Royal Ruin: A Flings With Kings Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “I know,” I said, leaning down to kiss her mouth. I tasted the bourbon on her lips. It burned.

  It was so fucking sweet.

  Emily traced her fingers over my lips. “Always so cocky.”

  “You don’t seem to mind it.”

  “I don’t.”

  A mobile began to ring. Emily glanced at her phone on the sink, lit up with an incoming call.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  She shook her head, a small smile of disbelief playing at her lips. “Luke.”

  I met her eyes. “You going to answer it?”

  “Fuck no.” Emily pressed her mouth to mine as the call went to voicemail. “Hey. Want to ditch dinner and skip right to the good part tonight?”

  I grinned. “Didn’t the good part just happen?”

  Emily reached down and wrapped her hand around my dick. “It can happen again if you’d like.”

  I looked down at her. God I loved this girl.

  “I’ll get the check,” I said.

  * * *

  Emily

  The Next Night

  Primrose Palace

  Kit was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. A wicked little smile worked its way across his lips as he devoured me from head to toe with his eyes.

  “You sure you don’t want to cancel?” he said, pressing a kiss onto my mouth. “We could have dinner in bed instead.”

  I grinned. “I’d love to. But we have to get the ball rolling. There’s a lot for Aly and Rob to do before the wedding.”

  We’d invited Aly and Rob over for dinner. Traditionally, royal weddings didn’t have maids of honor or best men. But we’d decided to break with tradition and do a bit of our own thing. Tonight, I was going to ask Aly to be my maid of honor, and Kit would be asking Rob to be his best man. They’d be a big part of the wedding planning, the ceremony, and then of course the joint bachelor/bachelorette party Kit and I wanted to have. Which meant they’d have to work together a fair bit over the next six months.

  “You’re nervous,” Kit said, watching as I smoothed my dress over my thighs.

  “Aren’t you? The two of them don’t exactly get along.”

  Kit scoffed. “That’s an understatement. But don’t worry. I’ll have a chat with Rob about behaving himself.”

  Aly and Rob had butted heads ever since they’d started working on the School for the Arts together a month or so ago. It made sense why they didn’t get along. Aly took life seriously. As the new owner of EP Designs, she had to be responsible. But Rob was literally the opposite of responsible. He served his family well enough. But beyond that, his life was one giant, never-ending party.

  Kit led me down the hall to the drawing room. I bit back a laugh when I heard Aly and Rob arguing. And then we stopped in our tracks when we heard what they were arguing about.

  “What do you mean, you’ve met someone?” Rob said. “Don’t tell me it’s that Philip bloke—the uptight wanker you met on Bumble. It’s been one bloody week, Aly.”

  “As a matter of fact, it is Philip,” Aly sniffed. “He’s a nice guy. A responsible guy. I can already tell I like him. So what you and I have been doing has to stop.”

  Kit turned his wide-eyed gaze on me.

  “What the hell? Are Aly and Rob—”

  “Hooking up?” I whispered. “Sounds like it.”

  “Why the hell would you want that? Bloke sounds like an absolute bore,” Rob was saying. “I’ve made you come. A lot. Hell, I’ve made you come six bloody times in one night.”

  “And I’ve appreciated that. But now this—whatever this is between you and me—it needs to stop.”

  “This is good, Aly. Really, really good.”

  “I’m not saying it isn’t. But it’s not what I’m looking for. Not in the long term.”

  Kit tore a hand through his hair. “Bloody perfect,” he groaned. “This should make for an interesting summer.”

  Look out for Aly and Rob’s story (Flings with Kings #2) in Spring 2018! Sign up for my newsletter to be notified when it goes live.

  Thank you for reading ROYAL RUIN! Want to find out what the Queen really thinks of Kit and Em’s real engagement? Join my newsletter, and I’ll send you MEETING HER MAJESTY, a short story I wrote about their first official audience with the Queen at Windsor Castle. Spoiler alert: it includes gin, Nibbles the naughty dog, and an orgasm (of course). Happy reading!

