Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  Then, one by one, I pull the pins from her hair—removing her cap and unraveling her bun until her hair falls loose down around her in a wild, wavy dark curtain. It accentuates her features—her skin is paler, her cheekbones higher, her gray eyes brighter.

  And it’s all for me. I’m the only man who will ever see her like this.

  I give her a smile with all the tenderness I have, as I bring her in against me, our warm skin sliding. I lift her up so her breasts are right there for my lips’ taking, wrapping my mouth around her nipple—flicking it hard and fast with my tongue and sucking and sucking on the hard points until her high-pitched voice calls my name for mercy.

  Her hands comb through my hair, caressing my jaw, bringing my face up to hers. “Make love to me, Edward.” She looks up at the ceiling, then back into my eyes. “Make love to me under this magical sky.”

  I spin around and lay Lenora down on the bed. Her pink mouth is parted and panting and her tousled hair framing her. And she opens for me like a flower—arms stretched, knees spread—uninhibited and unashamed and perfect and mine.

  I climb over her, toss her legs over my shoulders, and then I feast. Licking and tasting between her legs, making her pussy wet and clenching, making her moan and gasp my name—my bride, my wife, my beautiful fucking girl.

  “Edward . . . Edward . . .” she chants, pulling at the strands of my hair hard.

  I kiss down her inner thigh, her calf, rising up on my knees, between her legs, and I drag the broad, bell-shaped head of my cock through her slick, slippery heat.

  Up and down, past her opening again and again, pausing but not dipping in.

  Lenny’s hips rise up—craving, begging.

  “Is this what you want?” I whisper.

  She writhes beneath me, eyes drunk with pleasure and lust and need.

  “Yes . . .”

  I open her up wider, drape her legs across my thighs. My palm slides up the slick center of her stomach, kneading her breasts, stroking her nipples, then back down. I rub her tight little clit with the pads of my fingers on one hand, and slip two fingers into her pussy with the other.

  And I work her slowly, pumping into her as she gasps and groans.

  Lenora lifts her chin, her face twisted with passion and craving for more.

  “Please, please, please, please . . .”

  I slip my fingers from her and grip my cock, sliding again to her slick, hot opening.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . Edward . . .” she chants.

  I press inside her, just the head.

  Slow, slow, slow.

  Her muscles resist, but her wetness eases the way. I want to curse with the sensation of her—the hot snugness that makes my vision go dark. But I won’t. This moment is too precious for those words.

  “Lenora, look at me,” I rasp.

  When her eyes rise to mine, I grasp her hips and thrust all the way in past her virginity, embedded fully in the depths of her wet, gripping heat.

  She arches her back and cries out.

  For a moment, I don’t move . . . but when I do, it’s down into her arms. I lie on top of her, hovering above her, pressed as deeply into her as I can be. I gaze into her beautiful eyes and brush back her damp hair and I feel the caress of her hands on my arms, my back.

  “All right?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she nods. “Yes . . .”

  And then I move. Hips circling in slow, shallow circles—kissing her, loving her with my mouth—building it back up, wanting to give her ecstasy . . . give her the whole world.

  My lower pelvis rubs her clit with every swerve of my hips.

  Again and again and again.

  Lenora’s chest rises and falls, harder, faster, and heat surges back into her eyes.

  “That’s it, love,” I coax. “That’s it . . .”

  And Christ, the feel of her—more than I dreamed in my wettest fantasy. Every ridge and rope of her muscles inside is slick and tight and clamping.

  I suck at the tender skin of her neck, breathing hard. And her moans fill my ears. Louder and harsher with every roll of my hips. Fantastic, carnal sounds that makes my balls tighten and my cock swell.

  The sounds of lust and love and life.

  “Edward! Edward, Edward . . .”

  She grasps at my shoulders desperately and her heels press against my arse. And I kiss her mouth deep and long—licking the sounds from her lips, holding them inside, keeping them for myself.

