by Adora Crooks
We’ve been talking for an hour, maybe, just sitting here, sipping tea, and chatting, and I still can’t get look away from those eyes.
“That’s very brave of you,” he comments, though I’ve gotten lost in his gaze again and forgotten what we’re talking about.
“What is?” I chirp.
“Traveling on your own,” he explains. “It’s hard enough to get on in a foreign place, but… I imagine it must be harder for a young woman. The state of this world being what it is. Especially one as attractive as you.”
He winks at me when he says it. What kind of person actually winks these days? The prince of England, apparently. It’s not the first time he’s done something like this. I’ve noticed that he talks like a man who picked up all his vocabulary from books—earlier, he called my eyes verdant, overpronouncing the a, as though he’s never had an opportunity to use that word in a sentence. And now the winking. He clearly read enough Ian Fleming to think that that was just how people interacted with each other.
I can’t blame him for being stilted. He probably hasn’t had a decent conversation in… what. Ten years? That would make me animatronic, too.
Honestly, I think it’s cute. Charming.
I shrug off a blush. “It’s not that bad. And I’m not alone.”
His eyebrows lift. “No?”
I’ve carried my backpack with us, and it takes only a little force to drag it over to my seat. I unbuckle the top and dig in until I find what I’m looking for. “Meet Oscar,” I say and sit the stuffed otter upright on my knee.
A laugh explodes from Roland’s chest. It’s a delightful noise, and I find myself bubbling with pride for pulling it out for him. I can tell his laugh is genuine, not canned, since it creases the corners of his eyes, and all at once, he looks less like rigid royalty and more like an ecstatic boy who just saw Jack pop out of the box for the first time.
“All right,” he says, grin still lingering on his lips. “You have to tell me the story behind that.”
I press my thumbs into the otter’s chest and spread his arms out. “My brother, Oscar, he’s four years older than me. He’s my best friend.” I roll my words over on my tongue. This part is always hard to get out. “He was born with cystic fibrosis. It’s terminal. Incurable. He’s been sick my whole life, but… a couple years ago, it got really bad.”
I toy with the otter, rubbing his ears. “I had just graduated college, so I took care of him for the better part of a year. Then, one morning, he turns me to and tells me that he doesn’t want me to watch him die. He wants to watch me live. He always wanted to travel, so I bought a one-way ticket out of Michigan. I started a travel vlog… March On! How to travel the world on a budget. It picked up traction—people even send me donations sometimes, and they go straight to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.”
I hand my otter over to Roland so he can look at it. “When I was little, I couldn’t say Oscar. It just sounded like otter. It became a thing between us and… when I carry this little guy around with me, it feels like Oscar is right here with me. Like he’s seeing all this, too.”
I rarely let my precious otter leave my side, but he’s safe in Roland’s hands. He handles the otter gently, reverently, in his big hands. “Your brother sounds like a remarkable man,” Roland says.
My chest swells with pride. “He is.”
Roland’s blue eyes pierce me through to my core. “I would love to tell him as much myself. How does your vlog work?”
My heart skips a beat, and my jaw nearly falls to the floor. “You… want to be on my vlog?”
“If that’s okay. I have someone who handles all my social media… I must admit, I haven’t the faintest idea how this works.”
I breathe a laugh. He’s so humble and charming it nearly sends me into a tailspin. I drag my fingers through my hair to pull myself together and then fish my phone out of my pocket. “Yeah… uh… it’s really easy. Okay.”
This is actually happening. Stay cool, Rory.
The prince of England sits patiently as my fingers swipe over my phone’s screen until I get to the video recorder. “This goes live to my blog once it starts recording,” I explain. “So just tell me when you’re ready.”
“How do I look?” He smiles.
Good enough to eat up, I want to tell him.
Instead, I say, “Perfect.”
He taps his thigh. “Come here. I want you in the shot, too.”
