Royally Mine: 22 All-New Bad Boy Romance Novellas

by Susan Stoker

  The kettle screams at the same minute I hear a rap on my door. I turn, ignoring the kettle. The rap is more insistent. I pull the kettle off the burner and walk into the living room.

  What if I’ve been seen? What if it’s the press? Then I hear his voice. Low and urgent. “Amelia. Amelia, it’s me.”

  I’m shameless as I sprint to the door, my fingers shaking as I remove the chain and bolt. He’s through before the door is even fully open, pushing it shut behind him. Tristan says nothing at first, just looks at my face.

  To doctor those photos was a stupid decision on Frederick’s part, an ugly deceit that on a grand scale isn’t the most awful thing in the world. But it’s all the excuse that’s needed to push me and Tristan together again.

  Our arms go around one another as his mouth finds mine. We’re like desperate teenagers, fumbling with one another’s clothing. I undo the buttons of his shirt as he unsnaps my jeans and pushes them down to the tops of my thighs. He grasps my ass, squeezing it as I push his shirt off his shoulders. We’ve had sex twice, but I’ve never seen him without his clothes. I want to map his body with my hands. I want to run my tongue across the scar his grandmother told me he got on his hip when he fell from a horse in his teens. I want to look at the cock that’s driven me to madness. I step back and remove my jeans, keeping my hungry eyes on him as he removes his pants. Frederick’s chest is bare, but Tristan has a smattering of hair across his pectorals, with a thin line that ends just above the thatch of hair nestling his long, thick cock. A drop of pre-cum already oozes from the flared head. I lose sight of him in the moment it takes me to remove my sweater. Tristan steps forward and reaches behind me to pull at my bra strap. I feel it break. I want him to rip my panties off. He rips them off, snapping the narrow side band.

  “Fuck me,” I say.

  He starts to say something, but just nods. There’s lust in his eyes, but something else. Need? Desperation? Or am I projecting?

  “Where’s your bed?”

  “That way.” I raise my hand and point limply to the hallway. Tristan picks me up and carries me to the first room, which is the guestroom but that’s okay. I’m not sure I could have made it to the end of the hall. I’m close to coming just thinking of having him inside of me.

  He falls onto the bed with me. My legs are open, my body aching with need to be filled.

  “I’m going to take you slow this time.”

  Oh god. The tip of his cock is pressing against my clit. I tilt my hips up and he shifts enough to slide inside me. We stare into one another’s eyes as he fills me with exquisite slowness. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him down and into me. He’s long and thick, and the sensation is of completion once he’s fully seated in my body. His hands go to my face and I turn my head, capturing his thumb and suckling on it, running my tongue around the tip. He groans and begins to move. He’s not fucking me. He’s making love to me. I’m making love to him. Our bodies move in perfect time. He sets the pace with thrusts that are measured and deep. They drive me back toward the headboard and I utter little cries of pleasure.

  He flips over and I’m on top now. I sit up, looking down at him as I squeeze him between my thighs, moving like a belly dancer with a slow, seductive grind. Seeing the bliss on his handsome face is more of a reward than I imagine. Exciting him excites me. I feel my orgasm begin to build. I lean back slightly, the pressure putting his cock right against my inner trigger as his hand moves to my clitoris. The dual sensations combine to send my cresting wave of pleasure crashing through me. The guestroom fills with my cries. The room smells of sweat and sex and cinnamon candles.

  With my body still quivering from release, Tristan rolls me back over until he’s back on top. He’s fucking me hard now, and I’m clinging to him as he takes total control. I feel utterly lost to him, and rake my manicured nails down his sweaty back as he stiffens and plows into me with a final shudder. The warm flood of his seed washes into me and I draw my thighs tight around his waist, welcoming every drop of him.

  For a moment, I’m afraid to look at him. I’m afraid to see the regret in his eyes because I’m not sorry.

  Then he says words that turn my head.

