by Adora Crooks
So much, I think.
I don’t say it, however. Instead, I put my shirt back on. “Stay here.”
“What?” Her smile drops when I walk toward the door. “Are you leaving me?”
“Only for a second. Stay.”
“Wait—!”
I don’t. I exit and close the door behind me. She’ll be fine.
I adjust my pants around my hips and walk down the hall. I move to the door of my room and knock. No response. I press open the door—nothing. The room is empty.
My jaw tightens. Of course it is. He can’t sit still to save his life.
Then I hear it. The trickling sounds of piano keys. Not any song—Concerto no. 4. I hate classical music. I know that one.
It’s the prince’s favorite.
I follow the sound into the sitting room. It’s a wide-open room with filigree walls and pale love seats. A cage full of twittering yellow canaries hangs over the grand piano. The piano itself is bone white. Prince Roland’s body is curled over the bench. His long fingers move dexterously over the ivory keys. His blond hair frames his face like a lion’s mane.
I linger in the doorway. Silent. He looks nearly peaceful when he’s like this. Focused. I cross my arms. I give him a moment.
“Highness.”
His eyes lock with mine. Violet. Vibrant.
I shudder. I hate myself for it.
“She’s ready,” I inform him.
A boyish grin cuts across his mouth. For a moment, the pain is gone and there’s nothing but bright youth in his expression, like a boy at Christmastime.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He throws his limber legs over the bench. He looks at me and knits his eyebrows, and I feel my shoulders tense. He’s always been able to read me like a book. Then that smile returns; this time, it’s a knowing one. “You had a taste of her, didn’t you?”
I nod. Barely. “Yes.”
“Verdict?” Prince Roland closes the distance between us. “Soft and sweet or spicy, like ginger?”
“Sweet,” I tell him. Like wine, first summer’s fruit, honeysuckle… the memory of her on my lips makes my dick twitch in my jeans.
The prince’s grin widens. “Sounds delicious. I like her already. What would I do without you, Ben?”
I don’t answer that. It’s not a bodyguard’s job to hypothesize.
“Lead the way, mate,” Prince Roland tells me. There’s that carnal look in his eyes again.
I do. Prince Roland gets what he wants. Every time.
6
Rory
Ben is taking too long.
It’s hard to tell how much time has passed—minutes? Hours?—but the fact that any time has passed means it’s way too long. I’m naked, bound, blind as a bat, and in the prince’s bed. If I get caught like this… well. That’ll be an awkward trip to the embassy I’m not likely to forget.
My brain bounces through thoughts like a ball in a pinball machine. I hope Oscar the Otter is shoved to the bottom of my backpack. He’s seen me though a lot of adventures; he doesn’t need to see this one.
Then the door clicks open. The second I hear the noise, my spine goes stick straight.
“Don’t panic. It’s me.”
Ben’s voice. I sigh and my shoulders drop.
“Took you long enough. Did you stop for ice cream?”
“Yes,” he says. “And I brought you back something sweet.”
His mouth is on mine before I can respond. His lips crush me, his scruff grazes my cheek, and his tongue drinks me in greedily. In seconds flat, he has me exactly where he wants me once more, moaning and dripping for him.
“Down, girl,” he growls. He barely has to press his fingertips to my chest before I lose balance and topple onto my back. I feel his lips on my bare skin, taking their time now as he kisses my throat, my collarbone, down my breast. I pant for breath as my heart pounds in my chest. I want his lips everywhere. With my vision gone, my skin feels like it’s on fire, all the nerves tingling at the very surface. I feel every swipe of his tongue, and I writhe under the friction of his hands. He sucks my breast into his mouth, tongue rolling over my perked nipple, and I feel the lust roll off me in waves.
His hands are everywhere. I’m a ladybug in a web, twisting and squirming, trapped under his caresses. Only this is a trap I don’t want to be free from. His fingertips bring me to life, sending shivers through me. His hands are on my thighs, pinning them down; then they’re deep in my hair, and then they’re cupping my face.
Each touch makes me tremble, and all at once my body grows fire hot. He seems to be in a million places at once, touching me, caressing me, and I can barely catch my breath at his bold explorations. His hands grope me; he nibbles my nipple and kisses my neck…
Wait. How can his lips be at my breast and at my throat? It’s then that I feel not one, but two mouths. There’s more than two hands on me, too; I recognize that now. Just as the realization kicks into full gear, a velvety voice that definitely does not sound like Ben’s low growl murmurs in my ear, “You’re an angel…”
“Wait,” I gasp. “Stop. Stop. Untie me. Now!”
