The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance Page 5

  The sharp, painful pining for him.

  How bloody pathetic.

  I tuck my cock away. I have a blazer tossed over the back of the chair, so I put it on and pinch the button of my blazer shut to hide my mess. I can feel the wet spot on my shirt cling to my abdomen. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I’m accustomed to having a steel bolted lock on my impulses. Something about this ginger American has lit a match under my powder keg of carefully contained desires.

  The metal door to the outside churns and squeaks open. My spine goes stiff, and I quickly pretend to be deep into my work.

  “Should’ve known I’d find you here.” There’s the chipper voice of Tanner Worely, Buckingham’s head of security. He’s about thirty years my senior, his hair powder white, but he’s got the eyes of a hawk and the cunning of a fox. He leans over my shoulder to look at the video feeds, and I jab my soiled hand underneath my thigh, discreetly trying to wipe my cum off on my trousers. I’m a bloody wreck.

  “I see the prince has a guest,” he states, his tone flat and unaffected as his eyes land on the sitting room. “What do we know about her?”

  “I’ve done a full background check,” I state quickly. “Rory March. An American from Michigan. Here on travel. Civilian. Clean record.”

  Tanner makes a low humming noise before he sits down on the chair across from me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t meet his gaze. I know he’ll see straight through me.

  “You know what bodyguards used to be called, Ben?” Tanner asks suddenly.

  “No, sir.”

  “Knights,” Tanner says. “Bizarre to think about, isn’t it? It’s a long history of honor, chivalry, and loyalty to live up to.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Would you say that watching the prince lay his pretty companion over the monitors is more or less than honorable?” Tanner asks.

  I see his point. I click my fingers over the keyboard, and the feed from the sitting room goes black.

  “Good call,” Tanner comments, as though it had been my idea all along. With that, Tanner stands once more and makes to leave.

  My pocket vibrates. I fish my phone out. It’s an alert from Roland’s social media manager. His Twitter account is blowing up. I click around to a recently uploaded video. I hit Play and immediately my heart thumps against my rib cage.

  A single word slips out my lips. “Shit.”

  Tanner stalls at the door and turns toward me. “Everything all right?”

  “Might not be my honor you have to worry about,” I tell him and turn the phone so he can watch the video.

  Tanner lets out a weary sigh. “Bollocks. Selena’s going to have my head.”

  10

  Roland

  My mother has told me over and over how it will feel when I take the throne.

  I’m next in line. The second she passes away, I’ll ascend. The way she did when her father died, and so on and so forth. Our family has ruled England for over a century. We come from a strong line. A proud line.

  When I become king, she claims, I’ll feel reborn. It’ll simply feel right.

  I don’t know about that. The crown has been nothing but a cloying shadow my whole life, its dark fingers wrapping around my ankles and holding me back.

  But when I wake up after one wild, passionate evening with Rory, I think to myself, So this must be what it feels like to be king.

  My room seems somehow brighter this morning. I don’t feel tired or sluggish, that near-debilitating weight in my limbs. Instead, the very blood in my veins feels fresh, reinvigorated. The taste of her lingers on my lips, and I swear I can still smell her own personal musk in my bed.

  She’s not the first conquest I’ve had in the palace. Not by a long shot. But she easily may have been the best. I haven’t felt this good in as long as I can recall.

  I throw off the heavy quilt and toss my legs over the side of the bed. The wood-paneled floor is icy, but it feels refreshing now instead of uncomfortable. I walk over to the bathroom, rinse the night off, and don fresh clothes. By time the maids knock on the door, I’m ready for them. There’s three of them, all fluttering in a flock, and they pull at my hair and fuss over me.

  The door is ajar, but Ben still knocks when he steps into it. “Sir,” he says, announcing his presence. “Permission to enter?”

  I don’t even look at him. Instead, I turn to one of my maids. “Angelia, do you hear something?” I ask. “The water pipe must be roaring again.”

  “Must be, sir.” It’s Angelia’s job to agree with everything I say, even when I’m being a petty bastard.

