Sarcastically Yours, Jen

Ravishing Heartless Prince by A P VON K’ORY

Genre: Steamy Contemporary Romantic Suspense

Guest Post:

Ten Things My Heroine Will Never Tolerate & My Hero Would Never Dream of Doing to Her in Their Relationship

A P von K’Ory

Writing New Adult steamy romance novels, I lend words to some pretty “hairy” relationships. Conflict by the heaps because that’s what it’s all about, or I wouldn’t have a story readers want to devour.

But all roads of the character arc preferably lead to HEA, right?

So when the HEA is reached, my heroine is aware that there are still rules to adhere to because we’re all very different individual beings. Compromises must be made where called for. I never allow my heroines to make sacrifices or tolerate anything purely to “make him happy”. Nor do I let her suffer in silence “in the name of love”. Secretly, I actually believe that my hero has the “duty” to be the one making sacrifices and being tolerant to make her happy. Yes, I’m totally woman, old- or new-fashioned. I love those doors being opened for me, I adore being helped out of and into my coat, or having hubby and his male friends rise and button up their jackets when I enter a room, or when I get up to go powder my nose. And when I come back from the powdering too, of course.

I’m not a fan of misogynists in whatever veiled shade, shape or inclination. I’ve seen my bestie heartbroken and in bitter fights with her own child because the pubescent girl (thank internet and our smart kids) asked mother dear whether rape, beating, tying up, burning with candles and letting the boy/man wrap his hands around her throat and choke her was the norm in sex? And was that how dad and mother dear made her? The girl, in resolute disgust, swore off sex forever.

But I do get weak-kneed and love strong dominant men who are perfect gentlemen – until they get to the bedroom.

That said, my heroines don’t fall into that trap so many women end up in: That when he does something good or loving, it cancels out all the bad. Like in real life, that never works in the end, it simply becomes a habit and with that comes resignation. Mutual consent is not the equivalence of a restaurant’s “all you can eat”. I make sure my heroine has an alternative ‘safeword’ for “this isn’t what I thought it was or imagined it would be like”, when a situation crops up that hadn’t been anticipated and shouldn’t happen in any circumstance. A heroine’s consent isn’t “all inclusive”.

And compromises are not made solo.

Here are ten things I make sure my heroine’s man would never, ever dream of doing:

My heroine will never tolerate a selfish man. A good loving man can give back without any selfishness wedged in. He wants to give her his all, and is willing to give up what doesn’t make her happy. He wants to be his best self to her. He’s healthy enough to take but also give back, and ready to apologize if he acts selfishly. Best of all, he’s ready to change his behavior exclusively for her happiness.

Prince Charming or Bad Boy, he’d never hold her past against her.

Despite his family, himself or (if he has them with someone else) his children, she remains his Numero Uno of all Numero Unos. She comes first and at his side when he needs to take care of the family, children, or needs some alone time for himself. She’ll never be the spare wheel, never left in the back seat.

He’d never wrinkle his nose, accuse her or call her names because of her sexual desires or preferences. Of course she’ll tell him about them. It’s where the relationship runs healthy on mutual compromises.

Likewise, he’d never expect her to fulfill all of his fantasies. People are too individual as human beings and will never end up with a loved one who is precisely like them in the fantasy department.

Even while angry, he’d never turn that anger on her by belittling or humiliating her. If he’s stewing within, he’ll still treat her with respect. He’d never talk down to her or speak to her with total disregard of her feelings. Even in a BDSM relationship, fundamental humanity is prerogative in the couple’s shared life. It’s why people describe it as “role playing”. Shared normal and everyday life and love isn’t role playing.

He’d never toss the I’m-not-talking-to-you BS at her. I’m personally very averse to withdrawal as a form of physical and emotional punishment and I project this on my heroines. Whatever stress, quarrel or disagreement he’s had with her or with someone or something else, using coldness as punishment is one of the unhealthiest traits in a relationship. In a non-toxic relationship, he’ll tell her why he wants to be alone, however long that might be. She might fret with concern but she’ll be aware of the reason why he wants his privacy.

He’d never be frivolous or cavalier about her feelings. A man intent on a healthy relationship will not discount her feelings constantly, making her wonder if there is something wrong with her.

He won’t make fun of her in front of friends. My heroine jolly well knows the difference between fond teasing and malicious commentary, however jocular.

He’d never skirt around soothing her fears or insecurities. Instead, he’ll help her face her fears head-on particularly after a confrontation between the two of them, or a nasty situation or occurrence that unsettled her. The unhealthy man doesn’t have time to make you feel better, nor does he care why you’re upset. I never let my heroine tolerate any of this but rather speak out about her feelings on the subject.

Excerpt:

With my fresh bottle of water in hand, I walk out of the room to go and find her. I call out her name when I enter the sitting room. No answer. But the room has been cleaned and the dining niche where we had breakfast this morning is spic and span. I hurry to the master bedroom. Spic and span all the way to the dressing room and bathroom
“Fuck.” I dump the bottle of water on a bedside table and haul out my phone from my trouser pocket.
She answers on the third ring. “Theo, I-I-I’m sorry.”
I’m so relieved to hear her voice I drop on the bed.
“Where are you, flower? Have you had lunch?”
I hear her breathing even above the background traffic noise. “No, I’m not hungry. I’m in a sidecar of a vintage motorcycle I hired for a tour of the city. I’m so sorry, Th—”
I shoot off the bed as if a rocket under it propels me.
“What do you mean a sidecar of a vintage motorcycle? Did you book it through the hotel?”
She goes silent for ages. All I hear is the traffic noise that no doubt includes the vintage motorcycle.
“Alyssa? Answer me.” My protective instinct howls.
“I, um, went for a walk around Place Vendome and then I wandered around Rue de la Paix admiring the architecture. While having an ice cream sundae I googled Paris Tours and found the phone number—”
“Let me guess. You ordered some stranger via a phone number you found through Google. He came and you set your—my—lovely arse on his sidecar?”
“He showed me his ID, his licence as private—”
“Alyssa, tell him you’ve changed your mind. Pay him the full tour and get yourself in a taxi back to the Ritz. Do it now. Don’t disconnect. Tell me whether he accepts the offer. Meanwhile get his number plates and send it to me. Now, Alyssa.”
I reactivate the texting app and summon my personal valet while I wait. I’m pacing like a caged tiger. This is Paris, not Geneva. I hear her rattling off to the tour person in French. I always forget that she’s multilingual. All the same, for a seasoned Paris thug she spells rich tourist single young woman in mile-high letters.
Jesus, I flew to Europe for her. I brought her to Paris for a weekend I planned in order to get her out of the despondency and dejection she’d slipped into. And she had been the cause of her lapse into such a state.
She had more to do with it than I had.
She’d wanted me to cut the contact with her.
“Leave me alone, Theo. Keep out of my life.”
“You said anything I want. This is what I want, Theo.”
But Shana’s call to my private phone telling me about Alyssa’s condition had me in the jet practically in the blink of an eye, leaving my staff to battle on their own for a cool thirty-five billion fucking dollars.
This weekend was for us to bond, I think as I fetch another bottle of mineral water. I twist the cap and guzzle, looking at the Paris traffic below me. That makes me worry about her even more. The way they drive around in Paris?
Nearly every vehicle on the streets of Paris has a dent or five from bonnet to boot.
“Theo?”
“My blossom? Do you have his plates? I’ve unbloc—”
“He’s accepted and offers to bring me back to the Ritz himself. He says it’s the least he can do since I’ve paid for the full tour. I think I can trust him, Theo. He’s a nice and humorous old bloke,” she concludes with a nervous giggle.
“The number plates, Alyssa.”
She sends that just as I hear a knock at the entrance door from the valet. “Come in,” I shout walking towards it.
“Are you having a visitor?” Alyssa asks.
“Not really, just my valet.” I block the phone sound and give the valet the vintage motorcycle’s number plates and ask him to find out who the owner is, where he lives, and if he’s a bona fide Paris tour guide, and report back to me with the information.
Then I get back to my baby girl.
“Is the old lecher heading in the right direction, Alyssa?” I ask her, wiping my damp forehead with a palm.
“Yes, he is. We’ve left the Louvre Museum behind us and are heading towards Place Vendome which is the starting point of the Rue de la Paix where he’d picked me up. He says we’ll be at the Ritz in five minutes or so.”
“Okay,” I say pushing my feet into my handmade Libertino Norvegese brogue wingtip oxford. “But don’t disconnect until you’re at the Ritz. I’m going down to wait for you at the entrance. If I don’t see you in five minutes I’m coming with the cavalry to get your old lecher’s balls.”
I hear her laugh before she says, “Are you jealous?”
“No. I just hate any man using my beautiful blossom in his sidefuckingcar to impress Paris with his masculine prowess.”
Her laughter in reply both calms and annoys me.
I reach the iconic entrance of the hotel on the Place Vendome and start craning my neck around watching the traffic coming on 15 Place Vendôme. Until I see her dainty arm in a sleeveless cropped yoga top waving from the sidecar of a vintage sky-blue motorcycle with a Retro Tour decal plastered in front of the sidecar. I physically feel the surge of adrenaline plummet in my veins. I watch her perfect smile on her devastating face and perfect skin half hidden under goggles, her jet-black bone straight tresses clamped under a helmet. I bet the wanker tour guide enjoyed every second of her close proximity to him in his fucking sidecar.
The chains of my breeding stop me from walking over and offering the lecher a brand new face as he helps her undo the helmet and pull it off, and takes off the goggles from her face. He’d better not touch her in a handshake or I’ll forget myself and turn his face to pounded meat and bones.
He doesn’t.
But I still hate that they smile at each other in goodbye. She even takes a few seconds to wave him off instead of coming straight to me where I stand in wait.
Could there be some truth in that jealous word she said to me a little while ago?
She’s back safe and sound, right?
“Theo,” she says softly as she falls into my open arms.
I wrap my arms tightly around her bare middle, the hoodie of her yoga tied low around her hips and knotted at the front by the sleeves. I growl my joy deep in my chest.
I remember we’re at the bottom of the entrance stairs so I break the embrace, put my arm around her naked waist and lead her back into the Ritz.
When we reach our floor and enter the suite again I take her face between my palms and look deep into her eyes.
They’re still the colour of honey
“Never give me such a scare again, flower. You could have called, left a message at the reception to let me know where you are.”
“I’m so very sorry, Theo,” she says, pulling her face away from my palms as she drops on her knees in front of me, her hands on each of my thighs, eyes turned up to me.
Knowing all her faults and flaws never stopped her raking glowing coals in my core to make her mine. In fact, all her veiled insecurities that she hid under a support team of vulgarity and beautiful vamp that’s dangerously flirtatious pulled me to her despite my better judgement. The man in me wants her exactly as she is.

About the Author

A P von K’Ory writes romance, psychological thrillers, and nonfiction. She loves diversity – it’s in her aristocratic DNA. She has won more than half a dozen prizes and awards from four continents. Her family stretches from the Nilotes of the Eastern African Nile Delta to Germany, France, and the Walloons (Belgium). She lectures Economics and Sociology in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland. She’s married and has a son. Being migratory –  and weather willing –  she lives in Germany, France, Cyprus, and Greece. 

Links To Ravishing Heartless Prince

• Goodreads
• Amazon

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