by Isla Olsen
I’ve always loved cars. Driving them, fixing them, building them. In another life I’d be a mechanic, no question about it. But I can’t complain; my privileged position allows me to keep a garage of vintage cars, all of which I’ve restored myself.
When I get to the garage I use the bathroom to change into something more appropriate for working on cars, and then I head over to where I have one of my Aston Martins set up on blocks. She’s a 1961 Zagato, and usually runs like a dream. She’s been giving me a little trouble lately, though, so I’m glad for the opportunity to get under there and see what’s happening.
As usual, I get completely lost in what I’m doing, and it’s not until Boyd interrupts me later in the day that I realize exactly how long I’ve been down here.
“Might I suggest you stop for some lunch, Your Majesty? It’s almost three o’clock.”
I bump my head against the hood as I startle at Boyd’s words. Ducking out from my work on the engine, I stare at Boyd in surprise. “Three o’clock?”
He cants his head toward the clock hanging on the far wall of the garage and I see he’s right; it’s right on quarter to three. Shaking my head in bafflement, I clear up my tools and close the hood.
By the time I’ve cleaned up, showered, and changed back into my suit it’s past three thirty, so I’m not surprised to encounter my daughter on my way back to my office.
“Papa!”
I smile as Katya comes racing toward me down the gallery with absolutely none of the grace a princess should exude. My father would be rolling in his grave if he saw the way my daughter behaves around the palace, a thought that never ceases to put a smile on my face.
I open my arms for her and she runs right into them, hugging me tight. I press a kiss to her blond hair, which, as usual, seems reluctant to stay in the neat braid it was put in this morning. “How were your lessons?”
She draws her head back and beams at me. “Did you know the first queen of Korova was named Katerina, like me?”
I offer an indulgent smile. “I did know that. And she was very beautiful, just like you.”
She smiles even brighter. “And there was a great empress of Russia with my name, too! And we’re related to her!”
I nod. “We are.”
Although we’re not technically related to Catherine the Great, because she’s not technically part of the Romanov bloodline. I don’t feel the need to make that clarification, however.
“And we’re the heirs to the Russian throne!” She chatters excitedly.
I snap to attention at that. Christ, is this man trying to get my children killed? “There is no Russian throne anymore, Katya,” I say sternly. “We represent the people of Korova. That is all.”
“Ahh, sorry, Your Majesty.” I glance up to see the American has caught up with us, one of those self-deprecating smiles on his handsome face. “We were having a history lesson and it turned into a bit of a hypothetical discussion.”
I frown as I make a decision. If I focus on his incompetence, I won’t have to think about the way his bottom lip is jutting out and how I want to snag it between my teeth and hear him groan. I narrow my eyes on him, making my disapproval clear. “If you are the expert you claim to be, you would know my great-grandfather relinquished any claim to the Romanov throne after the death of the Tsar. It’s what kept my family alive when the Bolsheviks took power.”
“I do know that. Like I said…hypothetical.”
“A dangerous hypothetical.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, before he finally dips his head in deference. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“Do that.”
I pull my gaze away from his face to glance down at my daughter, who’s watching us with wide, confused eyes.
“Come on, Princess, we need to get to your dancing lesson,” the American says, prompting Katya’s face to light up in excitement.
“Where’s Tomas?” I ask of my son, who’s nowhere in sight.
“He’s not really into ballet, so he went out riding.”
I blink a few times. “Alone?”
The American shakes his head. “Of course not. Lennox is with him.”
I frown at that. Lennox is relatively new to the palace; I haven’t had a chance to get to know him yet and feel him out.
The American arches an eyebrow at me. “I made the assumption that any of the security personnel working at the palace have been thoroughly vetted and can be trusted with the safety of the royal children. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me…um, Your Majesty.”
I’m beginning to hate the sound of my own title. For some reason, the sound of it on his lips just sounds all wrong. Or perhaps it’s the way he always pairs it with a glimmer of amusement in his dark blue eyes. Treading the line between respect and rebellion, as if he knows I’m a fraud but doesn’t want to call me out on it.
“It’s fine,” I grumble, making a mental note to ask Boyd what he thinks of Lennox.
“Jai! Come on, Jai! Come on!” My daughter demands as she tugs on the American’s hand in an attempt to pull him down the hall.
“Katya, you should be addressing your tutor as Mr. Winters.”
Katya looks up at me, her lower lip stuck out petulantly. “But he told me I could call him Jai, Papa!”
He shrugs. “It’s true, I did.”
I give a dismissive shake of my head and decide to let the matter go. The children address their other tutor by her first name, I suppose, but that’s different. Penny’s been here since before they were even born. She’s basically part of the family.
I watch the American as he disappears down the hallway, hand clasped with my daughter’s, listening intently to whatever she’s nattering on about. I snap my gaze away when I realize it’s been lingering far too long on his backside. I wasn’t admiring him, and I certainly didn’t notice how nicely his trousers hugged his firm arse. I was merely observing that he seems to be dressing more professionally than when we first met.
