The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance Page 13

  My hand slips inside her jeans, and she spreads her knees, wanting.

  “Let’s take this outside,” Roland announces just as my thumb grazes her knickers. “And bring the limoncello.”

  25

  Roland

  Rory was right. It’s a beautiful night.

  At Buckingham Palace, I wear the crown. Here, watching the sun dip behind the cliffs with a bottle of Italy’s best dangling from my fingers, wedged between two people who love me and who I love, I’ve never felt more like a royal.

  The sun burns the sky red, yellow, then orange, its rays leaking across the oceanfront. It’s been a decade since I could see the sun set without the foliage of Buckingham’s garden poking out from underneath. I feel as though I’m watching it for the first time.

  The estate has really taken a beating with years of disuse. None of us dare to dip a toe in the pool, but it’s enough to drink and watch the skyline. Feels like forever since I’ve seen so much sky. The patio is decorated with an assortment of Greco-Roman columns, marble statues, and wide-hipped vases so overrun with vines that they look like leafy fountains. There’s plenty of room out here, but the three of us fit snugly on a single chaise, Rory sitting half on my lap, half on Ben’s.

  What do the Italians call this? Paradiso.

  “So this is what it’s like to be royal, huh?” Rory breaks the comfortable silence. “I could get used to this.”

  A laugh puffs out of my chest with a huh sound. “I’m sure you could.” I take a sip from the communal limoncello bottle and then pass it over to her. “There was a time when I’d have given anything to be a Normal.”

  “We’re pretty far from normal,” Ben states. The sunset spits flecks of fire into his dark irises, his eyes trained on the horizon. He’s a beautiful man. Beautiful in the way a raven is beautiful—sharp, dangerous, and sleek. Strange how I never noticed it before, but now I can’t stop sneaking glances at him. I wonder what he’s looking for out there. A sniper in the distance, perhaps.

  Rory’s small body shifts in my lap so she can nudge Ben’s bare foot with hers. “What about you? Did you ever want to be a prince?”

  A small, bitter smile lifts the edge of Ben’s mouth and shows off a glint of teeth. “I wanted to be anything but a Limehouse boy.”

  “What’s so bad about Limehouse?” Rory asks.

  “D’ay awll talk like dis, aye, mate?” I rib him, laying on a thick Cockney accent.

  Ben grimaces. “Your Cockney is shit.”

  “Aw, I like it!” Rory says. “Why’d you get rid of it?”

  Ben lapses into silence for a moment. It used to irritate me when he would take forever to form a single sentence, but now I’ve grown to like watching him think. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he hunts for just the right word. “When I came back from my tour… it took me a while to find employment,” he says. “The palace was my last shot. I knew they weren’t going to take in a dirty, desperate Cockney kid. So I had to improvise. I had a… friend from up North. He helped me practice his accent, and I used it in the interview. They hired me on the spot.”

  I’ve never heard this story. I blink with surprise. “You weren’t afraid they’d see right through you?”

  “I was terrified,” he said. “But it was that or go back to Limehouse and become a fisherman or a pickpocket. So I took the risk.”

  I hand him the bottle of limoncello. He’s earned this. “You have stones, mate,” I tell him.

  A grin flickers over his mouth. He takes the praise and the limoncello.

  “Do your parents still live there?” Rory asks.

  Ben shakes his head. “I sent them my paycheck every month until they had enough to get out. They have a flat in Shoreditch now.”

  A stitch of pain tightens in my chest. I don’t know anything about Ben. Six bloody years he’s been my shadow, working side by side with me, and he never told me about his family. I would’ve bought them a flat. Given them money. Invited them over for tea. I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me, as tangible as the salty ocean breeze that blows over the railing to kiss my face intermediately. I suddenly long for all the millions of moments I’ve missed out on because I never bothered to ask.

  It’s always been about me, me, me, hasn’t it? The bloody prince of England prancing around in his invisible clothes.

  “You could’ve asked me for help,” I tell Ben. “You always can.”

  “No,” he says firmly, “I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have felt right. It was something I had to do on my own.”