  “I love you, Amelia.”

  Don’t say that, I want to cry. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I love you,” he says again. “And I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it.”

  “Tristan…”

  “I love you…”

  “Tristan, please.” I feel tears welling in my eyes.

  “I love you.”

  I start to move from under him, but he stops me. “No, Amelia. I want more of you. Stay like this. I’ll be hard again before you know it. I can’t get enough of you.” He pauses. “Amelia. I love you.”

  I feel a catch in my throat.

  “I love you, too.”

  Neither of us repeats what’s been said before. We don’t have to. Our situation is just as untenable. The only difference now is that it’s more complicated.

  He’s true to his word. I feel him stiffening inside me. It lasts longer this time, the slowness of the movements comforting. He kisses my temples, my eyelids. He tells me he loves me over and over, and I reply in kind. But there’s a sadness to this renewed session. We’re one hour closer to having to break the spell, to having to face what this change will mean in a family dedicated to staying the same.

  I don’t know when we drift off to sleep, but it’s dark when the noises wake me. I hear the slamming of car doors. I hear voices. Through the curtains, I catch the glare of lights outside my window.

  “Tristan?” His arm and leg are thrown across me and I move them as I sit up. “Hrmm,” he mutters sleepily and I give him a shake.

  “I think there’s an accident outside.”

  I pull the sheet off the bed and rise to standing.

  “Amelia, wait,” he says, walking up behind me but I’ve parted the curtain before thinking and below there’s what looks like a sudden strobing of lights. It takes me a moment to realize what it is. By that time, Tristan has pulled the curtain closed, but not fast enough. The photographers below have had their lenses trained on my window. They’ve gotten the shot they wanted.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Prince Tristan

  “We thought it best if Frederick didn’t attend.”

  The room is as hushed as if for a funeral. There’s a stack of newspapers on the table, and it occurs to me that all our recent troubles have started this way—with papers. But this time, it’s much worse than my playing pat-a-cake on some drunken girl’s bottom at a pub, or a photo suggesting that Lady Amelia is a bloodthirsty bird killer. Of course, Frederick isn’t here. He probably wants to kill the man pictured standing behind his fiancée. One headline says it all: SHAME.

  “At least she thought to wrap herself in a sheet before peering out the window,” my father says. “It’s more than we can say for you, Tristan. I suppose we should be grateful you were standing behind Lady Amelia when she opened the curtain.”

  This time, at least, the palace knew what was coming when a reporter called to inquire as to why Lady Amelia had fled Balmoral. It was not hard to determine who tipped them off. Lady Sarah is now shunned. She’d hoped to widen the rift between Amelia and my brother by alerting the press to Amelia’s departure. Instead, she inadvertently handed the press an unexpected bonus that stands to tear our family apart forever.

  “Do you really hate your brother that much, Tristan?” my grandmother asks. “Do you really hate him so much that you’d steal his future wife?”

  “If you think that’s what this is about, then you’ve not been paying attention, Mam,” I say. “A person isn’t a thing to be stolen. But that’s how Amelia has been treated, like a commodity, an object. She’s a tool that Frederick has been using to shore up support for…”

  “Nonsense…” my father starts, but I interject.

  “It’s bloody true and we all know it!” I say. “He talks to her as if she doe
sn’t matter. And this whole business with the shooting party…” I look at my grandmother. “Even you could see how it hurt her.”

  “Tristan, that doesn’t give you cause to go to her when she’s vulnerable and…”

  “It wasn’t the first time,” I say to gasps in the room. “Amelia and I…” I turn and run my hands through my hair before turning back.

  “What have you done, Tristan?” my father asks.

  “Leave him be,” my grandmother says. “He knows what he’s done.”

  Minutes pass in silence. With each one, I replay the previous night’s events in an awful loop, reliving Amelia’s breakdown, my own sense of despair at where I’ve put us. My grandmother is right; had I loved Frederick more perhaps I’d have not been drawn to comfort Amelia so. But I cannot undo what has done, and I am not sure what I can do now. My family allowed me to bring her here for her own privacy, but Frederick will not see her either.

