Royal Mess

by Jenna Sutton

  Memories play through my head like a slide show—walking side by side with another woman under a starry sky, unzipping her dress in the shadows of the folly, fucking her against the wall, coming so hard my knees almost buckle.

  That night, Bumblebee made me think of Cassie. And tonight, Cassie makes me think of Bumblebee. It’s not the first time it’s happened either.

  “Are we going to our spot?” Cassie asks, bringing my attention back to where it should be: with her, not Bumblebee.

  “Yes.”

  We’ve spent so much time together we have our own spot—the way some couples have a special song or a special restaurant. Not that Cassie and I are a couple. She needs a friend right now, and I’ve made it my mission in life to be the best friend she’s ever had.

  I gave my word that I’d be there for Cassie. I have no intention of ever breaking it, not even when she wakes me up in the middle of the night and asks for my help burglarizing the Nest so she can satisfy her craving for pineapple, of all things.

  When we reach our spot on the far side of the lake, I set down the cooler and shake out the quilt. She helps me smooth the faded material before turning on the lantern.

  After slipping off her tennis shoes, she kneels on the quilt just a few inches from where I stand. She looks up at me, her blue eyes glinting from the lantern’s soft glow, and I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from shoving my fingers into her wild hair and begging her to suck me off.

  “I’m ready,” she says.

  I swear my heart stops for a moment. I didn’t say that out loud, did I?

  “Ready for what?” I ask, my voice rough like I just woke up.

  “Ready for our picnic.” Her gaze shifts to the cooler. “What did you bring?”

  I open the lid on the cooler and take out a spoon and a mason jar filled with layers of lemon curd, blueberries, lemon pound cake, and whipped cream. As I pass the utensil and dessert to Cassie, she looks at me, her expression questioning.

  “Your mom’s lemon-blueberry trifle,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “What?”

  “Didn’t you say you’d ‘do anything and anyone’ to have some of your mom’s lemon-blueberry trifle?”

  Her peachy-pink mouth drops open. “I was talking to Dana when I said that.”

  “Are you accusing me of eavesdropping?” I ask, pretending to be offended.

  “No. I just didn’t think you were paying attention.” She brings the mason jar up to her face and studies the dessert. “Is this really my mom’s trifle recipe?”

  I nod. “I texted Tessa to see if your mom would share the recipe, and when she agreed, I asked the chef at Helios to make a batch and deliver it.”

  “I can’t believe you did that for me, Marco.”

  I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and shut the lid. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. I adore trifle.”

  “You do?”

  Laughing, I crawl onto the quilt and recline on my side with head resting on my hand. “No. I hate it.”

  She gasps. “How can you hate trifle? It’s delicious.”

  I watch as she unscrews the mason jar, scoops out a mound of trifle, and spoons it into her mouth. Her eyes close, and she moans like a porn star faking an orgasm. But I know Cassie’s pleasure is real, and so does my cock. It begins to thicken inside my boxer briefs.

  She takes a few more bites and lets out more of those sexy moans. By the time the mason jar is half-empty, I’m half-hard, so I roll into a sitting position with my knees drawn up to hide my erection.

  Cassie scoots across the quilt until she’s kneeling next to me. Dipping her spoon into the trifle, she urges, “Have a bite.”

  Like a mindless idiot, I open my mouth and let her feed me. The tartness of lemon curd hits my taste buds first, followed by the cool sweetness of whipped cream. As I chew, I get a hint of earthy blueberries and moist pound cake brightened with citrus.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” When I nod, a little smirk twists her lips. “I told you.” She leans forward and swipes her finger over my top lip. “You have a little bit of”—she holds up her finger, showing me the white fluff on the tip— “whipped cream.”

  “I forgot to bring napkins,” I say. “Sorry.”

  She brings her finger to my mouth. “Lick.”

  My cock throbs with the beat of my heart. Does she have any idea how much I want to lick her?

