My Royal Sin

by Riley Pine

  You need the money. Your brother’s life—the lives of his family—depend on it.

  This silent reminder plays on a loop in my head as I try to lose myself in self-pleasure before I get swallowed by regret.

  This is for your family.

  I swirl a slippery finger around my clit and gasp, the phone clattering to the floor. “Don’t. You want. To make. Me. Come?” I ask between pants, the words all me now. I am lost in the moment just as if I were in the tiny bedroom of my old flat, taking myself to a place that is not here, in this church, but somewhere I am safe. Somewhere I am wanted rather than paid. “Is your hand on that cock, Highness? Is it daring you to bury yourself inside me? Because all you have to do is step into my side of the confessional and sheath yourself to the hilt.”

  I try to bring myself to climax, but even I can’t forget entirely where I am or why I ended up here. So I embellish, crying out in feigned ecstasy.

  “Oh... Your Highness. Oh God! Your Highness, I can’t—” I add a few more gasps before yelling, “Benedict!”

  “Enough!” he growls, and I collapse onto my knees with a satisfied grin.

  Yes. That was quite enough.

  He waited until he thought I was done, which means he didn’t want me to stop. If that’s all that comes of tonight, I have succeeded in the first step for which I have been hired.

  You must earn his trust and break him.

  Because this is not just any client on the other side of the wall. He is a prince, second in line to the throne and brother of our future king. I’ve just attempted to get myself off in the presence of a man I’ve only ever seen on a television screen or staring at me from the pages of a newspaper.

  I let down my guard for mere seconds and scramble for my phone on the floor, which is why I startle to see him standing in the opening of my booth.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I say, straightening the skirt that barely covers what lies beneath. The air smells of sex, and the man looming before me stares with beautiful green eyes. “Did I make you sin?”

  He grabs me by the wrist, and I paint on my most wicked grin.

  “Come,” he says and pulls me from the booth.

  I force a playful laugh. “But, Your Highness...I already have.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Benedict

  THE WOMAN FROM the confessional booth is sin in stilettos. Her angled bob accentuates her heart-shaped face, highlighting porcelain skin and perfect crimson-painted lips. While her mouth slants into a coy smile, eyes are said to be portals to the soul, and her violet-blue irises hint at secret pain.

  “For the last time, who sent you?” I ask her gently, a wolf in lamb’s clothing. Because her unexpected performance has had the desired effect. My cock strains against the thick band of my boxer briefs, where I clamped it securely in place before pulling her out into the light. The air around us is perfumed by a salty, rich tang, a scent not unlike my own release, and yet beguilingly unique.

  Is this what women smell like between their legs?

  A muscle in my jaw twitches even as my nostrils involuntarily flare. My mouth waters.

  “Sent me, Your Highness?” Her lilt reveals she is from Rosegate, the disputed territory on our northern border with Nightgardin.

  Interesting.

  Rosegate whores are notorious throughout Europe, hothouse flowers offered to elite clients for the price of what most people make in a year. And I can see the appeal. If I wasn’t planning on offering my inheritance to the church, I’d gladly use it to open this woman’s petals, to press my tongue to her bloom and drink in her dew.

  “What makes you think someone sent me?”

  I bunch my hands into fists, will my lust into an internal dungeon and padlock the door. My duty is to provide this woman respite from whatever spiritual matters weigh on her soul.

  Nothing else.

  “You passed by no less than four guard posts, then over acres upon acres of landscaped ground covered in Europe’s most state-of-the-art surveillance system. Yes, my child, someone indeed sent you to me.” But who would want to tempt me from the righteous path? Was it a trick of some discontented servant?

  “Oh please.” She huffs a laugh but refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m no one’s child.”

  She’s right, of course, even as she evades my question. Her ripe body is pure woman, but she is younger than my own twenty-seven years. If I were a betting man, I’d wager she was at most twenty, a young woman who should be busy studying at university, not here at the royal chapel, being paid to seduce an almost-priest.

  “You have two choices.” I draw myself to my full six-foot-five-inch frame. “Either give up a name, or I’ll be forced to take you upstairs for questioning.” I don’t exactly know what that entails, but she can’t remain here in sight of Christ on the Cross. “Follow me.”

  “Are we going to your bedchamber?” She skims her hands over her breasts, the tops spilling over her tight outfit, the skin soft and succulent as a peach.

  “Not a chance.” I can’t question this woman anywhere near my bed.

  That leaves one option.

  I begin walking, my pace fast and unfaltering. I might not be heir, but I took my first steps in the throne room and arrogance is my default. I was raised to lead, to expect others to follow. After a moment, the sharp clicks of her heels behind me confirm my assumption that she is keeping up.

  We enter my personal tower and I lead her up the spiral staircase. “Do we have far to go?” she asks after the second floor. “These boots aren’t made for walking.”

  I’ll give her that, all right. They’re made to draw the eye to the lush curve of her shapely thighs.

  “In here,” I say crisply as we stop in front of a carved oak door.

  I open it, and the bright summer daylight shines dimly through the slitted windows, an architectural holdout from when medieval archers used these openings while stationed in the turret.