  “Grandmother,” I say. “What can I do? Tell me what to do.”

  “I will decide.” She stands, looking at me with sadness. “I will decide, and I will see you and Lady Amelia tomorrow morning. Alone.”

  Epilogue

  Lady Amelia

  Yes, I could have been queen. Instead, I allowed the black sheep of Britain’s royal family to ruin me forever. But it’s not so bad, being ruined. Tristan and I enjoy living abroad. I think our two children are all the better for being commoners. My writing career is going well; notoriety is a bonus if one is to pen romance novels. And let’s face it, after our real-life scandal, penning stories of fictional ones is almost anticlimactic. My earnings, combined with the generous stipend Tristan’s family gave him when he abdicated, have us living quite well, thank you.

  I’ve yet to pen a book about the scandal itself. Now, that would make me millions. But I won’t, mainly because I have too much respect for the memory of Tristan’s grandmother, who passed away two years ago.

  Meeting with her was the most terrifying day of my life. Standing before the monarch was never easy, not even when I was part of a casual family gathering. She always gave me the jitters. But I was visibly trembling the morning I sat across from her in the parlor. And this time, Tristan’s presence was cold comfort. I was riddled with guilt and self-blame. I’d ruined everything. I’d ruined my life, my family’s life, his family’s life, his life.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she’d said drily. “Regrettably, the days of lopping off heads is over.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking, or if she really wanted to chop my head off. I never asked for an explanation, and she never gave one.

  “I should have known,” she said. “I saw the two of you exchange glances. I think I suspected something the day I confronted Tristan in the stables. I was young once. I know what those glances mean. You, young lady, looked at Tristan in ways you never looked at Frederick. And he looked at you in a manner Frederick should have.” She paused. “It doesn’t excuse what either of you have done. And you both know there’s a price to pay…”

  “Then let me pay it with her,” Tristan had said. “I already have a rakish reputation. Is it so hard to tell the public I seduced my brother’s fiancée? I’ll give up my title, and my allowance. That should please both the monarchists who feel I’ve betrayed the crown, and the anti-monarchy faction who will be happy to see one less royal on the public dole.”

  “It’s a perfect solution save for one thing,” the queen had said, and what followed drove Tristan to tears. “You always were my favorite. You were the one who was the boldest, the most honest, even if it was to your detriment. You’re right, Tristan. That is the only solution. But you’ve wounded your old Mam. I’ll still see you, of course, but it will forever grieve me to have lost my favorite prince.”

  I didn’t cry with him. This was Tristan’s time to bear the full pain of what it means to disappoint one’s family. My time would come later when my parents disavowed and disowned me completely before going into self-imposed social exile from the shame of a scandal that ranks as one of the worst to rock the United Kingdom.

  So, you’re wondering if I regret it? Yes and no. I regret the pain it caused. Part of me regrets not being able to apologize to Frederick, even if his coldness drove me away. He never spoke to me again, although years later he did grant a rather gracious interview in which he shouldered some of the blame for what he termed a match made in haste. Tristan and I attribute Frederick’s softening to Lady Regina Southerland, a plain-faced mouse of a woman he married two years ago. I hear he genuinely loves her even though she doesn’t shoot, either. The wedding was the smallest in royal history, despite a booming British economy. There have been no children yet, and Princess Regina’s fertility issues were the featured story in UK Today last week. Her quiet candor over her fertility struggles has made them quite popular, as has their decision to adopt—a first for the royal family. Despite Frederick’s desire to cling to tradition, he’s been forced to change to give the woman he loves a child, and that’s given the monarchy a boost. The best part about it? It’s genuine and organic.