That’s all there was to it…
5
JAI
So, the king officially hates me. I’m not sure why exactly; true, there’s been the odd occasion where I’ve failed to bow and address him correctly, and I may have accidentally taught his kids something that could make them targets of the FSB, and, yeah, there was that time I sprung a boner right in front of him.
Okay, so maybe his ill-feeling toward me isn’t entirely unjustified. But it is a little unsettling. I’m an incredibly likeable person. I always win people over the moment I meet them. But King Lukas has proven to be a tough nut to crack.
And, boy, would I love to crack him…
For some reason, every time he scowls or narrows his eyes at me, it makes me want to challenge him even more. I just can’t help it.
“Lukas can definitely be a bit of a grumpy gus,” Penny tells me when I voice my concern over lunch toward the end of my third week at the palace, “but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’ve known him since we were eighteen. Trust me, he’s a big softy once you get to know him.”
“Get to know him? He’s the king. I can’t imagine—”
Penny cuts me off with a tinkling laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll come to see things aren’t quite as…let’s say rigid around here as they might be in some other monarchies, or may have been in the past. King Lukas is quite an involved parent, and you’re one of his children’s tutors, so you’ll inevitably interact on account of the children. And trust me, if anything can put a smile on that man’s face, it’s talk of the prince and princess.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. He’s much more hands on than I would have expected.”
“Lesia was that way as well,” Penny says, a sad smile touching her face.
I’m immediately hit with a stab of guilt and remorse at the mention of the deceased queen. Here I am lusting over the king and fretting about why he doesn’t like me when his wife only died a year ago. The poor guy’s pr
obably still heartbroken. No wonder he’s so dour all the time…
After I finish up with my lessons for the day and see Katya to her ballet class, I decide to take Penny’s suggestion of using the children as a means of breaking the ice with King Lukas. We reached a milestone in our French lesson today, with both Tomas and Katya being able to run through the entire French alphabet without prompting. I think that’s something worth reporting to the king, so he can congratulate his children on their progress.
When I get to the king’s office I see the desk where his secretary usually sits is empty, but there’s a guard standing sentinel by the door.
“Can I help you, Mr. Winters?” the guard, who I think is named Boyd, asks.
“I need to talk to the king about the children.”
He gives a single nod. “He’s alone right now. You should be fine.”
“Thanks.”
I push the door open and proceed into the king’s private office. It’s not quite as grand as I thought it might be, which is something I find oddly endearing. There’s a wall of bookshelves on one side, but it’s populated by little ornaments and framed photos rather than actual books. Against another wall is a small sofa, and on the far wall opposite the door is a large window that looks over the rear gardens. In the center of the room is a large mahogany desk, which I’m oddly surprised to see has a desktop computer sitting on top of it. I suppose even kings need to be connected to the digital world…
The king in question, however, is nowhere in sight. I’m about to back out of the room and ask Boyd to double check on the king’s whereabouts when my ears prick up as I hear groaning from behind the wall to my left. Weird.
I move closer to better decipher the sound and hear it again—groaning, combined with a few hissed-out curses. I’m pretty sure it’s the king’s voice and it sounds like he’s hurt somehow.
I scan the wall and notice a thin gap, indicating a door. There must be a concealed room behind this wall…
I consider my options for a moment. Should I alert Boyd? Should I go for a medic? Ultimately, I decide it might be best to assess the situation first before getting anyone else involved. I have first aid training so it’s not as though I’m completely useless, and if the situation warrants it I can call for a medic once I know what’s going on.
It takes me all of two seconds after I’ve pushed open the door to realize the king is not even remotely hurt. And about five seconds more to realize I’m so going to be fired.
The secret room turns out to be a bathroom. And King Lukas wasn’t groaning in pain. It’s pleasure… and oh, holy Jesus, does this guy know how to get off.
He’s got a suction cup dildo stuck to the tiled floor and he’s riding it like a sexy-as-fuck bull rider, one arm outstretched to grip the towel rail, his other hand fisting his cock. And, fuck, what a cock. And those abs. And those thighs…
Fuck. I need to get out of here before he realizes…
Too late. His eyes snap open and he stares at me. I stare at him. He looks like he wants to kill me. I throw my hands up in a gesture of innocence. “I signed an NDA!”
He groans and cum spurts out of his cock, all over his hand. I stare at it, my mouth watering with the desire to swoop down and lick it up.
“I would like for you to leave now,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I turn to exit the bathroom, but stop in the doorway to say, “By the way, that was totally fucking hot.’
“Leave.”
I race out of the king’s office like the hounds of hell are after me, shaking my head at Boyd’s raised eyebrows. “He’s busy, I’ll come back later.”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I feel like I’ve just walked in on the Queen of England in the nude. Except this was far more visually appealing. Far, far more.