  She slips the tip of her finger between my lips, and I draw it deeper into my mouth. I watch her face as I swirl my tongue over the smooth surface of her fingernail. Her eyes are locked on my mouth, and she’s biting her lower lip. When I nip the fleshy pad of her finger, she gasps, and the mason jar in her other hand falls to the ground with a thud.

  She jerks her finger out of my mouth, and before I have a chance to say a word, she pounces on me—there’s no other word for it. The force of her body knocks me flat on my back. Her face is above mine, her tits flattened against my chest, her pelvis aligned with mine.

  “Marco...” she whispers.

  She leans forward and covers my mouth with hers. All the blood drains from my head, leaving my brain deprived of oxygen.

  I slip my tongue between her lips. She tastes like trifle, and I stroke deeper, desperately searching for a taste of her.

  Cradling her head in my hands, I lick into her mouth. When I finally get an authentic taste of Cassie, I can’t help groaning. I thought she’d be sweet, like the ripest summer strawberries. But she’s not.

  She’s like dark chocolate spiced with red chili—rich and fiery and intense.

  Palming the back of her head with one hand, I slide the other under the hem of her dress and brace it against her back so I can roll her under me. As I wedge my lower body between her thighs, she wraps her legs around me.

  I press my cock against her pussy, groaning at the heat steaming through the thin material of her panties. I grind against her, imagining how wet and tight she’ll be when I—

  Suddenly, she rips her mouth from mine and jerks her head sideways. “Marco!” She shoves her palms against my shoulders. “Stop!”

  I lurch away from her. The look on her face ... God, it would’ve sent me to my knees if I wasn’t already there.

  “Cassie...” I reach out to her, and she uses her elbows to scramble away from me like a crab scuttling over sand. “I’m sorry. I went too fast.”

  She presses the back of her hand to her mouth before letting it fall to the quilt. “I can’t do this with you,” she whispers. “It’s wrong.”

  “Wrong?” I shake my head in confusion. “Why?”

  Over the past five weeks, Cassie and I have talked for hours, discussing topics both meaningful and meaningless. But there’s one topic we never discussed: Zac Diedi. Every time I bring him up, asking why they’re no longer together, Cassie changes the subject.

  “Tell me why it’s wrong to be with me. Is it because you’re still in love with Zac? Because you’re having his baby?”

  “Zac isn’t the father!” she shouts.

  It takes me more than a few seconds to process what she said. “I’m confused. You were dating him when you conceived.”

  “Zac and I ... we never...”

  I arch my eyebrows. “You and Zac never had sex?”

  “No.”

  I shake my head, thinking how I envied Zac for having Cassie in his bed. And now I find out that he never actually had her, in his bed or anywhere else. I actually feel sorry for him now—he had a shot to be with an amazing woman, and he fucked it up.

  “If Zac isn’t the father, who is?”

  Her answering laugh is edged with hysteria. “I have no idea.”

  I sit back on my heels as my brain immediately starts listing possible reasons she doesn’t know who the father of her baby is: a one-night stand with a stranger; artificial insemination using donor sperm; rape.

  The thought of Cassie being violated makes my body go hot and cold. I force myself to swallow the nausea crawling up
my throat so I can speak. “Was it—”

  “He’s just some guy I had sex with one time.”

  The tension in my shoulders loosens. “Okay.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told. I haven’t even told Tessa.”

  “Why not?”

  Cassie brings her knees to her chest and crosses her arms over them. “I was too embarrassed. Too ashamed. I didn’t want to admit that I don’t even know the guy’s name—that I had sex with a stranger.”

  “You shouldn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed.” My chest rises and falls with a big sigh. “You’re not the only person who’s had a one-night stand with someone they don’t know.”

  I pause, debating my next words. Admitting that I’ve fucked women I don’t know will undoubtedly reinforce Cassie’s assumption that I’m a promiscuous playboy. On the other hand, it may make her feel less ashamed.