  I feel it when she comes. It’s in the pulsing clench of her beautiful pussy, in the long, broken sob of her moan, in the squeeze of her arms that cradle me tenderly even as she finds her peak.

  Electric heat races down my spine. My hips thrust wildly, roughly, and I groan helplessly against her shoulder as my cock jerks, filling her up, coming hard so deep inside her.

  Afterward, I lift my head and look down into Lenora’s eyes, kissing her gently and brushing her hair back. I don’t ask if she’s all right, because I know she is—I see it in her smile and the tender tear that streaks down her cheek. I pull her against me, into my arms, both of us boneless and spent and satiated.

  STANDING UP FROM MY CHAIR, I lean my hands on the table and address the Advising Council.

  “So let me see if I have this right. Parliament wouldn’t consider my legislation until I was a married woman. Because they wanted a queen who was a traditional wife and assurances that my husband would ‘curb me.’ And now that I’m married, and have been married for nearly four weeks, they refuse to consider the legislation because they’re claiming I’m somehow being controlled by my husband’s cock?”

  My uncle’s jaw drops.

  Radcliffe could be on the verge of a heart attack.

  And Tweedledum gasps in outrage. “Your Majesty!”

  “Oh, man up, Tweedle!” I smack the table. “I need you. I need all of you. Because we have to send a message loud and clear that while Prince Edward’s cock is certainly magnificent enough to do the job, the Queen is controlled by no one. Least of all by Parliament. So they’d best get off their arses and do their bloody jobs!”

  My council stares at me in shock.

  Except for Alfie and Edward. They’re trying very hard not to laugh. And failing miserably.

  Edward isn’t an official member of the Advising Council, but since we returned from Finland he’s been coming to the meetings, and later we discuss the issues in private. Sharing my thoughts with him and hearing his opinions is often very helpful.

  Now is not one of those times.

  “Prince Edward, Lord Ellington . . .” I scowl.

  Edward’s eyes dance at me with humor. Because for some reason, he just loves getting me all riled up.

  “While I’m happy you find me so entertaining, do you have anything helpful to add to the discussion besides hilarity?”

  Alfie shakes his head, his face bright red and busting with a grin.

  Edward leans back in his chair, arms crossed and mouth quirked—regarding me with that handsome arrogance that makes me want to kiss him all the time.

  “As a matter of fact, I do, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, enlighten us, then.”

  “You don’t need to send a message. What you need . . . is a good shovel.”

  “A shovel?” I ask. “I don’t follow.”

  “They’re politicians,” he explains. “Dig up enough of their dirt, and they’ll do any damn thing you want.”

  Dirt. Hmm.

  Slowly, I nod.

  “That sounds very . . . efficient.”

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK, ten of the most influential leaders in Parliament meet in the large back office, at the Queen’s request. She wears a candy-pink dress trimmed in black that hugs her perfectly and high black pumps with little bows and a heel so sharp she could stab someone through the heart with it. But it’s the look in her eyes I enjoy the most. Anticipation, excitement, vengeance and victory.

  She’s like a sleek, small, silver gun—beautiful but lethal. It’s an intoxicating combina
tion.

  “Good morning, my Lords.” Lenora folds her hands in front of her and smiles sweetly. I lean against the wall . . . just watching her.

  “Please observe the files in front of you. There is delicate information that has come to our attention, about each of you. We wanted to make you aware that we are aware of this information . . . and that we have documentation to prove it. For your own protection, of course.”

  They tear open the files. A few of them may actually shit themselves.

  Lenora taps her lip, furrowing her brow worriedly.

  “Although, the problem is . . . I do tend to speak without thinking when I’m upset.” She looks each of them in the eye. “I am a woman after all. There’s no telling what secrets I may tell—or to whom—when I am thoroughly put out. It could be the press, the authorities . . . your wives.”

  Slowly she walks in front of them, letting them stew for a bit.

  “My suggestion to each of you is to not upset me. To vote on the upcoming legislation in a way that will please me. In short . . . do not piss me off. For your own protection, of course.”

