My Royal Sin

by Riley Pine

  She’s totally off-limits...

  ...which makes her even more irresistible!

  Famed for his iron control, Prince Benedict, just weeks from joining the priesthood, is unprepared for the chemistry that ricochets through him when he meets Ruby. She is temptation personified...but she couldn’t be more inappropriate for a royal fling! Except after years of choosing duty over desire his control has finally snapped—he’s choosing pleasure...of the most X-rated kind. After all, if he’s going to indulge in the forbidden, the higher the stakes, the greater the thrill!

  “DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

  —Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

  Riley Pine is the combined forces of two contemporary romance writers as you’ve never seen them before. Expect delicious, dirty and scandalous swoons. To stay up to date with all things Riley Pine head on over to rileypine.com for newsletters, book details and more!

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  If you liked My Royal Sin, why not try

  One Night Only by JC Harroway

  No Strings by Cara Lockwood

  Playing Dirty by Lauren Hawkeye

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  MY ROYAL SIN

  Riley Pine

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from No Strings by Cara Lockwood

  CHAPTER ONE

  Benedict

  MY KNEES ARE stiff against the cold flagstones. No surprise, seeing as I’ve been at prayer since before dawn. But my concentration breaks every time my gaze falls on the painting of the blonde angel, the one hanging above my head in the gilded frame. Instead of elevating my soul, she’s become my secret torment, her innocent image taking center stage in my wicked fantasies.

  Imagine if she were flesh and blood instead of oil and canvas. Better still...imagine those pouty red lips sheathing my shaft, her hot tongue taking me to heaven while I pump her greedy mouth.

  During these brief daydreams, I’m not Brother Benedict, a holier-than-thou man in a white collar and black cassock. I’m just plain Benedict—a free man able to give himself to all perverted desires, damn the consequences.

  I suppress a shudder. Freedom is the one possession I’ve never had in my privileged upbringing as the second son to the King of Edenvale.

  It isn’t only dangerous for me to lust, it’s pointless.

  Rising, I crush my fist into my prie-dieu. With a heavy grunt, I lean my weight into my split knuckles, leaving a small tattoo of blood on the polished mahogany, penance for my debauchery.

  At that very moment, the rising sun hits my prayer room’s stained glass window, and the pane glitters like so many jewels. I freeze, hypnotized as the multicolored shards cast reflections on my throbbing hand.

  Hundreds of years ago, a long-forgotten artist had carefully selected each of these colors based on their symbolic meanings:

  Red for courage and martyrdom.

  Blue for heaven and the promise of eternal life.

  Green for hope and victory over sin.

  Gold for divinity.

  White for purity.

  I bow my head and retreat into the shadows, my stomach clenching like a fist, tight with guilt. I’m a seminarian and in one month’s time I’m going to take my final vows for Holy Orders.

  This is my duty. My life has been scripted for this moment since birth. I can’t afford for my resolve to weaken.

  I stride from my private prayer room to pace my austere apartment on the top level of a medieval watchtower that rises from beside the royal chapel at the edge of the palace grounds. From this vantage, I can see all the way to the river and to the north, the extensive manicured gardens of the castle, where my father, the King of Edenvale, resides along with my older brother, Prince Nikolai, and his new bride, Princess Kate.

  A choking bitterness rises in my throat. I do not covet my beautiful new sister-in-law, but I do...covet.

  Maybe it’s pathetic to be turned on by a painted angel. But what can you expect from a twenty-seven-year-old virgin and almost-priest?

  These days it feels like the Devil tests me at every corner, filling my waking hours with carnal urges. I am no saint, just another sinner.

  And what’s one more sin, to release the pressure in my thickened cock?

  I make my way to my bathroom and flick on the shower, setting the dial to an arctic cold, and strip, maintaining eye contact with my reflection. My dark hair and arrogant nose reveal me as a member of the royal Lorentz family. My body is hard, but there is no pleasure to be derived from these cut muscles. They are products of long workouts designed to cleanse my mind.

  The trouble is that nothing is working.

  I step into the frigid spray and close my hand around my rigid shaft.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, beginning to stroke.

  My actions are practiced. A firm squeeze at the root, twist at the head, grinding my palm against the crown. It doesn’t take long until the bathroom fades and a fantasy takes shape. Today I’m grinding my cock between the soft orbs of a perfect ass, not penetrating the perfect rose-tinted pucker, but humping the silken crease. My imaginary lover offers a moan, pushing back her hips, urging me to quit toying and grant her release.

  I slide my hand to her slick delicate folds and let out an agonized groan.

  She tosses her thick mane of golden hair and regards me coyly over one shoulder. But her angelic eyes gleam a deep crimson red, alight with hellfire. Her wings extend and aren’t white feathers, but ebony leather, and when she speaks, it is to promise to plague my soul for eternity.