If you thought walking in on the king while he was fucking himself on a suction cup dildo would somehow hinder my effort to endear myself to him, you would of course be absolutely right. By some miracle I manage not to get fired, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because King Lukas has been avoiding me like the plague. But that is really the least of my problems, because if I was lusting after him before, it is nothing compared to the way my mind—and dick—are reacting now. No surprises for guessing what’s shot straight to the top of my spank bank rotation; all I can think about is what it would be like to have him ride my cock like that. Fucking hell…
But I need to get a grip. Just because he likes anal stuff, it doesn’t make him gay. There are a ton of straight guys who enjoy anal penetration and, as far as I’m concerned, why shouldn’t they? And even if he is into guys, that doesn’t automatically mean he’s going to be into me. This isn’t a fucking fairytale.
6
LUKAS
For a week I’ve managed to avoid the American. In fact, I’ve made something of an art form out of avoiding him. If it were an Olympic sport, I’d win the gold, and by a long stretch. It’s childish, I know. Certainly not behavior befitting a king. But I know if I see him, if I’m forced to look into his eyes, I’ll be taken back to that moment, to the way he stared at me with such unguarded desire and how, for the briefest of moments, I considered begging him to get to his knees and finish me off.
I should be livid at him for invading my privacy like that, but honestly I’m more ashamed with myself. It was the middle of the day and I was supposed to be working; I should have had more control over myself. Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice.
But I’d overheard some gossip in the hallway outside my office that morning, one of the administrative staff musing that it was a shame the new tutor was gay because she’d wanted to ask him out. And from that moment it had been impossible to concentrate on anything. All I could think about was taking him inside me. Or getting inside him.
After a week of berating myself for my lack of control, I’m relieved to have a distraction in the form of my brother’s return to the palace.
“I thought you weren’t returning until next week,” I say as Aleksandr and I climb the main stairs and head down the gallery toward the residential suites.
“There are only so many charity events one can attend, brother.” His exhausted tone makes it sound as though he’s spent the past six months doing some kind of hard labor rather than flitting around Europe attending fancy events.
“I see.”
Alik is fifteen years younger than me and my polar opposite, no doubt owing to the drastic differences in how we were raised. I was brought up with a strict, almost militaristic attitude where nothing ever seemed good enough for my father. Aleksandr, on the other hand—the change of life baby who’d come so long after my parents had stopped hoping for another child—was doted on and spoiled. But I’ve never resented him for it. In fact, I was glad he was saved from the experiences I’d had. And when our father died fourteen years ago, only six months after our mother, I made sure Alik’s childhood continued to be just that—a childhood.
“Who is that?” Alik asks, his voice full of desperate curiosity.
I turn my gaze in the direction he’s staring and see the American passing through one of the connecting hallways. My jaw tenses and dread fills me as I desperately try to prevent my cheeks from coloring at the memory of the other day.
“He’s the children’s tutor,” I say in answer to my brother’s question. “From America.”
“Shame.” Alik gives a mournful shake of his head.
“What is?”
He shrugs. “A guy as hot as that—of course he’s bound to be straight.”
“He’s not. According to the gossip, at least.” And if the way he was practically drooling while staring at my cock the other day is any indication.
Alik’s mouth curves into a sly grin and I’m immediately regretful about revealing the American’s orientation. But I suppose he would have found out for himself sooner or later anyway, so hiding it would have merely delayed the inevitable.
“Don’t even think about it,” I
warn, horrified to hear the words leave my mouth in an angry growl.
My brother’s brows shoot up. “Why not?”
“Because he’s an employee. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
He scoffs. “You think I haven’t fucked around with employees before?”
“And when has it ever worked out well?”
He lets out a resigned huff. “I suppose you have a fair point.”
My eyes travel across the gallery to where Boyd appears to be observing my brother and me far more closely than is strictly necessary. Case in point.
Later in the day, after I’ve finished up my work, I’m strolling down the main gallery when I see my brother and the American at the top of the stairs, engaged in what appears to be friendly conversation. A little too friendly for my liking.
When they end their conversation, the American heads down the stairs and I wait a moment before catching up to Aleksandr.
“I thought I told you to stay away from him?” I mutter.
Alik jolts in surprise, clearly not expecting my presence. “What? I can’t even be friendly?” He shakes his head in dismay. “You realize I don’t automatically fall into bed with every single guy I talk to, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “No, just most of them.”
“Fine. If you’re that concerned about it, I won’t speak to Jai anymore.”
I nod in satisfaction. “Good.”
“So I guess you’ll have to take him on the tour of the East Wing tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?”
Alik gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I promised I’d show him all the paintings there. But seeing as how you don’t want me spending time with him, it’s up to you, brother.”
I blink at him a few times. “I do actually have work to do, you know.”