  I can see Ben’s form fidgeting in the corner of my eye. Good. Let him squirm. His lack of forethought nearly cost me my delicious sex kitten last night.

  “Your Highness.” Bloody hell, he doesn’t give up, does he? “There is… something we should discuss before you see the queen. About last night.”

  “I’ve got it from here, thank you,” I tell the maids. They scatter, and I swiftly exit my room with not so much as a look in Ben’s direction.

  I make my way down the hall. Damn Ben’s long legs. He keeps pace with me effortlessly.

  “I know I was… out of line last night,” Ben says urgently. “And it won’t happen again. But there really is something we need to—”

  I brush Ben off, ignoring him completely, and push through the double doors to stride into the dining hall.

  My mother—the reigning queen of England—sits at the head of the table. At forty-six, she shines brighter than any diamond in the palace. The press can say what they will about the Pennington reign—that our dynasty has been at times cold, aloof, and, back in the day, downright cruel—but what we’ve done, we’ve done in style. Queen Selena is every ounce a Pennington specimen, from her golden hair pinned back behind her head to the swanlike slope of her neck. Then, of course, there’s the legendary strong Pennington jawline. For all her delicate femininity, her dramatic makeup and polished nails, there’s no hiding the lioness’s bone-crunching jaw.

  Princess Iris sits beside her, spreading grape jelly over a scone. Even though they’re twins, Iris has filled out where my mum’s gone gaunt, and her skin seems warmer somehow, brighter. The spring to my mum’s winter. She’s always been a second mum to me, and when I step in, she gives me that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile.

  I step behind the two and lean over to give them a customary peck on the cheek. “Good morning, Iris,” I tell her.

  “Isn’t it, Prince Charming?” she smirks. She’s hiding something behind that goading smile, and it’s not yellow feathers.

  When I go to kiss my mum, she swivels her chin just slightly out of my reach. “Sit,” she commands.

  Her tone is cold and hard. She’s talking to me as queen now, not my mother. I obey and take my seat beside her.

  “You are aware that tonight is the annual masquerade ball. The ball that I’ve worked very hard to pull together, mind you.”

  “I’m aware.” A plate of over-easy eggs, sausage, and beans appears in front of me—magic—and I pick at it.

  Once a year, the palace throws a charity ball to support the military. My father had started it years ago, and the queen took it upon herself to continue the tradition even after his private plane hit dirt and took him down with it.

  The people loved my father, Duncan. Although he was only in-lawed into royalty by marrying my mother, he had such grace and charm that the press took to calling him “King Duncan,” and the name stuck. They tolerated uptight Queen Selena and me, her royally spoiled son, but they loved my father. The yearly ball was a way of reminding them why they’d once adored the royal family… even if you had to be a member of the press, a noble, or incredibly, independently wealthy to afford the price of admission.

  But—Queen Selena always stressed—it was a charity, after all.

  The corners of my mother’s mouth are tight and curved downward now like the lines of a scythe. “Then you can understand my confusion,�
�� she continues, “when I found this story making headlines instead.”

  She pushes her tablet over to me and taps the screen. For a moment, it’s a still image of Rory and me. The pinwheel spins and the video starts playing.

  The image rolls and yesterday’s Roland gestures like a buffoon, praising her brother. I hate watching myself played back. No matter how sincere I am, it always seems practiced and forced. I see flaws all over my smile. It makes me cringe.

  I focus on Rory instead. She’s a natural and innately charming. I feel a grin twitch the corner of my mouth.

  Rory March, March On! Rory signs off, smiles for the camera, and taps the screen with her finger.

  “This is nothing,” I tell her. “A request from a fan.”

  “Keep watching,” my mother instructs.

  “The ending is… positively thrilling,” Iris cackles. My mum shoots her a stern look, and the other woman shuts her mouth.

  I watch.

  The video doesn’t stop there. Instead, the angle turns upward. There’s a small clatter as Rory sets her phone down on the side table. This close, the arm of the chair cuts off the lower halves of our bodies. I can see Rory’s face very clearly, however. She looks emotional. Touched.