  She scans the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and gasps. “I’ve never seen so many books in one place except at the royal library.”

  I swallow a smile. My personal collection is rather extensive.”

  Little does she know that hidden behind covers like A History of French Cathedral Gargoyles are entirely different reading materials: Story of O, The Joy of Sex, plus a stash of Greek and Egyptian erotic art. Studying sexual arts is something of a twisted hobby. While I may be inexperienced, I’m far from ignorant in the ways of giving and taking pleasure.

  “Sit.” I gesture to a leather chair. It takes all my willpower not to revel in the length of her creamy thighs, exposed beneath her tiny skirt. I walk to an antique globe on a desk and give it a spin. “Were you sent by Nightgardin?”

  Nightgardin is the kingdom to the north of our borders. Like Edenvale, it is small by modern standards, more a Luxembourg than France, but our mutual enmity has spanned centuries. For generations our two countries have warred through battles and of late, diplomacy, to control Rosegate, a much-admired city that sits on our border, claimed by both kingdoms.

  Desperation darkens her gaze. “That’s not important.”

  “I disagree. Nightgardin would take pleasure in exposing me as a hypocrite right before I take my holy vows.”

  “Please, believe me.” Tears fill her eyes as her delectable bottom lip tremors. “I don’t know anything. The Madam simply informed me of my assignment. A town car picked me up and brought me here.”

  My brow furrows at the anxiety in her voice.

  “Crap.” She covers her face with her hands. “I am blowing this so hard. Madam will fire me without a second thought, and I will be royally screwed. Please, Highness. Father. Whatever. Let me suck you, fuck you. You can have me anywhere, penetrate any place.” She drops to her knees and tosses her hair back from her face.

  “Anything?” Her offer warms my belly like a sho
t of scotch. “You’ll let me act out any fantasy? No inch of you is off-limits?”

  Her pupils widen, the delicate vein in her neck pounds. “I am yours to command.”

  Someone is hell-bent on sabotaging me. But the joke could be on them. Tonight’s encounter could grant me a path to redemption that no one has counted on.

  This woman offers me the chance to break every rule. But what if I can withstand her angelic body? Here is the perfect way for me to cast doubt aside and prove myself worthy of taking my final vows.

  “Stand up. I have a proposition.”

  Ruby

  I swallow hard. Whatever he proposes, it cannot be enough to sway me from my purpose. I must make him give in to his lust, make him trust me, or we will lose everything. I close my eyes and remind myself of the stories some of the other girls have told me, though these tales are nothing found in the books that line the library’s walls. They claim it wasn’t always like this, that the Madam had changed ever since she’d returned from a trip to Nightgardin a year ago. Now she punished her girls for losing a client—and let clients dole out whatever consequences they saw fit, as well.

  I once lost a month’s wages for not swallowing when my client came in my mouth.

  I know a girl who had her nose broken for telling her client he needed to bathe more often.

  One girl got caught by her client’s wife. The Madam not only fired her but had them scar her face so no client would want her after that, just in case she tried to do business independent of The Jewel Box.

  I don’t want to know who they are or how they enact physical punishment, but the prince has not yet kicked me out, so I will humor him and listen to what he proposes.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask. “I’ve already offered you everything I have to give.”

  Myself.

  He walks along the shelves, running a finger over the spines of the books.

  “I take my final vows in one month’s time. If it is, in fact, my brother who has put you up to tempting me, then he shall get his wish. Just not as he thinks.”

  My brows furrow, and he turns to face me as he continues.

  “This—” he points to his collar “—has always been my path. The eldest son will rule the kingdom, and the spare will keep the royal family and its subjects on a moral path. The third... Well, you’ve heard of my brother Damien’s banishment. Our family has been disgraced enough. I will not add to it.” He raises a brow. “I know the rumors about my mother.”

  My cheeks burn. Though the queen died many years ago, gossip of the second son—of the man standing before me—being a bastard has long circulated throughout the kingdom. The origin of his birth means nothing to me. All I care about is my duty. My family.

  “For many reasons,” he continues, “this is a responsibility I have never taken lightly. Until now I have not succumbed to the temptation of the flesh, but then, I’ve been careful not to let myself truly be tempted.”

  I rise to face him, but he still towers over me. “Stop speaking in code, Your Highness. I came here to do my job. Are you or are you not sending me home a failure?” I don’t think the Madam truly cares whether I am able to seduce him or not. I just need to stay long enough to look around—to find the painting she’s so convinced is on these grounds. I try to sound tough, not to let on what failure could mean, but the tremble in my voice betrays me.

  He reaches a hand toward my face but squeezes it into a fist before his skin meets mine.

  “Tempt me,” he says, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him. “I thought I already tried.”

  He unfastens his collar and pulls it from beneath his shirt. “I am not worthy of the priesthood unless I truly can resist. Unless I am genuinely tempted. Whatever your fee is, I will triple it if you come here nightly to try to lead me from my virtue.”

  My breath catches. Triple my fee. Nightly. Surely the Madam will free me from my original obligation if he is willing to pay such a wage. And coming to him every night? Wouldn’t that give me access and time to find what she seeks?

