Royal Mess

by Jenna Sutton

  Chewing the pineapple, I consider his question. I know the answer but I’m not sure I should mention it, especially since we haven’t even consummated our marriage.

  “Tell me,” he prods.

  Deciding to be honest, I say, “Having sex with a masked stranger at a royal ball definitely ranks as the number one craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

  My husband locks eyes with me. “Can I ask you something?”

  Though I’m not sure I want to hear his question, I say, “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  Needing clarification, I say, “Why did I have sex with a masked stranger?”

  He nods.

  “Because he reminded me of you.”

  The fork plummets from Marco’s hand and clatters onto the tray, barely missing the plate overflowing with a cheese-and-veggie omelet, bacon, and breakfast potatoes.

  “What?” he whispers.

  “He reminded me of you. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.” I take a deep breath, wondering if I should admit the rest. “I wanted you, Marco, not some random guy, and when I was ... when we were ... the whole time, I was pretending it was you.”

  “Cassie.” His eyes are huge with shock. “It was—”

  A knock sounds on the door, and the flight attendant’s voice floats through the wood. “Your Royal Highness? We’re starting our descent.”

  Marco slowly rises from the bed, his gaze on me. “Eat your breakfast. We’ll finish this conversation later.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marco

  There are times when having obscenely wealthy friends comes in handy. This is one of those times.

  One of my best friends from university happily loaned out his beachfront estate for our (mine and Cassie’s) honeymoon. The estate, situated on the tip of Thailand’s Cape Yamu, overlooks the Andaman Sea and the limestone cliffs of Phang Nga Bay.

  It’s gated, guarded, and secluded, which is exactly what we need, just in case the paparazzi find out about our marriage. I’m hoping it’ll stay our little secret until we return to Alsania.

  We arrived at the estate about two hours ago and dined on a chef-prepared meal before the caretaker gave us a tour of the three-story house. Designed as a stack of offset rectangles, it’s constructed almost entirely of glass to take advantage of the spectacular views.

  The outdoor entertaining area leads to a huge infinity pool that drops off into the densely treed hills below. A hidden staircase at the back of the property provides direct access to the private beach.

  I can’t imagine a more perfect place for our honeymoon. I glance sideways at Cassie, who’s standing beside me on the second-floor balcony that stretches the length of the master suite.

  I can’t imagine a more perfect woman. Or a more perfect wife.

  She’s wearing a maxi sundress the same aqua shade as the ocean spread out before us. The halter neckline bares her shoulders, which are dotted with freckles that look like tiny milk chocolate flakes on vanilla ice cream. Her thick hair is loose, blowing around her face and tangling in her dangly silver earrings.

  When Cassie realizes I’m staring at her, she smiles. It’s self-conscious, sexy, and sweet all at the same time.

  “What?” she asks, tucking a tendril of dark hair behind her ear.

  “I was just thinking that you’re perfect.”

  “And I’m thinking that you’re delusional.”

  Her snarky response wrings a chuckle from me. “Like I said—perfect.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she says, “I’m not perfect.”

  “You’re perfect for me, bellezzina.” I loop my arms around her expanded waist. “What do you want to do first? Walk down to the beach? Go for a swim in the pool?” I take a good look at her face, searching for signs of fatigue. “Do my girls need a nap?”

  She shakes her head. “I got plenty of rest on the plane.” Her cheeks redden. “I’m really sorry I fell asleep before...” She drops her gaze from mine. “I’m sure your wedding night was a disappointment.”

  This isn’t the first time she’s apologized. It’s the fourth.

  The first three times I reassured her, telling her that we have plenty of time to consummate our marriage. But since I don’t want to hear another apology, I’m going to try a different tact.

  “It was an enormous disappointment,” I say.

  Her eyes shoot to my face. “Enormous?”

  Barely holding in my laughter, I repeat, “Enormous.”

  “You’re an enormous jerk,” she retorts. “I was exhausted.”

  “I know you were.” I stroke the pad of my thumb across her flushed cheek. “And I’m exhausted too ... from hearing all your apologies. No more, okay?”

