Excerpt of Mona Lisa Three by Sunny

It was the beginning of December in Manhattan, smack dab in the Christmas season, and we were shopping. But not for presents. Oh, no. For something far more practical—clothing. In a couple of days time, we were heading to Louisiana, my new territory.

The men had insisted that I meet my new constituents dressed like the Monère Queen that I was. Well, three-quarters Monère, at least. That last quarter was comprised of human blood, making me the first Mixed Blood Queen ever; I’d just been officially recognized by the Court. But given that most Monère considered Mixed Bloods to be mutts, mongrels, and the like, I could see my men’s point that I dress like a Queen. T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers wasn’t quite the image of authority they were used to. Oh, well.

The Monère, my guys included, were quite backward in their tastes, actually. Long dresses and loose hair for their women. The plan was to break them in slowly, gently. If I had to wear a long black dress, I could do that. For now.

But since they’d insisted on torturing me, I decided it was only fair to torture them right back. I made them get new clothes as well. For Gryphon, well, the torture was more on my part. He was a vision of masculine beauty with ebon-black hair falling to his shoulders, his long, lean and delicious build, the white alabaster purity of his skin, and the red, red brightness of his cupid-bow lips. So beautiful that you wanted to reach out and touch him, prove that he was real.

He was the first Monère I’d ever encountered, the first man I’d ever loved. He’d come to me a few weeks ago, injured, alone, fleeing his Queen. In saving him, I had really saved myself.

He was my heart. And that vital organ that he claimed pitter-pattered within me as he stepped out of the fitting room dressed in the black Prada slacks I had chosen for him. The vibrant blue shirt he wore brought out the stunning cerulean richness of his eyes. Devastatingly lovely.

Another fitting room door swung open and Amber emerged, the other man who held my heart, roughly handsome in a mahogany-brown dress shirt. His straight chestnut locks looked tousled as if he had run a careless hand through it, and his deep sea-blue eyes were narrowed in a fierce frown.

Huge was the word that best described Amber. Big and brawny, bounded with muscles, he was toweringly tall, majestic like a mountain. A mass of bulges and mounds—bulging biceps that strained the cloth, a mounded, muscular chest, a hard flat belly, powerful haunches, and thick-muscled calves. With his harsh features bold and craggy, Amber was beautiful in his own unique way—in his great warrior strength, in his unexpected tender care of me. He’d saved me. Brought me back from the brink of death.

My two warrior lords. My two lovers. It was hard to believe that I wouldn’t have to give up one or the other. That I could keep them both. That they would share me, as they put it, alternating in my bed and in my body.

Other sighs were heard around the store, not only mine. Looking at the two of them, one with the grace and beauty of a fallen angel, the other menacingly big and brawny, with the strength of a towering oak…who would not sigh, given this vision?

“The pants are too tight,” Amber muttered, redness darkening his broad cheeks.

Actually, he filled out the tan-colored slacks quite nicely—impressively. I circled him slowly, front to back, appreciating the snug fit that showed off the leanness of his hips, the powerful heft of his thighs, and the tightness of his lovely muscular butt, among other things.

“I have to disagree. I think they’re perfect,” I murmured, unable to resist stroking a discrete hand down the enticing curve of his bottom. Beneath my light touch, his buttocks tensed to rock hardness, making my heart skip a beat. Oh, my.

“What do you think, Chami?” I asked, turning to the third man with us. Chami was one of the three other men recently sworn to my service. The deadliest among them. My assassin.

He was tall like Gryphon, almost six feet, but with whipcord leanness, slender like a Greyhound. Sprawled on the couch in limber disarray, dressed in the light green cashmere sweater and olive pants I had chosen for him, with his soft curly brown hair waving across his smiling blue eyes, I was sharply reminded of how deceiving appearances could be. He looked nothing like the deadly killer that he was.

“I agree with Mona Lisa,” Chami said, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “The clothes show off all your…masculine attributes to nice advantage.”