  My heart picks up against my chest. The video keeps going, and I feel the cold fingers of dread sliding up my skin.

  Are you all right? I come into focus again on the screen.

  You’re incredible. There’s the tremble in her voice that broke my heart.

  I’m not, video-me tells her. You, on the other hand. You’re remarkable, Rory.

  We’re kissing now. The memory of her lips sends a spark of pleasure shooting through my blood. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself focused.

  The video keeps rolling. And rolling. When Rory takes off her top, my mother mercifully taps her manicured nail over the screen. We remain like that, frozen, tangled in one another.

  “It goes on like that,” she says, “for forty-seven minutes.”

  “This was an accident,” I explain quickly.

  “Was it?” My mother sighs. “She used you, darling. To get notoriety for her… whatever it was.”

  “No. She’s not like that. If I could address the people myself,” I say, “I could explain my side—”

  My mother’s eyes go hawk-like. She turns away from me and briskly barks, “Mr. Tolle.”

  Ben, who has no doubt been hiding in the doorway, now steps through it. I can see the vibrancy in his eyes—he wants to step to my aid—but instead he lingers a respectable distance away, shackled by loyalty to the crown. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “How did the Normal get in?”

  “I invited her in, ma’am, but—”

  “Thank you. You’re fired.”

  That is like a sucker punch to the chest. Ben’s eyes go wide, but he holds his tongue. What can he do? Nothing. Me, on the other hand… I can’t lose him. He’s the one person who keeps me sane in this place. The only friend I have to lean on.

  I jump to his defense immediately. “Mum—it was my decision. I requested that Ben bring her into the palace.”

  My mother’s hand snaps across my face. Fast as a mongoose. My fork clatters to the ground. The servants, instead of running to pick it up, go statue-still. There is nothing more frightening than a lioness losing her temper.

  Even I don’t dare to budge now. I stare ahead, tense my jaw, and wait for the stinging pain to leave my cheek. The only sound comes from Iris, who is still scraping jelly off her plate and onto her scone.

  “After everything I’ve done to protect you,” my mum hisses. “You throw it away. On a girl.”

  “I never asked you to protect me.” I don’t mean the words to come out, and I certainly don’t mean for my tone to be so knife-sharp and bitter.

  The queen rises from her chair and walks over to Ben. She hands over the iPad. “Mr. Tolle, you are officially rehired. See what you can find on this girl. Shake some skeletons out of her closet and spread it out for the world to see. I want her disgraced. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A cold sweat prickles the back of my neck. This is all my fault. I told Ben to fetch her. I can’t let Rory go down like this, especially not to cover my own sordid nature. “I was thinking we’d invite her to the ball,” I blurt out suddenly. “As my girlfriend.”

  My mother spins to me, and her eyes go wide. I’ve never spoken out against her before, not like this, and she’s looking at me as though I’ve raised Nessy from the lake. “Have you lost your mind?”

  But I’ve got my armor now. I’m pragmatic. Problem solving. I stand, plant my palms on the table, and explain calmly, “Tell me, Mother, what’s a better headline: Strange Woman Breaks into Palace and Tricks Gullible Prince into Filming Sex Tape? Or Media Capitalizes on an Intimate Moment Between Prince and his Loving Girlfriend? One story calls into question our entire bloody security system. The other paints a target on the press, and God knows everyone hates them already.”

  My mother stares at me. She knows I’m right—she has to know. But she doesn’t like it.

  “Your girlfriend?” she says as though the word is grit between her teeth.

  “Yes, Mum,” I reply. “My girlfriend.”

  Finally, she turns away from me and faces Ben again. “Find the girl. Invite her tonight. Make sure to stress that her presence is nonnegotiable.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Ben leaves but not before casting me a glance. We’ve been around each other long enough to speak without saying a word, and I know his eyes are asking, Are you sure this is what you want?

  I nod, just a small tilt of my chin. He understands and leaves.