  She pulls her lower lip between her front teeth for a second. “Okay.”

  “Excellent.” I tilt my head. “So what’s it going to be? Beach? Pool?”

  Sex? Please say sex.

  “Beach,” she answers decisively.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re making our way down the wooden staircase, after changing into our swimsuits and applying a liberal layer of sunblock. Although September isn’t the best time to visit Thailand—it’s one of the wettest months and still monsoon season—the weather is perfect today. The sun is shining brightly in a cloudless blue sky, and the temperature is in the low eighties.

  We reach the bottom of the staircase and step onto the silkiest, whitest sand I’ve ever seen—powder-fine and absolutely pristine. Water laps gently at the shore less than twenty feet away, and tall palm trees shade the beach from the intense sun. A light breeze sends the green fronds swaying above our heads.

  Two lounges are set up in front of a striped canvas cabana. An L-shaped wicker sectional fills the small structure.

  “This is unbelievable,” Cassie murmurs. “It could be a postcard.”

  I open my mouth to reply but my mind goes blank when she starts to untie the bows that keep her white cotton cover-up closed. The one between her tits is the first to open, revealing the plump inner curves of her cleavage. The little triangles of her tangerine-colored bikini barely contain her lusciousness.

  Snapping my mouth shut, I tell myself to look away. But then I realize that I have the legal right to eyeball Cassie—she’s my wife. So I ogle her to my heart’s content, watching the cover-up part over her barely there bump and the creamy expanse of her thighs.

  She’s oblivious to my interest though, tossing her cover-up and floppy hat onto one of the chaise lounges and kicking off her flip-flops.

  Running into the ocean, she calls out, “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

  With a rueful smile, I toss our towels onto the other chaise lounge and strip off my T-shirt and shorts. Wearing my black swim briefs, I wade into the crystal-clear water. It’s warm, well above eighty degrees, I’d guess.

  I walk and then paddle my way to Cassie. She’s far enough out the waves come up to her chest.

  As I swim up next to her, she dunks her head under the water. Resurfacing, she slicks back her hair. Droplets cling to her long eyelashes, sparkling like diamonds. Her eyes are a darker, deeper blue than the ocean.

  “I can’t believe how warm the water is,” she says. “I feel like I’m taking a bath.”

  I researched Thailand so I’d know what to expect on our honeymoon. And if I’m being honest, I also did it so I could impress and entertain my wife with interesting information about the country and its surroundings.

  Pulling one of those facts from my memory, I say, “Did you know the Andaman Sea is home to more than a hundred and fifty dugongs?”

  She arches her eyebrows. “I hope it’s merely coincidence that you’re bringing up sea cows right now.”

  When I finally get her reference, I burst out laughing. “You don’t look anything like a dugong. You’re barely showing.”

  “Just promise you’ll never again bring up dugongs when I’m wearing a bikini.”

  Leaning forward, I give her a brief kiss. With our lips still
touching, I say, “Never again. I promise.”

  For the next hour, we play in the ocean and talk about our favorite vacations. When Cassie says she needs a break, we return to the beach.

  She throws a towel to me, and I absently dry off, watching her whisk the towel over her body and wrap it around her waist. Her nipples are pressed against her bikini top, the hard points detectable (and delectable) under the stretchy fabric.

  Gathering her hair in one hand, she wrings it out. Rivulets of water cascade down her chest, leaving shiny wet trails on her tits. She flicks the droplets away with her fingers, and my stomach muscles contract with the need to lick her all over. Blood surges into my groin, making my cock throb and thicken.

  Cassie peels the towel from her waist and snaps it over the lounge. When she leans over to smooth it over the puffy cushion, the edge of her bikini slides into the crack of her ass, baring a smooth white cheek.

  I want to palm it with my hand and dig my fingers into it while she rides me. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do ... what I’m going to do.

  As I pitch my towel behind me, she turns and drops down on the lounge, putting her face even with my groin. When she sees my hard-on, outlined by my tight swim briefs, her eyes widen before jumping to mine.