I mean, that’s an offer I can’t refuse. I perch on Roland’s lap, and he winds an arm around my middle to keep me to him. Good luck, me, keeping my hands from trembling. I can feel the prince’s breath on the back of my neck. I turn the camera’s lens so I can see the both of us fitted into the screen.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Always.”
I hit the red Record button at the bottom. Instantly, we’re live.
“Hello, March On family!” I say. I couldn’t fake a smile this big. “This is Rory March, checking in from the one and only Buckingham Palace. Tip top, Cheerio! Did I say that right—is that something you Brits say?”
Roland grimaces playfully and shakes his head.
“As you can see, I’ve got a very special guest with me… an incredible, can’t-believe-he’s-doing-this-with-me special guest…”
“Cheerio,” Roland says and lifts a hand in a wave. “For the Yanks who don’t know me… I’m Prince Roland Pennington. I have a message just for Oscar March. Rory told me your story, and you’re an incredibly brave, strong man and a damned good brother. Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of your troublemaking little sister here for as long as she decides to bless the UK with her presence. I hope I get to see you in person one day, mate. Keep fighting the good fight.” He points a finger at the screen. “And to everyone else watching, go make a donation to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation if you can. I know I will.”
“There you have it. From the mouth of royals.” I salute my audience. “Rory March, March On!”
I hit the button at the bottom of my screen to stop recording and set the phone down on the side table.
“I think that went well,” Roland says casually.
My face burns and I can feel the backs of my eyeballs prickle with unspent tears. I’m so overcome with gratitude that I can’t speak, not right away.
Roland notices and asks, “Are you all right?”
When I turn to him, I can barely keep it together. “You’re incredible,” I tell him, and my voice trembles when it does. I’m touched. Sincerely, genuinely touched.
Roland’s expression turns serious. He cups the side of my face, and I don’t realize that a tear has spilled until his thumb is there to catch it and brush it away. “I’m not,” he says. “You, on the other hand. You’re remarkable, Rory.”
Softly, his lips meet mine. I gasp against them. They’re so warm, so soft, and I can’t help but melt into his kiss. I part my lips, and his tongue takes the invitation and licks the inside of my mouth, tasting every inch of me.
I need him. I need this. I’m too desperate to be delicate. Straddling him, I rip at his shirt, pulling the buttons away to reveal his strong chest underneath. My hands slip over his skin. He’s burning up, feverish with passion. He pushes my shirt up over my breasts. I yank it off the rest of the way, and as I do, his lips connect with my swollen globe, his tongue swirling over the nipple.
I shudder under his hands. This is incredibly wrong. I came here with a different man, was moments away from an unsuspecting gang bang, and I’m shirtless in the middle of Buckingham Palace. I’m certain I’ve violated at least a couple dozen America-UK accords. But all I can think about is being violated by him. His touches and kisses are a painful mixture of delicate and hungry. I feel as though I’m a lamb caught in a wolf’s gentle jaws. I sink into the heat of his contradictions, savoring every brush of his fingertips.
He unpins the button and zipper of my jeans. I step back, momentarily standing so I can take them off. The second I start to shimmy out of them, he
says, “Wait.”
I stop. He leans forward in his chair, and his long fingers take the hem of my pants. “Allow me.”
I stand as still as I can as Roland inches my waistband down my hips. Every new inch of bare skin, he marks with a kiss, like a mountain climber leaving posts in the snow to remember where he’s been. My breath hitches when he kisses the downy patch of ginger hair there. My eyes lock on his sea-blues as he extends his tongue and laps at my slit.
The noise that leaves my mouth is barely human—I sound more like a newborn kitten as I push my hips forward, aching.
The prince unbuckles his pants, and as he licks me, he takes his cock out. I see his arm moving, stroking himself, and that sends flames of desire through me. I sift my fingers through his hair and give it a small tongue. “Wait,” I plead.
“What are you doing?”
I get on my knees in front of him and grin. “Bowing to my prince.”