  “I’ve done it, more than once.” Deciding to go all in, I add, “And with more than one person too.”

  She tosses me a wry glance. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” She sighs softly. “I’d never done anything like that before.”

  I’m perversely curious about the circumstances that led to Cassie’s pregnancy. What stars aligned to make her behave so out of character?

  “Where did you meet him?” I ask.

  “At the masquerade ball.”

  “You attended the ball? I thought you were in Italy with Zac.”

  “He canceled our trip. That’s why I broke up with him.” She huffs out a sad-sounding laugh. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “The guy you had sex with?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a wolf mask.”

  Her words ricochet inside my head like bullets. Wolf mask. Wolf mask. Wolf mask.

  “Wolf?” I repeat, almost choking on the word.

  “A white wolf.”

  What the fuck?

  I was wearing a white wolf mask at the ball. And I had sex at the masquerade ball ... sex with a woman who reminded me of Cassie.

  Did Bumblebee remind me of Cassie because she was Cassie?

  A voice inside me whispers: Don’t overreact. You can’t be the only guy at the ball who was wearing a white wolf mask.

  Another voice pipes up: True. But how many guys at the ball had sex?

  I see spots in my vision and realize I’m holding my breath. I gasp like a man who’s been underwater for several minutes. The noise draws Cassie’s attention. She glances at me, curiosity stamped on her face. Somehow, I muster a smile for her, although I imagine it looks more like a wince.

  “Were you wearing a mask too?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “A bumblebee. Tessa gave it to me.”

  What are the odds that another guy wearing a white wolf mask had sex with a woman wearing a bumblebee mask? They have to be one in four hundred quadrillion, right?

  “We had a conversation about bumblebees,” Cassie says. “He said one stung him seventeen times. I thought bees could sting only once before they die.”

  And that smashes any doubt I might’ve had. The universe played a vicious prank on me and Cassie, throwing us together, making us think we were with other people.

  Cassie and I had sex at the masquerade ball. The woman I love is pregnant with my baby.

  Holy fucking shit! I’m going to be a father!

  My nerves sizzle and pop, and I vault to my feet. “Cassie, I’m—”

  That voice inside me shrieks like a banshee: Shut up, you idiot! Now is not the time to tell her the truth!

  I snap my mouth closed, gulping down the words that would’ve landed like a grenade and blown up everything around me.

  Cassie tilts her head. “What?”

  “It’s late.” I hold out my hand to her and pull her to her feet. “You need to get some rest.”

  We make the trek back to Cassie’s cabin, tension vibrating between us like violin strings that have been tuned too hard. Standing at her front door, I place my fingers under her chin and tilt her face up until our eyes meet.

  “I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me the truth.” I touch my thumb to her lower lip. “Someday soon, we’re going to talk about that kiss.”

  She swallows audibly. “Good night, Marco.”

  I wait while she does a quick walk-through and leave only after she’s locked the door. On the way back to my cabin, my mind races like that Ferrari I stole years ago. The whole situation with Cassie and her baby—our baby—is beyond complicated.

  I’m a member of Alsania’s royal family, second in line to the throne. Having an illegitimate child would tarnish my entire family and cast shame on the House of Trioni.

  And what about Cassie? She has no idea that I’m the man in the white wolf mask. Who knows how she’ll take the news that I’m the father of her baby?

  There’s a good chance she’ll see this as more proof that I’m nothing but a playboy—irresponsible and indiscriminate. Even if she doesn’t see it that way, the rest of the world undoubtedly will. If and when the word gets out, everyone will think I’m living up to my bad reputation.

  This is a fucking mess—one I have to clean up. I just wish I knew how.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cassie

  For an entitled, irresponsible playboy, Marco is remarkably prompt and reliable. I invited him to dinner at my apartment and asked him to arrive at seven. At 6:59, I hear a knock on my door.

  “Just a second,” I call out.