  I bend down and scoop her up, just like the bride she is. She squeals in surprise and locks her arms around my neck as I stride across the sand to the cabana.

  I set her on her feet next to the sectional and whip the striped canvas curtain across the front of the cabana, concealing us from any invasive eyes. With the curtains closed, the light inside is mellow.

  Two steps bring me back to Cassie. Without a word, I palm the back of her head and bring her mouth to mine. As I kiss her, I slide my other hand to her bikini top. I undo the ties, jerk the scrap of fabric loose, and let it drop to the sand. Her tits are damp and warm against my chest, the humid skin fused to mine.

  Dropping my hand, I shove it past the waistband of her bikini bottoms and find the curve of her ass cheek. When I squeeze it like a rubber stress ball, she gasps against my lips, and I take advantage by slipping my tongue into her mouth.

  She has her hands on my chest, fingers kneading my pecs and fingernails flicking over my nipples. She slides her palms over my ribs before delving beneath my briefs and brushing her fingers over the head of my cock.

  Now I’m the one gasping. She sucks on my tongue as she wraps her fist around my shaft and squeezes, hard enough to send a zinger deep into my balls.

  With our mouths sealed together, I jerk down her bikini bottoms and then my briefs. I walk us backward until my knees hit the edge of the sectional and sink down onto the puffy red cushion. My cock rises between my legs, harder than it’s ever been.

  The first time Cassie and I had sex—in the folly, as strangers—I took her standing up, with her face against the wall, maybe because it was easier that way ... easier to pretend she was someone else.

  This time—our first time as Cassie and Marco, our first time as husband and wife—I want to be face-to-face with her. I want to look into her eyes when I push inside her. I want to taste my name on her lips when she comes.

  Grabbing her hand, I pull her toward me. “On my lap,” I rasp.

  She gingerly climbs onto my thighs, her knees bracketing my hips and my cock bobbing between us. With her legs spread wide, I can see the tiny fluff of dark hair on her pussy. She squirms a little, and I catch a whiff of her arousal, mouth-watering and musky.

  “I can smell you,” I growl, sounding more animal than human. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you?”

  Taking my hand, she guides it to the apex of her thighs. “See for yourself.”

  I dip my fingers between the plump folds of her pussy and groan as slippery heat drenches my hand. Bringing it to her tits, I wet her nipples and then lick it off.

  “Marco.” She arches her back, pushing her nipple deeper into my mouth. “Harder. Suck me harder.”

  I increase the suction, which makes her writhe on my lap and graze the base of my cock. As I switch my mouth to her other nipple, I slip my hand back between her legs. She’s even wetter than before, and I groan against the pebbled skin of her areola.

  I swipe two fingers through her juice, slicking them nice and good before easing them inside her. She widens her legs and rocks against my fingers, pushing them deeper.

  Lifting my mouth from her nipple, I focus my gaze on my hand as I pump my fingers. Her juice is running past my knuckles now, and she’s making these sweet whimpers in the back of her throat. Without breaking the slow in-and-out motion of my fingers, I touch my thumb to her clit.

  A jolt racks her body. “Oh,” she breathes.

  Rubbing the stiff knot of her clit, I say, “Come for me, bellezzina. I want your cunt to be tender and swollen when I fuck you.”

  Her eyelids flutter shut, and her back bows as she comes. A hoarse cry bursts from her throat, and I feel her pussy ripple around my fingers. Wedging my fingers deeper, I circle her clit with featherlight strokes until she’s trembling and panting.

  Now that she’s on the edge again, I remove my fingers from her pussy and smear her juice all over my erection. Taking her hand in mine, I wrap her fingers around my stiff length.

  “Feel how hard I am? It’s because of you.” I roll my hips, moving my slick cock in the sheath made by our fingers. “I want to be inside you. Skin to skin. Nothing between us, not even air.”

  Her fingers tighten. “I want that too. So much.”