  My fantasies always end the same way. Troubled, to say the least.

  My hand flies from my cock, and I fall to my knees, bracing myself on the tile. The shower spray pummels my slumped shoulders, but no baptism is on offer. Neither is physical relief.

  In thirty days, I will stand before the high altar in the Shrine of St. Germain and fulfill the long tradition of my family entering the priesthood. My elder brother, Prince Nikolai, is the true heir of our people, and his recent nuptials mean—the Lord willing—that children won’t be far behind.

  For the good of the kingdom, I must step aside from the path to succession and consecrate my life to the cloth, as have all the second sons of our line. Once it becomes clear our seed isn’t needed to propagate future kings and queens, we spares are quietly removed in order to prevent any family infighting.

  And I am to do so with a smile on my face.

  If I ever chafed at fate or held dreams to fall in love, to raise children, to have a life dictated by my own choices, those days are finished.

  If I pray hard enough, if I purify myself enough, if I try harder...I will be the perfect priest.

  Fai
lure is not an option.

  Our family has suffered enough in the years since our mother’s unexpected death and it’s a worthy fate, one that has the power to achieve so much good.

  I need to suck it up.

  Life could be a lot worse.

  Rising, I flick off the water and towel myself off, my actions rough with self-loathing and disappointment. The harder I try to resist my urges, the more these lustful fantasies grow: orgies, BDSM, decadent and forbidden acts, signs that a burning desire smolders beneath my repression. I hate being a fraud, but I can overcome it.

  Fire needs oxygen to blaze, and I refuse to entertain this behavior for a second longer.

  Exiting into my bed chamber, I move with purpose back to my prayer room—and the gift from my elder brother—my golden angel. On the opposite wall of the gilded frame is a cedar chest, and inside is a black satin bag. I open the drawstring and remove the knotted leather whip. The towel slung around my hips drops, and I don’t allow a moment’s pause before grabbing the handle and bringing the cord between my shoulder blades with a biting blow.

  Bright stars of pain explode behind my eyes. I recite the Lord’s Prayer while continuing my self-flagellation, increasing the force of my swing as my gaze locks onto the angel’s sorrowful eyes. She knows all, everything from my doubts to my hidden resentments about being the second son born into a mapped-out future. But I hope that she also sees my determination to bear the weight of family expectation.

  After ten blows, my stomach churns and hot blood runs down my skin. Good. Now I shall fast until sundown. The gnawing hunger should dull any unwelcome thoughts.

  I’m fastening my white collar when a bell rings, a sign someone has entered the chapel.

  A quick glance in the hall mirror provides confirmation that I appear every inch the picture of a serene priest eager to tend to my flock.

  No hint of the devil within.

  Ruby

  I straighten my Cleopatra-style wig and dip my head to make sure the girls are in place, assessing the cleavage and how my breasts threaten to spill over the top of my corset. I take my chances that my client is a breast man, because, really, what man isn’t? Clients tend to pay more when they salivate upon introduction. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ve heard some girls say they’ve taken home an evening’s worth of pay from a man’s ogling alone. But ogling won’t be enough for this job. My instructions require far more than that, and though it’s my first night of employ, I am required to give my client whatever he desires. And if he desires nothing, I must tempt him to want more. There is no work in this kingdom for an artist from a disgraced family, so I have to take what I can get. The Madam at The Jewel Box sought me out, and I couldn’t refuse her offer, not when it meant I could provide not only for myself but also my brother’s wife and child.

  “They asked for Pearl, but I believe an ingenue will appeal so much more to our dear, inexperienced prince,” the Madam had said before I left. “And you’re the freshest of my pretty little blossoms. The flower not yet picked. Pearl’s not desperate like you are. Plus, that damned bodyguard X would recognize her in an instant. I’ve been looking for a way inside the palace—and other buildings on the grounds—which means you get to be my little lookout.”

  “I don’t understand,” I told her. “You want me to spy for you? Why?”

  I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek.

  “And here I thought you’d been trained,” she’d crooned. “Question me, and there will be consequences. Disobey me, and—consequences. All I need you to do is tell me if he owns a painting of an angel—until recently, one I was led to believe had been destroyed when your father passed—and report where the painting is.” She smiled her mirthless smile, and I fought back tears at the mention of Papa—at the fear of being struck again. “Darling, you not only get to seduce a celibate prince, but you get to find me something very valuable. Succeed in gathering the prince’s attention—and finding what I seek—and you’ll be a jewel as prized as your name. Succeed, and you and your remaining family will want for nothing as long as you remain in my employ.”

  I swallow the threat of my own conscience trying to weigh in. What do I care about a stupid painting or what she wants with it? I have the chance to save my brother, Jasper. That’s all that matters.