  Then she’s back to smiling again. And it’s sort of terrifying.

  “Also—”

  “There’s an also?” Stinky Winky objects.

  My vicious girl grins. “There is, Lord Winkerton—do not interrupt me again. As I was saying . . . also, I have decided that the mandatory military service program will include all citizens of Wessco—men and women.”

  And the old men lose their minds—grumbling and shouting.

  “That is an outrage!” Lord Plutorch bellows.

  “It’s an affront to womanhood!” Count Malmunch trembles with indignation.

  “For Christ’s sakes, it’s what’s best for the country,” I counter.

  Lenora takes not an ounce of their shit.

  “I will not have half my subjects under the thumb of the other. Not while I am Queen. This law will open up skill sets and opportunities to women that men have always exclusively enjoyed. It’s a step toward equality.”

  She stares them down.

  “That’s all for today. Vote well, my Lords. And remember these folders . . . I know I will.”

  She turns and takes my arm, and together we walk out the door.

  I escort the Queen to her office. Quickly. Wanting to toss her over my shoulder and carry her off like a Neanderthal back to his cave.

  I slam the office door behind us and lock it—and then we attack each other, all twisting, grasping limbs, kneading hands, worshiping mouths and gasping breaths.

  I lift her onto the desk and step between her pretty spread legs.

  “You were amazing,” I say, and kiss her hard and long, thrusting into her mouth with my tongue.

  Then I pull her pink dress over her head and toss it on the floor. Giving me an eyeful of her pristine tits, hidden only by a brassiere, and lace knickers and garters that I want to shred with my teeth.

  “It felt amazing,” she pants, kissing my chest, my chin—anywhere she can reach.

  “I’m so proud of you.” I dip my head, laving the globes of her breasts, sucking on her rosy nipples. “You didn’t even blush when you said cock to the Advising Council. Twice.”

  Gripping her arms, I stand Lenny up and spin her around. Kissing her neck, her back, bracing her hands flat on her desk—bending her over just right.

  I tug my trousers down and tear her lace knickers . . . and I groan when I drag my cock through her slit and feel how slick and hot she already is for me.

  “I’m going to have to come up with filthier words to make you blush now.”

  She giggles like a vixen, glancing over her shoulder—her silver eyes wide and curious.

  “There are filthier words?”

  Grinning, I hold her steady at her hip—and thrust into her tight, silken pussy that was made for me to fuck.

  “Always,” I rasp against her hair. “There’s always filthier, love.”

  Two months later

  Palace of Wessco

  While the Americans in the States have their Thanksgiving, here in Wessco, we have the Autumn Pass in mid-October. It’s part harvest festival, part patriotic celebration—to commemorate the feast after the final battle that earned Wessco her independence.

  There are parties and fairs, the banks are closed and the palace gates are opened, and the monarch gives a rowdy speech from a platform in the front courtyard that’s televised live.

  Last night, Lenora practiced her speech for me . . . while my head was buried between her thighs and my tongue did its best work to distract her. She moaned, gasped and screamed it—but she knew the speech inside and out.

  But now, the courtyard’s packed with people and Lenny’s up on the platform, looking ghastly pale. One good gust of the brisk breeze might blow her right the fuck over.

  I grab Winston by the arm. “Something’s wrong with her. I’m going to bring her inside—make sure the path is clear.”

  He nods and I move up the stairs to the Queen’s side.

  “And, we would like to . . .” She closes her eyes, and even her lashes seem ashen.

  I lean over and speak into the microphone. “To thank each of you for coming out today, to enjoy the fall celebration! Happy Autumn Pass, everyone!”

  There’s a swell of applause and Lenny rests her head against my arm. I turn us toward the side entrance to the palace and she whispers weakly, “Please get me inside.”

  I keep my arm around her back, rubbing slow circles and guiding her toward the door. “Easy now, love. I’ve got you.”

  And I do have her—my hold is firm and strong. But that doesn’t matter.

  Because no sooner are we over the threshold than Lenora’s knees give out and her eyes roll back. I catch her before she falls, but she’s fainted away in my arms.