  If you especially enjoyed Kit and Em’s story, please consider leaving a review. Send a copy of your review to jessicapauthor@jessicapeterson.com and I’ll be sure to reply with a personalized note of thanks. You rock!

  ROYAL RUIN is the first book in a planned trilogy of interconnected standalone romances. Aly and Rob’s sexy enemies to lovers story is next! Look out for a Spring 2018 release date. In the meantime, here are ways to keep in touch:

  Join my reader’s group on Facebook, Peterson’s Pupils, for news, exclusive giveaways, and fun discussions of all things romance

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  Until Aly and Rob’s book comes out, tide yourself over with my complete STUDY ABROAD series. Turn the page for an excerpt of SPANISH LESSONS, book #1 in the series. If you loved Kit and Em, then I think you’ll love Vivian and her super sexy Spanish tutor. All books are available for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

  THE STUDY ABROAD SERIES

  Studying Abroad Just Got a Whole Lot Sexier…

  A Series of Sexy Interconnected Standalone Romances

  Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad #1)

  Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2)

  Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad #3)

  Lessons in Losing It (Study Abroad #4)

  Excerpt from SPANISH LESSONS

  Vivian

  August

  Madrid, Spain

  I clutch the scrap of paper with trembling fingers. The address I’ve scrawled on it in purple felt-tip pen is smeared with sweat; the paper feels fuzzy, worried by my hands as I’ve stumbled through Barajas International Airport.

  The taxi driver, a nice looking dude with stringy blond locks that stream from a receding hairline, glances at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Um,” I say, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Years of Spanish go out the open window as I struggle to remember how to say fourteen and street and I’m so sorry I’m an idiot. I’ve practiced saying my señora’s address a hundred times on the plane. I’ve even coached myself on the proper Spanish accent, perfecting the soft hiss of c and s.

  Sweat trickles down the gutter of my spine. Spanish words and phrases dart through my head like blinking fireflies, going dark just when I think I’ve caught one.

  For the first time, I wonder what the hell I was thinking when I decided to study abroad for a semester in Spain. I am not ready for this. While I’ve managed to slip through high school and college classes on the strength of my written Spanish, it’s obvious my speaking skills are gringo-level—and that is being generous.

  I’ve always wanted to study in Madrid, mostly because I’m a huge art history nerd and the museums here are some of the best in the world. Seeing, in the flesh, the masterpieces of my favorite artists—Goya, Dalí, Picasso—along with the country that inspired them is going to be the coolest thing ever.

  But even though art history is my jam, I have yet to discover any real jobs you can land with a major like that. Considering mom and dad kindly but firmly told me I’m off the payroll the day I get my diploma, I needed a more practical major with good job prospects.

  So like most Meryton University students, I am an Economics major. Along with a solid GPA, it will help me nab internships that will lead to a well-paying job after I graduate—consulting, maybe, or investment banking. I also chose it because, let’s be honest, peer pressure is a bitch, and I don’t want to be left behind by my super smart, and super competitive, classmates.

  Unlike most Meryton students, however, I’m not very good at Econ
. In fact, my GPA has tanked ever since I declared it as my major last year. Which is why I plan on getting a tutor through the Meryton in Madrid program this semester. I’m hoping they can help me slay the business classes I’m taking, and maybe the one or two art history classes I’ll sneak in before I settle into my I-banking track for good.

  But if I can barely mumble a coherent word in Spanish, how the hell am I going to pass, much less slay, classes that cover sophisticated economic theory— classes taught in one hundred percent Spanish? I doubt even the best, most dedicated tutor can teach me to speak an entire language in a handful of months.

  The taxi driver is waiting.

  “Um,” I say again, my voice wavering. “Por favor, voy a…um…quatro, no, no, catorce…”

  The driver turns around and offers a small smile of sympathy. He nods at the scrap in my hand, and with a sigh of relief I pass it to him.

  “Gracias,” I say. “Muchisimas, muchisimas gracias.”

  He turns back, looks down at the address. “Ah, vale. Veinte, veinticinco minutos con el trafico.”

  That I understand. Twenty, twenty-five minutes with the traffic.

  Okay.