  So I repeat her words over and over again to center myself in the moment—to remind myself of what I must do.

  I nearly break an ankle climbing the chapel stairs in these boots, four-inch stilettos that cuff just below my short skirt. After almost two months of my apprenticeship, I’m used to the shoes and clothes, but my attire was not built for more than seduction.

  There’s also the small fact that I’m on the Edenvale Palace grounds—making my way to an apartment in the lonely-looking, ivy-covered tower next to the chapel. My phone rings, and instead of silencing it as I pull it from my pocket, I accidentally answer it.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Shit,” I whisper-shout as I scramble back down the steps. “Camille, I’m here. Just...give me a second...” I race outside and around the corner, through the first door I see, not wanting my client to catch me conducting any sort of personal business when I am supposed to be...working. Complaints equal a reduction in my take, and some, I’ve heard, suffer worse.

  I freeze, though, when I realize where I am—in the Royal Edenvale Church itself.

  “Is everything okay?” I whisper into the phone, and I hear my brother’s wife sniffle before she speaks.

  “You’re...you’re working. Aren’t you?” Her voice breaks on that word, working, and I can hear her anguish, her guilt.

  “Yes,” I answer, trying to soothe her with the one word. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. But something is wrong with you. Tell me what it is.”

  She sniffles again. “I took Lola to visit her father today. It was the first time I brought her with me, the first time she would see Jasper in two months, and when the guards told him we were there, he refused to see us.”

  I suck in a breath, both at Camille’s pain but also for my brother, Jasper. Because I’m at the Edenvale Palace, completely out of my depth, about to seduce a man I’ve never met—a prince, no less. I understand his shame.

  “He loves Lola. You know that. And he loves you. But prison is no place for a child. And you can understand him not wanting her to see him like that. Can’t you?”

  I hear the clang of heavy shoes on metal in the tower entryway next door, which can mean only one thing. My client is approaching.

  “He wouldn’t refuse to see his child,” Camille weeps. “Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say frantically, trying not to let my own worry about Jasper sink in but also not wanting the prince to find me hiding out in the chapel on my phone. “I have to go, but if tonight plays out as it should, I will have enough to pay this month’s lease on the cottage. You and Lola are safe for now. That is all that matters.”

  “But—”

  The door from the stairwell starts to slide open, and because I have no choice, I end the call and sneak past the pews and into a confessional. I’m still trying to calm my breathing when the shadow of a man appears on the other side of the lattice.

  “Have you come to make confession?” a deep, gravelly voice asks.

  I stopped believing in any higher power long ago. But I know why I’m here and what part I need to play. “Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned.”

  I open the screen on my phone that has my script for our introduction. I must believe in my brother’s innocence, and that giving up my own will set him free. If I can earn the money the Madam is talking about, then I can buy the best legal representation and set my brother free. Jasper Vernazza is a world-famous art historian. He’d never dream of stealing anything from the museum to sell on the black market. Someone
set him up, but for the life of me I cannot imagine why.

  “You may proceed, child,” he says. “The Lord is ready to forgive your sins.”

  I stroke a finger along the lattice grate and hum, reminding myself to play the part for which I’m being paid.

  “What if I want to keep sinning?” My voice is breathy and soft as I infuse it with the need a client would ache to hear. It’s practiced need on my part, of course. But if my training was a success, he won’t know the difference. I glance at the screen in my palm. “What if all I want is to relieve you of that desire pulsing between your legs?”

  “Who sent you?” he says, and I can tell he speaks between gritted teeth.

  “Let me taste your thick, aching cock, Father,” I say, my voice sweet as an angel as I try to sound less like I’m reading and more like this is what I truly want. “Let me take you so deep. I want to feel you throbbing, salty sweet against my tongue—”

  I jump at the sound of what must be his fist thumping the wall between us.

  “Who. Sent. You?” he interrupts, but I will not be deterred, not when my only choice is to succeed.

  I scroll through the preplanned dialogue on the screen. “Think of all those times you’ve come alone,” I tell him. “Every fantasy you’ve ever had, every sinful act you’ve dared to let yourself imagine—I can be that for you.”

  His breaths are ragged, but he does not speak.

  I glance at the screen again as a text notification pops up, catching me off guard.

  “‘Why did you hang up on me?’” I read, but then realize I’ve read it aloud. And then I add, “Shit!”

  He breathes in, and I can tell he’s about to speak, so I fast-forward to the next step to regain control of the seduction, even if it is a lie.

  I let go of the lattice and slip my free hand under my skirt, closing out the text and returning to my lines.

  “Highness.” I moan as I slip a finger beneath my thong, working myself until I’m wet. “Do you hear that?” I ask, plunging two fingers into my now slick heat. “That’s my pussy, so ready for you. Don’t you want a taste? Just a little lick?”