“I’m sorry, Olivia, what was that?”

“Why didn’t you kiss the Pope’s ring?”

I’ve got a raging hard-on and we’re talking about the Holy See.

One-way ticket to hell? Purchased.

“The Church teaches that the Pope has the ear of God, that he’s closer to God than any other person on Earth. But kings…as least how the story goes…are descended from God. Which means the only person I bow to, the only ring I kiss, is my grandmother’s—because she’s the only person on Earth above me.”

Olivia’s eyes rake me up and down and one dark eyebrow rises playfully. “Do you really believe that?”

“That I’m descended from The Almighty?” I grin devilishly. “I’ve been told my cock is a gift from God. You should test that opinion tonight. You know…for religion.”

“Very smooth.” She laughs.

“But, no, I don’t actually believe it.” Olivia watches as I rub my lower lip. And give her my real answer. “I think it’s a story—the kind that men have always made up to justify their power over the many.”

She thinks on that for a moment, then says, “I saw a picture of your grandmother online. She looks like such a sweet little old lady.”

I give her my real answer on that, too.

“She’s a battle-ax with a chunk of concrete where her heart should be.”

Olivia chokes on her wine.

She dabs at her mouth with her napkin and looks at me like she’s got me pegged. “So…what you’re saying is…you love her.”

At my sardonic expression she adds, “When it comes to family, I think we only insult the ones we really love.”

I dip my head closer and whisper, “I agree. But don’t let that get out. Her Majesty will never let me live it down.”

She taps my hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Our main course arrives—salmon, colorfully plated with dashes and swirls of bright orange and green sauces with an intricate structure of purple kale and lemon rind on top.

“It’s so pretty,” Olivia sighs. “Maybe we shouldn’t eat it.”

I smirk. “I enjoy eating pretty things.”

I bet her pussy is gorgeous.

Throughout the meal, the conversation flows as easily as the wine. We talk about everything and nothing in particular—my studies at university, the work I do when I’m not making public appearances, the behind-the-scenes details of running a coffee shop, as well as what it was like for her growing up in the city.

“My mom used to give me three dollars in quarters every week,” Olivia tells me in a faraway voice, “so I wouldn’t nag her about wanting to give money to the homeless people we’d pass when we were out. I’d try to spread it around. I didn’t know how little a quarter was actually worth—I thought I was helping and I wanted to help as many as I could. But, if they had a pet with them—a sad-looking dog or cat—that always hit me hardest and I’d give them two or three quarters. Even then, I think I understood that people could be such assholes—but animals are always innocent.”

When dessert is served—a frosted airy pastry in a bed of custard and caramel sauce—the topic turns to siblings.

“…and my father put the money from my mother’s life insurance policy into a trust. It can only be used for education expenses, which is good because otherwise it would’ve been gone a long time ago.”

Like many of her fellow New Yorkers, Olivia is an animated talker—her hands flutter and weave like two graceful, translucent doves.

“There’s just enough now for Ellie’s first semester at NYU. I’ll worry about the second semester when the time comes. She wants to live in the dorm—to get the ‘full college experience.’ But I worry about her.

“I mean, I think she could change the world—I really do—cure cancer or invent whatever comes after the Internet. What she can’t do is remember where she put her house keys or understand that a checkbook has to balance once in a while. And she’s gullible. Phishing emails were invented for people like my sister.”

I lean forward, nodding. “I understand completely. My brother, Henry, has so much potential, and he’s happily pissing it away. After that video you mentioned, the press christened him the boy who couldn’t walk the walk. Who would never measure up. It’s a prophecy he’s gone out of his way to fulfill.”

Olivia raises her glass. “To little brothers and sisters—can’t live with them, can’t have them banished from the kingdom.”

We tap our glasses and drink.

After dinner, I suggest we go back to my hotel suite—said the horny spider to the scrumptious fly. And she agreed.

The ride in the lift to the top floor is silent, with James and Logan in front and Olivia beside me in the rear, giving me secret, sneaking glances. The doors open into the foyer of the penthouse and the hotel butler—David, I think his name is—is there to take our coats.

“Thank you.” Olivia smiles and David gives her a silent nod.

As we step into the main living room, I watch her—the reactions and emotions that play over her features. How her lashes flare when she looks up, taking in the enormous crystal chandelier and the hand-painted, golden mural on the ceiling. The way the corners of her mouth rise with a bit of wonder at the furniture and marble floors—all the little signs of luxury. When she turns to the full wall of glass that offers a breathtaking view of the twinkling lighted city, Olivia gasps.