  I haven’t seen Marco in four days, not since Camp Discovery ended. It’s insane how much I’ve missed him.

  As I make my way across my living room, my strappy sandals click noisily on the hardwood floors. Stopping in front of the door, I smooth my hands over my hair, which I’ve pinned into a high sleek bun, and swipe my finger over my front teeth to make sure they’re free of lipstick.

  Okay, now you’re ready.

  I’m smiling when I open the door, but when I see Marco, my lips part in a soft gasp. He brought me flowers—a bouquet of orange roses, Peruvian lilies, hot pink Gerbera daisies, and purple dianthus. They’re exactly what I would’ve chosen if I’d picked them myself, proving once again how well he listens and how well he knows me and my likes and dislikes.

  Spending so much time together at camp really deepened our friendship. Although truth be told, I’m not sure friendship is the right word to define our relationship anymore, especially after that kiss.

  He said we’d talk about it, but we haven’t yet. I’m not sure I want to talk about it. What is there to say, really?

  I can’t imagine Marco would want to get involved with me, not when I’m expecting another man’s child. And even if he can overlook the baby bump, I’m not sure I want to have a fling with him. It would hurt too much when it was over.

  Marco extends the colorful blooms to me. “For you.”

  “They’re gorgeous.”

  His sexy smile makes my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti. “They’re nothing compared to you. You’re gorgeous.”

  As I take the flowers from him, I feel my cheeks prickle with a blush. I wanted to look good for Marco, so I picked a sleeveless wrap dress in daffodil yellow that knots at my waist and conceals my slight baby bump. The high-low hem shows off my legs, along with my super-cute floral sandals.

  His smile broadens, as if he knows how much his flattery flusters me. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” I say, opening the door wider.

  As he crosses the threshold, I take note of his clothing. More often than not, he dresses casually. But tonight, he’s wearing a long-sleeved button-down and dress pants.

  The orangey-pink hue of his shirt reminds me of fresh-caught Norwegian salmon. While I don’t like the fish, I definitely like the way the color complements his shiny dark hair and bronzed skin.

  The shirt must be made of stretch cotton because it molds to the straight lines of his shoulders and the thick curves of his bice
ps. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing his forearms—his very sexy forearms. I have a thing for them ... the way the veins and muscles pop when he uses his hands.

  He moves deeper into my apartment, giving me a fabulous view of his ass, outlined by his slim-fitting gray trousers. When he glances over his shoulder, he catches me looking.

  Mortified, I jerk my gaze to the door and push it shut. I put too much force into it, and it closes with a bang.

  He stops in the middle of the living room, and with his hands on his waist, he turns in a circle. I’m not sure if he’s checking out my apartment, which he’s never seen before, or offering me the opportunity to check him out.

  With the bouquet clutched to my chest and my eyes averted, I rush past Marco and into the kitchen. I find a vase in an overhead cabinet and fill it with water before unwrapping the blooms. As I arrange them, I feel his eyes on me, an unwavering scrutiny that makes me clumsy.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” I say, setting them on the granite bar that separates the kitchen from the living area.

  “You’re welcome.”

  In an effort to be a good hostess, I ask Marco if he’d like a drink. He declines, saying that he can wait until we have dinner.

  Speaking of dinner ... I gesture to the stove behind me. “I made osso buco. It needs another thirty minutes or so.”

  He tilts his head. “I love osso buco.”

  “I know.”

  “Is that why you made it ... because it’s my favorite?”

  “Yes. I hope it turns out well. I haven’t made it in a long time.”

  He takes a few steps until he’s standing in front of me. “I was surprised when you invited me to dinner. I was sure you’d want to avoid me after our picnic.”

  After we kissed. After I admitted that I don’t know the identity of my child’s father.

  “That was my intention,” I admit.

  A laugh rumbles in his chest before he says, “What made you change your mind?”

  “Let’s sit down,” I suggest, waving my hand toward the sofa and armchair.