  “Lenora!”

  Fear is cold, and brutal. It stops your heart, freezes your blood and tells you you’ll never be warm again. It claws up from your stomach and lodges in your throat.

  “Get the doctor, now! Lenora!”

  I don’t know how long I sit outside the infirmary while the doctor is with her, but it feels like fucking days. The others are here—advisors and secretaries and that moron Prime Minister, Bumblewood.

  I don’t talk to them—I don’t talk at all. I sit and I pace . . . and I pray.

  Because I think about Thomas and how fast he got sick, how quickly he went. And in my mind, I keep seeing him, in his bed with that sheet lying still over his face. Not moving, or breathing. Just gone.

  I grind my palms into my eye sockets, trying to push the picture from my brain. But it holds tight.

  Finally, the doctor emerges . . . and heads straight toward the Prime Minister.

  My long strides get to him first, blocking his way.

  “Tell him one word about my wife’s condition before you tell me and I’ll rip your tongue out and strangle you with it.”

  The doctor closes his mouth. And nods.

  I guide him to the corner, away from the flock of vultures.

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she ill? Will she recover? What does she need?”

  His smile is infuriatingly fucking calm.

  “Her Majesty is dehydrated.”

  All right—water. Not so bad. Lenny needs to drink more water.

  “And exhausted,” the doctor says.

  Damn, that’s my fault. Of course she’s exhausted. She’s got an insatiable bastard of a husband who keeps her up all night, doing everything in bed but sleeping.

  “And she’s slightly anemic,” the doctor adds.

  Iron. She needs iron—red meat has iron.

  “I’ve given her some supplements and orders to rest.”

  I nod and nod—while looking out the window, searching for the best spot to graze the cattle I plan to buy immediately.

  “Queen Lenora is expecting, Prince Edward.”

  My brain stops short. And the whole world freezes in time. For a moment I don’t mo
ve; I’m not sure I even breathe.

  “Expecting? You mean a baby? She’s having a baby?” I point to myself. “Our baby?”

  The old man smiles broader, chuckling, and nods.

  “Not today, but yes. Congratulations.”

  Holy hell. It shouldn’t be a shock, not with the way I’ve been at her, but still it is. I laugh—stupidly giddy, and fucking cocksure proud.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  I grab his hand and smack his back, even though I’ve never liked the tosser. But I like him now because he’s given me the best news I’ve ever heard in my whole life.

  I like everyone right now. But I like Lenny most of all.

  So I run in to see her as fast as I can. And I scoop her up from the bed—set her in my lap—and kiss the daylights out of my pregnant wife.

  I THOUGHT I UNDERSTOOD maternal instinct—that base, primal urge to protect your future, your legacy. It’s what I felt for the public the first day I wore the crown. I wanted to care for them, provide for them, watch them grow strong and become all I knew they could be.

  I still feel that way. But those emotions are just a shadow of what I feel for this child growing within me. The first months were . . . sick and draining. Edward would rub my back as I vomited into a bag in the backseat of the car, and then I had to rinse my mouth and negotiate with some foreign leader. It was perfect misery.

  But now, in my fourth month, the sickness is gone and when I press my hand to the firm bump of my abdomen . . . it’s miraculous. I have food cravings—an insatiable hunger that drags me into the kitchen at midnight, to Edward’s great amusement—in search of Cook’s homemade custard cream biscuits and Marmite spread, straight from the jar.

  But there are other cravings as well. My desire to make Wessco prosperous and peaceful thrums through me with a whole new intensity. Because I’m not just doing it for my people; I’m doing it for this child and any that will come after. They will inherit from me whatever we make of this country—and I’m determined to pass on only the best.

  Although we’ve announced the news to the public, I don’t look terribly pregnant. At my advisor’s insistence, the palace has hired stylists to dress me—who know just how to hide the growing bulge with the right pattern, jacket, belt. So that I don’t appear awkward or vulnerable. Or weak.