  Perhaps one day, we’ll all be able to speak again. We are, after all, family. That’s what Tristan says. Time may heal the wounds, and I know in his heart he wants to apologize to his brother’s face, as do I. Until then, I will be content with the life we’ve built from the shattered ruins of scandal.

  For good or ill, Tristan will always be the prince who rode to not just my rescue, but to his brother’s. I’m convinced Frederick and I would have been miserable together. It took something awful to tear us apart and set us free. The papers were right. My husband was the Prince of Pain, but from pain comes growth. And even love. Tristan will always be my imperfect, happy ending.

  ~The End~

  About Ava Sinclair

  Ava Sinclair is the Amazon bestselling author of over twenty books spanning numerous genres. And while she loves offering her readers variety, the one consistent theme of her books is the strong female who succumbs to the alpha male dominant enough to conquer her body and soul.

  Did you like Bad Prince? You can find more about author Ava Sinclair via her website, her Facebook page, and her Goodreads profile, using the following links:

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  If You Were Mine by Jenika Snow

  Chapter One

  Daisy

  Prick.

  Arrogant.

  Asshole.

  All of those things and more had been said about Lennon, Prince of Hemingway Court, and second in line for the throne. But I knew him, saw him daily… waited on him.

  Behind those blue eyes was a man who was lonely, a man who was missing something in his life. I didn't know what that was, but I wanted to help him, wanted to tell him he could talk to me.

  I just wanted him.

  I had a feeling he acted the way he did because he was pushing people away, because he was hurting inside and didn't know how to deal with it.

  I saw it happen with my father before he left us.

  But I was just the help, a servant to the Royal Family. I served him food, cleaned his room, and knew that nothing would ever come of being with him. I’d always wanted him, but I knew I could never have him.

  It was my bittersweet reality.

  A commoner could never catch the eye of a prince. I was content with that, or at least I pretended to be.

  I grabbed the silver tray that held his breakfast and headed toward his room. I passed other servants, even the Duke and Duchess of Alansworth, who were here for a visit, and saw Princess Carolyn just barely slipping into her room for the “night.”

  My heart thundered and my hands shook. I curled my fingers tighter, harder into the silver tray, willing myself to be calm. I needed to at least appear that way, even if I didn't feel it on the inside.

  But being in Prince Lennon's presence always made me feel unsteady, always had my emotions rising to the top.

  I stopped in front of his bedroom door,
feeling like my heart was going to burst through my chest. You’d think after being a royal servant for so many years I would have been able to control myself. But the truth was I couldn't, not when it concerned Prince Lennon.

  I lifted my hand to give three sharp knocks before entering, but I stopped with my hand mid-air when I heard him shouting to someone on the other side of the door.

  “I told you that's not who I am. I don't care what the tabloids say, and I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks.”

  I brought my knuckles down on the door, three sharp taps, before gripping the handle and pushing it open. I immediately saw Lennon sitting on the edge of his massive bed, his cell phone on his lap, his hands tunneled into his short dark hair. His attention was on the ground, his jaw set tight.

  I left the door open as I came in, not speaking to him because I knew my place.

  I didn’t make eye contact either. “Good morning, Prince Lennon.” I set the tray down on the table off to the side, gave a slight bow, and turned to leave.

  “Daisy?”

  My entire body stilled, the blood rushing through my veins, pumping harder, faster. I turned around, keeping my hands behind my back, my posture stiff.

  “Your highness?” My throat was dry, tight.

  For long seconds he didn’t say anything, just stared at me, watching me with this stoic expression. It made my heart beat erratically. I wanted to go to him, just wanted to admit how I felt, how I had felt for so long.

  Know your place.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice low, deep.

  He kept staring at me, his blue eyes intent, knowing almost. I felt this chill race down my spine, and my entire body reacted just from that look.

  “You're welcome, Your Highness.” I forced myself to turn away, to leave the room, but I wanted to stay there. I wanted to have him keep looking at me, keep making me feel like I was special. My thinking was irrational, but it was unavoidable.