All at once, the touches and kisses stop. My heart is hammering in my chest, but it’s not lust that’s kicked it into gear anymore. I’ve gone full survivor mode, fight or flight. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t it at all.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m nearly hyperventilating when a pair of fingers gently pluck the tie behind me, unraveling it. As soon as I have use of my arms, I yank the blindfold from my face.
Light comes streaming in. I blink as my vision blurs and slowly comes back into focus, like twisting the body of a kaleidoscope.
There he is. The not-Ben. Wild, untamed blond hair. A nose straight enough to ski off. A strong chin highlighted by two plump, full lips. His beauty is practically celestial, and it sucks the breath straight out of my lungs.
That, and the fact that he’s royalty.
“You,” I whisper. “You’re… Prince Roland.”
“Of course I am.” He smiles, and it’s so fucking dazzling I could cry. “Who were you expecting?” Then, just like that, the realization sinks into his expression. Slowly, like an avalanche, his expression careens downward—his eyebrows slope first, then his smile falls, and the line of his mouth grows tight.
“Ah,” he says, answering his own question. “You weren’t expecting me at all.”
I shake my head. I’m speechless.
Ben says nothing, either. He’s perched on an elbow at the foot of the bed, watching Prince Roland as though he’s a grenade that might tear us to pieces at any second.
Prince Roland turns on a smile then, and the change in his expression is so quick, it’s almost eerie. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asks me.
Me. The prince of England is asking me for permission.
I don’t know what to do. I just nod.
Prince Roland stands and his eyes fix on Ben. There are daggers in his gaze now. “Ben. I’d like to speak with you. Outside,” he demands. “Now.”
I can’t read Ben’s expression for the life of me. His eyes are cast down, and when they flicker toward my face, I’m totally lost by what I find in them. Is he guilty? Or proud of what he’s done? Perhaps he’s angry with me for ruining it all?
His eyes find the floor again before I can figure it out.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
With that, the two men leave the room. And they leave me.
Bewildered and alone. Wondering—
What the heck just happened?
7
Roland
This is all cocked up.
All I wanted was one night. One night when I didn’t have to pretend. One night where I could put down the heavy weight of the crown and lose myself in her soft moans.
Ben Tolle—love him to pieces—has really buggered this up for me. And I’m furious with him. He’s been my trusted bodyguard—no, my trusted friend—for over six years. He should know better
by now.
The second the bedroom door clicks shut behind us, I lay in on him. “Have you lost your damn mind?” I hiss. “How could you not tell her that I would be there?”
A shrug from Ben. “She’s American. They’re usually up for anything.”
His eyes are on the wall. That won’t do. “Look at me, Ben,” I instruct.
He does, those coal-hard eyes meeting mine. I want him to see the fury in my eyes. He needs to know just how badly he’s messed up. I wish he were a dog so I could just rub his nose in it and be done with it. But he’s not. I need to see repentance.
But I don’t. He’s a blank slate, emotionless. This isn’t like him. He’s not normally this bloody stupid.
“This is a betrayal,” I tell him.
Something flickers in his eyes at that. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”
“No. You’ll have to earn that,” I tell him plainly. “You’re dismissed.”
Ben sways on his feet, lingering briefly, and I can see that he wants to say something. Instead, he swallows it down, turns, and ducks down the hall in stubborn strides.
Well. That takes care of one of them.
Now I have to clean up the scared little girl in my bed.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and screw my eyes closed. I wanted a shag tonight. My blood is still screaming for her, my cock hard as a sword, aching to sink into her to the hilt. I can taste her skin on my lips, warm as fresh bread and soft as butter. And the way she moaned… well. That sent my good intentions straight to hell.
But now all that’s dashed. Now, I have to do damage control.
I take in a couple deep breaths and take stock of myself. I smooth the creases in my forehead, relax my jaw, and drop my shoulders.
You’re the future king, my mum would say. So look like it.
I know how to act, look, and smile like a king. I’d just hoped I wouldn’t have to put on this performance tonight.
When I’ve got myself under control, I open the door to my bedroom and step through. The ginger is still sitting on the foot of my bed, but she’s dressed now. Relief quietly washes through me. I’m not sure I would’ve been on my best behavior if she’d still been naked. I’m not sure I could have kept myself from finishing what I’d started.
It’s hard enough to hold myself back as it is. She’s nothing like the poised, jaded palace girls whose eyes always seem half-lidded, constantly bored. She’s wide-eyed as a newborn doe seeing the world for the first time. Her innocence is intoxicating, and I curse myself inwardly when I feel my cock stir once more.
“Are you all right?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I’m fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I notice her hand is trembling. My heart breaks for her. I want to take her in my arms, stroke her hair back, and whisper in her ear that everything will be okay.