It’s almost unfair, really, for a royal to be this blessed. He has everything he could ever desire, and he’s well endowed. With a beautiful, beautiful cock. How’s a woman supposed to recover from a man like this? It occurs to me that I may never, but that doesn’t stop me from replacing his hand with my own and taking the swollen head of his organ in my mouth. He sighs with relief and sinks back into his chair. His hand cups the back of my head and I feel his thumb pet the nape of my neck as he murmurs, “Good girl.”
Another mewled noise from me. Where are these noises coming from? I can’t seem to help it, just like I can’t help the fact that I’m positively dripping by now. He’s too much to fit in my mouth, and I keep a hand at the base of him while I swallow down as much of it as I can. I’m enjoying this, way more than I normally do. He’s hot and salty in my mouth, and I love feeling his rigid length as I run my tongue over his velvety skin.
I keep my eyes on him; I want to drink in every reaction. His eyes go lidded, violet-hazy, and his breath picks up. I begin to stroke the hilt of him to where it meets my lips as I suck him forcefully. His nails dig into the back of my head and the arm of his chair. He moans and throbs in my mouth. It’s incredible to see the prince lose control. I’m getting so wet watching him, tasting him, and I swear I can feel it drip down my thighs and onto the priceless carpet underneath me.
I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except this Adonis of a man throbbing in my mouth. “Ah… Rory,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, urgent. “You’re going to make me cum.”
I whimper, needing it, and suck him harder. I flutter my tongue over his manhood, encouraging him to let go. When he comes, it’s quiet—his grip gets incredibly tight in my hair, and I can see his jaw tense as he nearly grinds his teeth to keep himself from calling out. We are, after all, in the middle of the palace, the twin doors open, really asking for trouble, but Christ on a cracker if it isn’t hot to watch him sweat through it. He inhales a sharp gasp and floods my mouth. I swallow him down, greedy for it, and continue to suck on him, coaxing. I taste him a little more with every pulse of his cock.
I drop him from my mouth, sit back on my haunches, and lick my lips.
The monster isn’t satisfied. Not completely. His cock is fiercely red now, the veins bulging, and it bobs a little, as though hunting for the warmth of my mouth. The prince is lust-hazy, a sheen of sweat making his chest gleam, but the way he looks at me is completely feral.
God bless the queen and her son’s unwavering stamina.
“Come here,” he commands, and I can’t oblige quickly enough.
I jump into his lap and crush those full lips against mine. Our kisses aren’t sweet and delicate anymore—they’re animal, messy, and desperate. I taste like him, he tastes like me, and good God why wasn’t this in the tourist handbook, why didn’t anyone tell me the prince of England was this kinky? Every orgasm, every wet dream, every fantasy—they all feel wasted up until now. I would’ve saved them all for him.
He reaches between us only to guide his manhood inside of me. He’s huge and I brace myself for it, but I’ve never been wetter and he slides inside easily. He fills me, completely, and I gasp when he pistons his hips upward, until he’s fully sheathed. I’m straddling him, gripping his chest, his shoulders, and his lips devour my throat and any bare skin they can reach. My mouth falls open, and I want to tell him to slow down, I want to savor this, but my body has other plans. I’m rutting against him like an animal, riding him ferociously. My nails dig into him; he grips handfuls of my skin. Every thrust of him hits a place inside of me that I feel hasn’t existed until now, was maybe saved just for him, because it sends bursts of pleasure through me. We move as one, sliding and riding and gripping and faster and faster until—
My orgasm explodes! I shout and pure white euphoria burns behind my eyelids and sparkles through my blood. I hear his name in my ears, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m the one repeating it, over and over, Roland, Roland, Roland, each utterance in time with the pulses of my body.
He groans between his teeth, jerks his hips upward, and spills over inside of me for a second time. My body is thirsty for his seed, and it clings and clutches at him, coaxing every last drop.
Finally, we’re spent. Our bodies are slick with sweat, heat emanating from our skin, and it’s all I can do to pant against him.
“Bloody Americans,” he says as catches his breath. It’s said reverently, in awe, and I can’t help but laugh.