  Nothing is as cold as the look the queen of England gives me when she faces me again. Her voice drops low so only I can hear her. “If this girlfriend of yours calls into question the Pennington reputation again, even the American Embassy won’t be able to keep her safe. Do I make myself clear?”

  She’s being dramatic. I know that. We’re the royal bloody family—we’ve earned the right to our histrionics. Still, I don’t doubt that she could make Rory’s life a living hell, so I submit.

  “Yes, Mum. Crystal clear.”

  “Good.” There’s a sudden shift in her expression then—she looks weary, suddenly, as if the argument took all the remaining strength she had left. Her eyes soften and all at once she’s switched from queen of England to simply my mum. “I’m only trying to keep you safe, Roland. I lost your father. I can’t lose you, too.”

  With that, she leaves through the double doors. Her dress trails behind her, making her look like a ghostly apparition, and her bodyguard peels out from the shadows to follow her.

  A chill has fallen over the room. Even the chandelier above me looks like it’s carrying icicles. Princess Iris breaks the mood with an elaborate stretch and a wide-mouthed yawn, as though physically shaking off the moment.

  “Oh, ducky. Your mother means well.” She takes my mum’s chair to be closer to me. Her fingers rake through my hair, and she pulls at it lightly. “Your hair’s getting so long,” she muses. “It’s positively unmanageable. Have Angelia trim it down before tonight.”

  “I like it long.”

  She rolls her eyes. “And I like world peace and ponies.” She plucks my mum’s untouched scone from her plate and picks at it. “Even royals don’t get everything they want.”

  11

  Rory

  I wake up in the top bunk of Free People Hostel.

  Hostels get a bad rap, but I’ve grown to love them. There’s a sense of community here that you can’t find in a Four Seasons. Sure, I’ve learned the hard way to sleep with my valuables under my pillow, but for the most part, the people I’ve met at my hostels have been the best short-term travel companions a lonely traveler could ask for.

  Free People has proven to be one of the best hostels I’ve stayed at. Free Wi-Fi, clean showers, and a short walking dist
ance to some great pubs and cafés… it’s more than I’m used to. My co-ed dorm fits six, and the beds are in constant rotation, mostly with college-age students. I claimed top bunk after my last bunkmate moved on, and now I have a sweet, quiet girl, Nadia, underneath me. Nadia is still asleep, and so are a couple others, but the rest of the beds are empty, everyone eager to start a new day of sightseeing.

  I savor a couple more moments underneath my cotton blanket, feeling as spoiled as a fluffy cat with a diamond-studded collar.

  And then memories drift in of the opulent Buckingham Palace, the spotless furniture and the throw pillows lined with rabbit fur. It all feels like a dream. That couldn’t have possibly happened—not to me. But then I shift in bed, bending my knee, and feel a sudden pang between my legs. I’m sore there, a delicious, stretched sensation from the way the prince’s cock impaled me, again and again, and all at once I know: not a dream.

  Last night was very, very real, and my body aches with the memory of Prince Roland.

  Slowly, so as not to rustle my blanket, I slip my fingers underneath my panties to check the damage. The brush of my fingers sends a jolt of memory—Roland’s fingers playing my sex, his mouth on my breast, his hands on my hips. My nether lips are puffy, swollen, and I’m sopping wet all over again.

  I can’t help myself. My fingers start moving of their own accord, drawing tiny circles underneath my needy nub. I came… how many times last night? Twice? Three times? I lost count, but my normally docile sex drive is suddenly insatiable. Roland isn’t the only one I’m fantasizing about, either. Ben slips into my daydream like a shadow. I remember the scratch of his teeth against my throat, and I shudder all over.

  How did I let these two men turn me into such a horny mess? I bite my lip hard to swallow back a moan.

  There’s a cough from the bunk across from me. Shit! I quickly cease all movement and hold my breath. I’m no longer the only one awake. My fingers are stilled, curled at my most sensitive parts, and my body is pulsing with the desire to finish what I started.