  “Nightly? Would you send for me when wanted, or shall I show up and surprise you?” I laugh and bat my lashes at him. “Like tonight?”

  He shakes his head. “If you need to do this to provide for yourself...” He nods at my attire, the small gesture filling me with more shame than masturbating in a confessional.

  The Prince of Edenvale sees me as a whore. I have to remind myself that is exactly what I am now. Once upon a time, I was the beloved daughter of a famous and respected man. But I am not that girl anymore.

  I raise my chin in a futile attempt at defiance. “What?” I ask. “Say whatever it is you were going to say next.”

  He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, and I realize that whatever he’s about to propose, he’s nervous.

  This realization melts a little of the ice around my heart.

  “There is a cottage past the gardens in the center of the maze. It’s been vacant for months, but there is staff assigned to clean and maintain it in case of visitors. It is ready for you right now.”

  My pride begs me to refuse him, but the thought of another night in the brothel has me putting logic, comfort and safety first.

  “I can’t afford rent,” I say coolly.

  “There would be none, of course.”

  “And during the day?” I ask.

  He nods. “Your days are your own to do as you please, on or off the palace grounds. I will send for you nightly at eight o’clock. Our work begins tomorrow.”

  On or off the palace grounds.

  I can find that painting in a matter of days.

  “What other rules are there?” I ask, waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop.

  He clasps his hands at his waist, the collar between them. “As long as your skin never touches mine in a sexual nature, there are no other rules. Do what you will to tempt me from my path.”

  He reaches a hand toward my face again, and just when I think he’s about to break his own rule, he pulls my wig free, letting my blond waves tumble over my shoulders. Again that muscle tightens in his jaw, but he is otherwise unreadable.

  “And never,” he says, his voice gentle yet authoritative, “wear this again.”

  He wants to pay me triple what I’d make with any other clients—without him ever laying a hand on me. I swallow tears and extend a hand. “I’m Ruby.” I give him my fake name from the brothel, and he hesitates, my wig in one hand, his collar in the other. “Shaking hands doesn’t violate any rules, does it?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks into something almost like a grin. Almost.

  For a moment I’m tempted to tell him the truth. I am Evangeline Vernazza. Surely he would recognize my father’s surname. But no. Prince Benedict and I are more similar than he thinks. I know family disgrace as much as he does. I am not a budding artist, daughter of a respected name anymore. I am Ruby, the newest escort from The Jewel Box, the most prized brothel in Europe.

  He drops the wig to the floor and takes my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ruby.”

  I smile enough for the both of us. “Your Highness, I’d say you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Benedict

  I HAVE NEVER laid eyes on this woman in my life, so why does a strange recognition thrum through me? Ruby’s golden hair tumbles over her narrow shoulders, loose curls that skim the swell of her breasts as they rise and fall. Her unease is palpable, a problem when my own instincts are hardwired to provide comfort. I flick my gaze to the wall where a discreet intercom system blends into the sumptuous red-and-gold wallpaper. Never once have I summoned for the help of those who wait around the clock for my beck and call. But this woman is causing me to break all of my rules.

  I cross the room, press and hold the small button. �
��X, I have need of you.”

  “Very good, sir.” My bodyguard’s response is cool, clipped and unsurprised. He had guarded my brother Nikolai for years but asked to be reassigned to me after my brother’s engagement to his matchmaker, Kate. The request came as a surprise. X joked that he had grown tired of being surrounded by all the newlywed romanticism. If that’s true, he came to the right place in heading up my security detail.

  At least, until tonight.

  He appears a moment later, seemingly conjured from thin air. His suit is impeccably tailored, his implacable features revealing no shred of shock to find a seminarian alone with a scantily clad lady of the night. Nor does his mouth so much as quirk at my next order.

  “This is Miss Ruby. Please escort her to the gardener’s cottage within the maze and see to it the quarters are well provisioned. It should go without saying that I expect a high degree of discretion.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” He is the consummate professional. No hint of incredulity. No second glance at the young woman’s thigh-high boots.

  “Spare no expense on food, beverage, clothing. Her wish is your command.” I offer no further explanation. None is required. Being a prince of the blood means never having to give a reason.

  “Understood.”

  He turns and offers his arm. “Miss Ruby.”

  Her hand trembles as she accepts his gallant gesture.

  “But what about my things at my...workplace?” she asks. “I don’t have much,” she admits, and I wince at the thought—at the excess in which I was brought up—and suddenly I want to give this stranger everything she lacks.

  “I see.” X’s steely eyes hold a hint of a twinkle. “Well, it just so happens that Monique Mantissa is an old friend.”

  She gapes. “The designer Mantissa?”

  He inclines his head. “I believe her fashion line is rather popular.”

  Ruby’s laugh deepens, a husky melody that makes my skin sing. “Um, if by popular you mean appreciated by those who shop at Versace, Chanel or Prada. You know Monique Mantissa. She is rock-star famous. Her shoes are... There are no words.” Her eyes take on a glow that I’ve seen only in nuns after a rapturous spiritual revelation.