“If you thought that was good,” I tell him, “wait until you taste our cornbread.”
He cups my face and lifts it. My head feels heavy, exhausted, and his strong touch is nourishing. “I don’t want to taste anything but you,” he says, his voice low and heated, those eyes crystal blue once more. “Ever again.”
I melt into his kiss, and finally, we take our time savoring each other.
9
Ben
Roland calls it my “lair.”
It’s not a lair. Lair suggests vampire, mad scientist, or psycho killer.
I’m none of those things.
I’m an ex-military royal guard with a minor interest in tech. We don’t have lairs. We have state-of-the-art security systems and surveillance equipment to monitor the goings-on of Buckingham Palace. Tucked away in the back of the antiquated palace, through the kitchen, the imitation ice-cooler door, and down a curve of stone steps, sits a twenty-first-century, electric nightmare of wires and screens. The room is small, barely ten square meters, most of which are occupied by the sizable flat-screen monitors that checker the far wall and splay out on either side. There’s nothing else but an L-shaped desk, two swivel chairs, and a bare bulb that hums noisily over my head. It used to bother me, that hum, but it’s white noise to me now. The cold blue light of the monitors bounces off the backs of my hands as I survey the palace.
We’ve got cameras everywhere. Nearly everywhere anyway. The members of the royal family are allowed privacy in their own bedrooms, but that’s about it. Hallways are mostly empty this time of night, save the guards at their stations. Queen Selena is asleep in her room. Her sister, Princess Iris, is helping herself to a nightcap in the queen’s private cellar. The head of the household is playing cards with his cooks around a round table in the kitchen.
My eyes are glued to the yellow sitting room.
It starts out innocently enough, Rory and Roland sipping tea across from each other. Then she’s in his lap, and they’re fiddling around with something on her phone.
They kiss for two, maybe three minutes. She gets naked and so does he. I watch as Rory gets on her knees for him.
And it’s…
Hot.
There. I said it. They’re bloody hot together.
She’s poised on the floor, the soles of her feet peeking out from under her round arse. Her head bobs up and down in his lap, her long hair curtaining over his legs. The prince sits back and cups the back of her head. The image isn’t very well-defined, their edges fuzzy, but even with the hazy quality, I can still see the way his lips form a ci
rcle in a silent moan.
My cock has been restless all night, but that sight sends my blood surging south. I can’t look away. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I can hear my heart pounding. It’s not the only thing pounding. I’m throbbing and my erection rubs painfully against my zipper. I cup myself, but the warm friction of my palm only makes me need it more.
Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a wank in here. Probably not the last. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.
You’re a coward. A deviant. A wanker.
Just go in there, push her deeper onto his cock, and claim his mouth with yours—
Fuck it. I can’t wait anymore. I pop the button of my jeans, slip my hand under my briefs, and pull out my cock. I can’t stop the groan that pours out of me. The friction of my palm provides a morsel of sweet relief, and I’m desperate enough to take it. My erection is brick hard, my corpulent head blushing and leaking. My slick cock slides through my fingers.
My eyes are glued to the monitor. After a while, Rory gets off the floor and straddles him. They flow together in exquisite rhythm. I should be there. Right behind her. I want to kiss her throat. Pull her hair. Ease myself into her tight, round behind. I want to shag her at a pace that drives the prince crazy. I want to hear him moan under both of us.
Filthy fantasies rage through my skull. I’m jerking madly now. My balls boil, my toes curl in my dress shoes, and I can’t contain my deep-throated moan as cum rockets from my cock. I shoot one load into my hand, then another, and it dribbles between my fingers and drips down my shirt.
I refocus my blurred vision. I’ve finished and so have they. They’re curled up on the seat together like kittens, bathing each other with their lips and tongues.
Me? I’m the wanker in the surveillance closet who can’t keep his fly shut. Relieved, but not satisfied. My thudding heart slows to normalcy. The immediate urge has subsided, but there’s a deep, angry ache that vibrates through my whole being.
The sharp, painful pining for him.