  I settle back in my seat, let out a breath. Okay. I look forward to twenty-five minutes of relative peace, before I face the second trial of my study abroad adventure: meeting my señora. I have been warned she speaks “little to no English.”

  Just the thought of it makes my stomach clench. Social situations can stress me out—I’m an introvert—and I know interacting with my substitute mom who can only communicate in Spanish is going to take my anxiety to a whole new level. I want to be gracious, and kind; I want her to like me. None of those things will happen if I can’t speak her language.

  The driver fights our sputtering taxi into gear. We lurch into traffic, the driver zipping in between cars and mopeds with stupid speed. A tiny blue lighter slides across the dashboard. He snatches it, tucking it into his shirtfront pocket; the pack of cigarettes he keeps there crinkles as he does it.

  He does not put on his seatbelt. I take that as a sign that I should definitely put on mine.

  My first sight of Madrid is disappointing. We pass through dreary suburbs at lightning speed, faceless building after faceless building whizzing past, a blurry weave of grey and beige. Between buildings, I catch glimpses of the countryside. It is arid, desert-like with pops of intense, eucalyptus green—exactly how I imagined it when I read Don Quixote. The sky is hazy with heat.

  The wind, warm, blares through the window. It feels good. Growing up in the South, I am used to hot weather. But I didn’t realize how much I took air conditioning— sweet, sweet air conditioning—for granted.

  Looking out the window, I notice that everything is a little different here. The cars, for one thing, are tiny, dinged up and dirty; not a shiny SUV in sight. The people driving them have slightly different haircuts, they wear a slightly different style clothing; their expressions of road rage are startlingly vibrant to my American eyes. The highway itself is clean and orderly, the pavement several shades darker than at home.

  The suburbs eventually crowd into a city. My heart pops around in my chest. Mostly because we are getting closer to my señora’s apartment, and I’m already stressed about what I’m going to say.

  But my heart also works double time because excitement is peeking around the great mass of my anxiety. Madrid is huge— and this part is beautiful. The taxi slows down as we run into traffic, giving me a chance to gawk as we inch further toward city center.

  It’s not gritty, like New York, or shiny and new, like Atlanta. Madrid is gorgeously old; I can see its age in the zigzag of its streets, in the mishmash of Gothic and Mediterranean and Belle Epoque architecture. The mid-afternoon light softens corners and gilds trees. Beautifully dressed people stroll along the sidewalks, puffing on cigarettes or chatting on their phones. My eyes move over the trim, broad-shouldered profiles of the guys we pass—Madrileños. They are the “holy shit” variety of gorgeous.

  But as delicious as they look, I wouldn’t touch these dudes with a ten-foot pole. After suffering through my first real heartbreak last semester, followed by a string of disappointing hookups that I hoped would lead to something but never did, I need a win. And falling for a hot Spanish dude who, if he even likes me back, I’ll have to leave in five months’ time is definitely not a win.

  I’ve been so close to romance, to that happily ever after, before. And then I had to let it—let him—go after one semester. It hurt like hell.

  I definitely don’t want to go through that again.

  I want a guy who’s going to be around for coffee in the morning and dinner dates at night.

  I want a guy who’s going to be around for a long, long time. Maybe forever. And by virtue of their hotness, their geographical location, and their seriously superior Spanish skills, these Madrileños are definitely not forever material.

  It’s intimidating, Madrid, but already I’m picking up on its easy energy, the sense of promise that hangs in the air. If I can ever manage to utter a complete sentence in grammatically correct Spanish, I think I’ll like it here.

  After weaving in and out of traffic, we make a turn and zoom up a smaller street. I strain my neck to look up at the stately white apartment buildings we pass. The neighborhood looks nice. Very nice. The bustle and noise of the city recedes the further we move up the street, until at last the driver darts into an open parking spot in front of a blue paneled door.

  I brace my hand on the back of his seat to keep from lurching forward.

  “Aqui.” The driver points out the window. “Calle de Villanueva, numero catorce.”

  Oh God.

  I’m here.

  My home for the next six months. Whether I’m a gringo or not, I’m here, four thousand miles from home. There is no turning back.

