck them up if they mess with my uke.” I narrow my eyes on him, but he’s so damn full of himself, he just turns away and straightens out his red coat.

“I am not an uke,” I grumble, because uke is literally a word derived from the Japanese verb ukeru which means to receive. And if you were thinking dirty, you were right. The uke is the one who, um, receives the anal sex in a male/male relationship. “And how do you even know what that is if you hate my ‘gauche’ manga so damn much, huh?”

Creed ignores me, pausing as Tristan finally makes his way out of the stable on the back of a gleaming white horse. I sort of feel like he and Windsor should switch; it would suit their personalities better. But then I see the way he rides, his back straight, head up, like a true aristocrat, and I shiver all over. In that red jacket no less, he looks like a king. A god.

“Damn, if I were you, I’d want to fuck him, too,” Zayd murmurs, smacking on some gum and swiping his tattooed hands down the front of his coat while Miranda and Andrew make their way over, both also dressed in black.

“It’s not right, to pair twins up to fight each other,” Creed mumbles, but Miranda ignores him.

“Alright, your highness, where’s my horse? Let’s get this battle started and shed some blood!”

“It’s disturbing,” Creed drawls at her, eyes heavy-lidded, “how excited you are by the thought of violence. And Mom thinks I’m the bully in the family.” She grabs him by the arm and drags him off toward the stables while I join Charlie and Alex in the shade of the stands, a few security guards sitting in a loose circle around them.

There’s plenty of wine and fruit, what’s left of the pumpkin pie. Dad’s eating a slice and smoking a joint. I swear, I will never get over the sight of him smoking pot. The thing is, it helps him eat, and it keeps his pain levels manageable. Once, when Mrs. Fleming brought over some of her special hand-rolled joints, and Dad smoked one on the front porch, the neighbor across the street stormed over to scream how on a federal level, marijuana was still a schedule one narcotic.

I went all the way off on him about how the plant is medicinal, far safer than opiates, and frankly none of his damn business. He hasn’t been over since. Nobody will take Charlie’s pain management away on my watch.

“This should be fun,” he says, leaning back in the cushioned seat and

smiling as I sit down next to him and fold my dress under my thighs. Apparently the game is broken up into segments called chukkas … or maybe chukkers? It’s hard to tell with Windsor’s accent sometimes.

Princess Alexandra talks incessantly after the game starts, pointing out the better players-Windsor and, unsurprisingly, Tristan-and telling us all about how she once met the man of her dreams stomping divots at the Portsea Polo Match in Australia. Apparently, Wind’

s dad was quite the athlete.