  “Then take what you want, Cassie.” Letting go of her hand, I lean back against the cushion and grip her thighs, right where they crease. “Put me inside you, where I belong.”

  She rises on her knees and places my hard-on against her opening. As she lowers herself, she wiggles around until the head of my cock is notched inside her.

  A vision of her pink flesh stretching around my shaft makes my breath stall in my chest. It takes every drop of willpower I possess to stop myself from grabbing her hips and thrusting up into her. Sweat gathers on my forehead with the effort to remain still.

  Grasping my shoulders, she rocks back and forth in controlled dips that draw me deeper and deeper. When she’s taken all she can, I set my hands on her hips and gulp in a huge breath.

  I thought I remembered everything about that night in the folly, but I don’t remember this slick softness and scalding heat. It must be because we’re bare. I’ve never had sex without a condom, but now I understand why most guys loathe them.

  Cassie leans forward and opens her mouth over mine in a hungry kiss. As she sucks on my tongue, she lifts herself, so slowly I can feel her tight cunt clenching around my cock.

  When she sinks down again, she changes the angle. The new position takes me even deeper and grinds her clit against my pelvic bone.

  She moans into my mouth, and I swallow the sexy sound. She breaks our kiss and begins to ride me with a slow, easy rhythm. She hums every time she rocks forward and a little oof escapes her every time she grinds her clit.

  Fire ignites at the base of my spine and rages into my pelvis. I grit my teeth, wondering how close she is. I got her off twice in the folly, and I have to do better this time around. I have to be the best she’s ever had.

  I realize I’m competing against myself. But I’m still going to win.

  The next time she starts to drop down onto my cock, I thrust up into her.

  “Oh,” she whimpers.

  Gripping her hips, I lift her all the way off me, and when I bring her back down, I shove myself so deep my balls tighten.

  “Oh, God,” she cries.

  “That’s it. Come for me, bellezzina.”

  Her cunt squeezes my cock so hard I see stars and a stream of semen jets out of me. I hear her whisper, “Love you” and then there’s no holding back. I close my eyes and erupt inside her, my cock jerking over and over with my release.

  I may not have surpassed my performance in the folly, but I still won the prize: Cassie.


  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cassie

  The urgent need to use the bathroom wakes me from a deep sleep. I gingerly untangle myself from the bedding, trying not to disturb Marco. While he’s not a light sleeper, he seems to be particularly attuned to me and usually senses when I’m not in bed with him.

  I’m not super familiar with the layout of the suite—we’re on a private jet, flying back home after our honeymoon in Thailand—so I scoop my phone from the nightstand and click on the flashlight. Now that I’m able to see, I hurry to the en-suite bathroom and shut the door with a quiet snick. I spare a second to set my phone on the sink before taking care of my bladder business.

  One of the most annoying things about pregnancy—besides the sore boobs and morning sickness, both of which have pretty much gone away—is the frequent need to pee. One of the most remarkable things about pregnancy is my insatiable need for sex. Luckily, I’m married to a man who is happy to give me exactly what I need, day or night.

  As I wash my hands, I study the background photo on my phone. It’s a selfie of me and Marco on the beach, snapped by him a couple of days ago.

  His arm is wrapped around my shoulders, and my hand is securing my floppy hat to my head. Our eyes are squinty from the sun, and our mouths are stretched in big smiles.

  We look blissfully happy, which is exactly what we are. I can only hope we stay that way once we get back to Alsania.

  After drying my hands on a fluffy gray towel, I grab my phone. As I reach the door, I catch sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror bolted to the wall. I stop and evaluate the side profile of my body.

  I’m five-and-a-half months pregnant, and my baby bump can no longer be mistaken as too much dessert or an unwise break from exercise. Over the course of my two-week honeymoon, my belly really popped. Unless I wear something voluminous or bulky, it’s visible to everyone who looks.

  I know one person who looks a lot—my horny husband. If staring were an Olympic sport, he’d win the gold medal.

  He likes to look, and he likes to touch. I’m a lucky girl. Very, very lucky.