  “To hell with doing everything on your own.” I don’t mean for it, but I can feel my throat tightening, the frustration seeping out. I gesture jerkily between myself and Rory. “You have not one, but two people who love you to pieces. Accept that. That’s an order.”

  There I go. The spoiled prince, losing his temper. Getting what he wants at all cost. Ben has set the bottle of limoncello on the stone floor, and I swipe it up and take a swallow from it. I mean to wash down my intolerable pride, but even the limoncello tastes too sweet suddenly and the citrus coats my throat.

  Ben says nothing in response. He distractedly picks at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers. There. I’ve successfully gone and ruined our peaceful pool time. The worst part is, I can’t stop it. Even the stitching on his bloody trousers is coming apart, and he won’t ask for a single cent of help. It makes me furious.

  Rory isn’t any better—no. She’s worse, her clothes ripped to pieces. But there’s something charming about Rory’s disarray. She wears it like a badge of honor. Ben wears it with shame. But I can’t tell him that or he’ll snap at me, so I slip a hand down Rory’s thigh instead. I hold her leg and rub my thumb over the open threads fraying across her knee.

  “We have to get you new trousers,” I tell her.

  “Why?” she says, and there’s that bright smile that melts me. “I like these. They’re comfortable.”

  “And covered in holes.”

  “They’re breeze holes.” Rory grins.

  “I believe that’s what they make skirts for.”

  “Quit picking on her,” Ben growls. He’s on edge. He sees right through me.

  “I’m not. I’m giving her what she wants.”

  “You have no idea what she wants.”

  “Maybe because she never tells me.”

  “Are we still talking about me?” Rory chirps, confused. “Because I’m an open book…”

  “No, we’re not talking about you,” I snap. “Ben is being a twat.”

  Now, he turns to stone. “I am what you want me to be, sir.”

  “Sod off with that,” I snarl. Rory shifts in place, no doubt uncomfortable. She’s literally caught in the middle of us. “You only show me what you want me to see. Yes, I’ve been a selfish prat. But you hide from me. You’re as complicit in this as I am.”

  Ben’s jaw looks so tight, his teeth might snap. He won’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “You never asked.”

  “I’m asking now. What do you want, mate?”

  “I want you to quit calling me mate for one.”

  “What do you want, Ben?”

  “I want you!” His confession spills out from him exasperated, strained. “I’ve always wanted you.”

  “You have me! And Rory. Are you so used to having nothing you can’t recognize when you have everything?”

  Ben lifts Rory and drops her solidly in my lap (she squeaks like a dog toy). He pushes off the chaise and launches to his feet. “I’m going inside,” he announces.

  “What’s up his arse?” I scoff.

  Rory’s lips twist downward. She climbs off me and gets up to her feet. “I’ll be back,” she says.

  Just like that, everyone’s abandoning ship. I feel like I’ve swallowed a rotten apple whole and now it’s rolling uncomfortable around in my stomach. I mask my discomfort with a sneer and shake the limoncello. “Fine. More for me.”

  Yes. Everything for me. Ben is gone, Rory is gone, an
d I’m the all-powerful king of no one. I lick my wounds and sip sweet liquor.

  26

  Rory

  The glass door hisses when I slide it shut behind me.

  Ben is pacing, but he stops to look up at me. He has a cigarette pinned between two fingers, unlit, as though he meant to smoke it but couldn’t bring himself to go back outside and face Roland again. When his eyes find me, the line of his mouth thins. He lowers his tall limbs into a white leather chair.

  I sit down beside him. I don’t say anything.

  “We’ll have to go back to the palace soon,” Ben says. He flicks his cigarette distractedly. “The queen has no doubt noticed we’re gone by now.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” I ask him. “Going back?”

  Those dark eyes meet mine. “You know this won’t last. We don’t fit in with his royal life.”

  It’s something I don’t want to think about, something I’ve been ignoring, but once he says it, I feel a swift reality check punch to the gut. We’re have our own slice of poly-paradise here in Italy, but once we go back to Buckingham Palace? What will it look like then?