  The driver motions to the meter, and I dig my monopoly-sized Euro bills out of my wallet. My mind races as I try to calculate the tip. Shit, there are no single bills; I’d forgotten the Euro dollar is a coin.

  Shit shit shit.

  My hands are shaking again, and I end up shoving an enormous tip into the guy’s hand because my brain isn’t working and I feel like I’m about to burst into tears. He grins and hops out of the car, helping me with my enormous suitcase.

  He drops it at the door. I say thanks in halting Spanish, and he speeds away, muffler coughing in protest.

  I glance down at the scrap of paper he placed in my palm. Calle de Villanueva, 14, second floor. I look up at the door. I am so nervous I feel sick.

  But the sun is hot on my head and shoulders, the heat from the pavement radiating up my legs. I probably look like a hot mess, and smell like one too. I can’t remember ever being so exhausted; I need a siesta, stat.

  I push the door open, dragging my suitcase behind me. Its wheels clack against the marble floor. The air in the small, shadowed foyer is cool; it feels like jumping into a pool after that sweaty cab ride.

  There is a quaint, fragile-looking elevator in the middle of the room. I slide back the Titanic-esque gate, and barely manage to squeeze into the elevator beside my suitcase. I press the button; after a minute the elevator jerks into motion, moving slowly, slowly, to the second floor.

  And all of a sudden—three airports, four awful airplane meals, and eighteen hours after I left home—I am staring down my señora’s door.

  Swallowing my heart, I knock.

  I hear the rut-tut-tut of a dog’s nails against the floorboards; a bark, a woman’s voice; and then the door opens, revealing a petite blond woman with kind brown eyes. There’s a frazzled look about her, or maybe I just think that because she’s trying—and failing—to hold back a giant German shepherd by his collar.

  “Chiquitin!” she implores. “No, Chiquitin, no!”

  But Chiquitin gets the better of her, wrangling from her grasp. He pounces on me, teeth nicking my chin. I let out an embarrassing sound, something between “hola” and a strangled cry
for help.

  No one told me there would be a dog. A mean, employed-by-the-department-of-corrections dog.

  My señora starts to holler, and eventually she manages to wrestle Chiquitin away from me. He barks, she slaps. I wonder if I’m going to faint.

  Then she turns to me.

  “Vivian?” she asks, smiling. It sounds like Vee-vee-an when she says it. I kinda like it. I wonder if I can ever hope to live up to this exotic version of myself.

  I manage a smile. “Si. Me llama Vivian. Um. I’m. Uh. Encantada, Senora.”

  I think that’s how you say “nice to meet you.” I think.

  I hope.

  She manages to wedge back the dog, and steps out into the foyer to give me a hug. A quick kiss kiss on each cheek, and she pulls away, introducing herself as Stella. She picks up pretty quickly on the fact that my Spanish isn’t so great. She speaks slowly, using hand gestures. I appreciate her kindness.

  The following hour is a blur. After locking Chiquitin in a bedroom, Stella shows me around her apartment. It is lovely, dressed up without being stuffy. The floor, wood parquet lovingly marred by generations of use, creaks as we move through each room: a small kitchen—no oven!—a pretty bathroom, a well-worn living room with couches huddled around a TV.

  There is no air conditioning in any of the rooms. It’s got to be close to one hundred degrees outside.

  I try to engage Stella in conversation. I want to let her know how much I love her apartment, how much I appreciate her hospitality. But I’m really feeling the jet lag now, and my brain seems to short-circuit anytime I need to say something. Either I can’t think of anything to say at all, or I do but I can’t remember how to translate it into Spanish.

  I end up using dumbed-down phrases that make me sound like a total tool. “Que bella!” (I’m pretty sure that’s Italian, but whatever); “muchas gracias”; “es preciosa” (“it is precious” or maybe “it is pretty”) Gah!

  By the time the tour ends and Stella shows me to my room, I want to die of embarrassment. Exhaustion, too. She asks if I’m hungry, if I’d like anything—maybe a glass of wine to celebrate my arrival?