  “You don’t know that,” I say.

  “Yes. I do. And I can live with that,” Ben continues. “I don’t need spotlight or fanfare. But Roland… his mother has him wrapped around her finger even now.”

  “He came here. With us. Even though he knew she wouldn’t approve. That’s a start.”

  “I’ve wanted this for a long time. Now that I have it… I’m terrified of losing it.”

  Every muscle in Ben’s body is tensed. He’s in fight-or-flight mode. I set my hand on his thigh. I need to bring him back down to earth with me. “You will lose it if you keep yourself locked away. Do you remember what I said the first time we met?”

  He looks at me blankly. “You told me muskrats were going to attack the palace.”

  I laugh. “Yes. That. I also told you that your smile turned me on.”

  There it is. That warm smile nudging the edges of his lips. It cracks his stiff demeanor and softens his edges. “How do you do that?” he asks. His tone is quieter now that the crisp panic has flown from it.

  “Do what?”

  “You’re so… open. Effortlessly.”

  “I guess… ever since I was little, I realized life is too short to pretend. It’s better to die regretting the things you’ve done than the regretting all things you were too afraid to do. You have to take what you want while you can.”

  “What do you want?”

  The cigarette has stilled between his fingers. His strength has returned to him, and I feel it. He’s looming and the look in his eyes is the same look he gives me when he tells me to get on my knees. He’s in control, and it’s hot. My mouth waters with want, and I swallow before I speak.

  “Honestly… I miss my family. But being with you two… for the first time since I left home, I feel like I’m part of something.”

  “You are. You’re our beating heart.”

  “If I’m the beating heart and you’re the overthinking brain, then Roland is…?”

  “The stubborn prick?”

  A chuckle vibrates from my chest. “Roland is… so out of his depth right now. This is the first time he’s left home in years. I remember how terrifying it was to take that first step. Believe me… it’s not easy. I think we should probably support him right now.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ben takes out his pack, tucks the unused cigarette back inside, and pockets it once more. He’s in steely control again. And—jeez. I love watching him like this. He walks with the confidence of an alpha, a pack leader, and I just want to feel his fist in my hair and his teeth in my skin. Is that so much to ask for?

  I must be ogling, because Ben shoots me a strange look. “Are you coming?”

  “Right. Yes.” I scramble to my feet and salute him. “Aye, aye. Right behind you, sir.”

  “Sir. I could get used to that.”

  I don’t know if it’s the way his smile slices across his mouth or his easy dominance that makes me so aroused, because I’m suddenly soaked. I let out a quick breath and bounce outside behind Ben.

  When we step back outside, Roland is just where I left him—sprawled out on his chaise, one knee popped up lazily, the other bare foot hanging off the edge, and the nearly empty bottle beside him. He’s staring out at the sunset pensively, but he turns his head our way when the door hisses. The fading light bounces off his blond hair and halos his head. God. He’s positively ethereal.

  “The rebels have returned. With no guillotine? I’m disappointed.”

  “No guillotine.” I plop down on Roland’s chaise and squeeze in beside him.

  Ben unfolds his long legs on the lounge chair. “You were right,” he says as he stares off at the tail end of the sunset.

  “Oh?” Roland’s interest is clearly piqued.

  “I need new trousers.”

  Roland scoffs. “You look great. They’re just bloody trousers.”

  It’s the closest thing to an apology these two will get. I almost roll my eyes. Men are so stubborn. But then Roland continues.

  “I’m the outdated prat,” Roland says and holds out a hand. “Pocketknife.”

  Ben gives him a strange look. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a switchblade, and hands it to me. I drop it into Roland’s waiting palm.

  “Cheers.” Roland flips the blade out with his thumbnail. Then he presses the blade against his knee. I almost tear it away from him, but he doesn’t dig in deep enough to reach skin. He’s ripped a shallow slash in the fabric, revealing his leg underneath. The cut is too clean, and the split threads don’t fray, so he saws a large, gaping hole into his pants. Then he puts the blade back, hands it off to me, and shows off his bared knee. “There,” he announces. “Now I’m part of the club.”

  I swallow back a lump in my throat. I’m touched by Roland’s gesture of solidarity. He probably has hundreds of pants to choose from—heck, he probably has Amazon Royal Prime and can get the exact same pair of pants that day. But the fact that he even thought to tear up his clothes to stand with us instead of towering over us… well. I can’t remember the last time I had a man who was willing to go to the ends of the earth to make me comfortable.

  Ben’s touched, too. I can see the small flicker of emotion cross his face, like a spot of sunshine of a cloudy day. Ben shows his own brand of gratitude, however, when he says simply, “If we’re ripping clothes, why stop there?”

  Roland’s teeth glint when he smiles. “What’d you have in mind?”

  Ben slides off the chair. He stalks over in front of us and holds up his hand. “My knife.”

  Roland hands the pocketknife back to Ben. He flicks it open, grabs Roland by the front of his shirt, and hovers the blade over the collar.

  “How much did this shirt cost?” Ben asks.

  “Six hundred pounds,” Roland replies.

  Ben makes a noise that’s not quite a laugh, as though astounded by the sheer lavishness of Roland’s lifestyle. “You have no concept of money, do you?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Now Roland has that fire in his eyes, that look that goes straight between my thighs. “Rip it.”

  Ben uses the pocketknife to saw through Roland’s neckline, but the pocketknife is pretty dull. He doesn’t get far before he drops it on the chaise, grabs either side of Roland’s shirt, and rips. The fabric tears like paper under his grip, satin fluttering on either side of Roland, revealing his sleek, muscle-hard chest and stomach.

  Holy hell. My clit is pounding a drumbeat against my panties. The boys are turned on, too. I can tell. The intensity in Ben’s dark eyes, the noticeable rise and fall of Roland’s chest. I’ve started to read their signs well enough to sense when there’s a shift in the air. It buzzes around us like an electric static that everyone can feel.

  “This isn’t going to cut easily,” Ben hooks a finger over the hem of Roland’s pants, plucking it like a guitar string.

&n
bsp; “Right.” Roland fumbles to get his belt off and then his pants. Now, he’s in nothing but a ripped shirt and his briefs. I’m happy to report that it’s a damn good look on him. My fingers twitch with the sudden urge to feel his skin.

  “I want a turn,” I say and hold up my palm.

  “Be my guest.”

  I put the knife between my teeth to adjust my position and straddle Roland. Pocketknife in hand now, I tell him, “Stripping the prince of England. How many women get to say they’ve done that?”

  “Just be careful where you aim that thing,” he says, pointing at the blade. “These are royal goods.”

  I can see the headlines now: “Kinky American Cuts Off Prince’s Cock.” That’s not happening. I snort a laugh and say, “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Furthermore,” Roland continues, “I won’t be the only half-dressed one.”

  With that, he hooks his fingers under the hem of my shirt. “May I?” He’s the prince of England, he can have anything he wants, and yet with me, he asks for consent. Honestly, it’s a turn-on. Buzzing, I nod and lift my arms. He pulls my shirt over my head, and it flutters in a pile of fabric beside us. I then adjust to shove my pants off and toss them to the side.

  “Much better,” Roland states, his eyes feasting on my chest. “Continue.”

  I bite my lip, lift the elasticity of his briefs, and make a nick in the waistband. The fabric frays and splits under the edge of my blade. It’s not as clean of a cut as Ben’s; my line is jagged and zigzags all the way down. It occurs to me then that he really is incredibly trusting of me to allow me this close to his junk with the switchblade. When I glance up at his dazzling blues, there’s nothing but his boyish humor and warmth.

  “Don’t get distracted now,” he says. There’s a second pair of hands on me—Ben’s strong, calloused grip—and those rough fingers delicately roll my bra straps down my arms. I shudder when his soft lips hit my bared shoulder.

  My bra topples. Roland cups my bare breast, and his thumb grazes my nipple. It hardens immediately under his touch and lights my nerves on fire.