But I know better. The truth is—the only person in this palace she needs protection from is me.
“Can I get you a pot of tea?” I ask. “Water?” A thousand quid? A car? Whatever it takes to keep her from spreading this story around the press. “Where are you staying? I’ll have a guard drive you home. A woman, perhaps.”
She lifts her eyes. I didn’t get a proper look at them before. They’re jade green, and they shimmer like gems. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen more hypnotizing eyes. “I’d like an explanation, please,” she says politely, though her voice doesn’t waver. Neither does her eye contact.
Good on her. Perhaps my kitten isn’t quite as helpless as I assumed.
“Very well.” I lower myself into a leather armchair across from the bed. I purposefully keep some breathing room between us; after all, I did nearly maul her only moments earlier. This will be hard to talk my way out of, so I start simple. “Do you know who I am?”
She nods, though she seems shier now. “You’re the prince of England, Your Highness.”
“Not Your Highness,” I tell her sternly. “Never Your Highness. I prefer Roland.” I smile. See? I can be pleasant. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name…”
I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes get even wider. “Rory,” she gets out.
“Rory. As you can imagine, my life is… complex. I am who the people want me to be. There is a lot of pressure, being in line for the crown.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. She’s listening intently.
I continue: “And I’m not complaining, truly… it’s an honor. Most people would sell their grandma off to be a royal. But there are times when I want to… put down the crown for a little while.”
“So… you bring strange girls to bed?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.” I smile. “But it helps, truthfully.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Yes.”
She seems to think about that. “Why involve your bodyguard?”
I take in a breath. “I can’t exactly… leave the palace. And the women who come here—countesses and royals—they don’t interest me. Ben can come and go as he pleases.”
“So Ben was grooming me… for you?”
“For us. To share you.”
She lapses into silence at that, her eyes on the floor. Fear prickles my chest—I’ve lost her. She hasn’t moved, but I feel her drifting away from me. Swiftly, I rise and sit down on the edge of the bed beside her. Here, my voice drops with my next confession. “What I do… it’s wrong and naughty. But it’s always perfectly consensual, and it’s always done with my partner’s knowledge. Do you understand?” My tone is urgent. I barely know this woman, but I need her to understand. “I’d thought Ben told you that I would join you.”
Her eyes meet mine. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have. I’m the prince. I can’t afford to be ignorant.” I don’t mean for my voice to get harsh, but it does. My boiling anger leaks, and Rory sees it.
“You aren’t going to fire him, are you?”
That startles me. After what we put her through… she wants to protect him?
“Fire him?” I scoff. “I’m bringing back the bloody guillotine.”
“Please don’t,” she says suddenly. “I mean… that’s a joke, right? I hope it was a joke. Listen—” She twists to face me, and my shoulders stiffen. Listen. I’m not used to having a Normal tell me what to do. Normal—that’s my mum’s word. Normal, common-blood, not one of us. Rory sighs and says, “I mean, it’s silly, really. We don’t know each other. But the funny thing is, honestly, if he’d just said, ‘Hey, want to come back to the palace and have a threesome with me and Prince Roland?’ Then, yeah, I’d be all about that.”
My heart suddenly starts to ricochet against my rib cage so loudly I’m afraid she can hear it. My mouth goes dry as possibilities swirl in my head. Rory is beautiful, bold, and kinky as hell…
She’s perfect.
I’m nearly trembling with excitement. I need to contain myself. I put my hand on her thigh. She jumps at first, but she doesn’t pull away. I haven’t taken a woman without Ben… in a long time. But she’s tempting me to break our unspoken pact. I need to keep this woman to me, if only for a little longer.
“Can I interest you in tea?” I ask.
She looks at me, and a smile broadens her mouth. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”
8
Rory
This is a dream.
This has to be a dream, right? Any second, I’ll wake up back on the top bunk at the hostel, panties wet, swooning.
This doesn’t happen to women like me. Women like me don’t have tea with royalty after having the prince’s lips all over her.
But here I am. Ragged jeans, combat boots and all, sitting on a chair that’s probably worth my parents’ mortgage and trying to figure out if I should actually lift my pinky when I take a sip or if that’s just something people do in the movies.
Roland sits at his own chair across from me. We’re in the sitting room, or entertainment room, or whatever he called it. Every room here seems to
have a title, and I can barely fathom how they can find a different purpose for all of these rooms, but I know this one has a piano, paisley walls, a small rolling bar, and a twittering cage of canaries. The bird room, maybe.
Roland has pulled his shoulder-length hair back now so it’s contained tightly behind him. This is more how I’m used to seeing him—or how he looks on TV and in the magazines anyway, when the paparazzi catches a stray glimpse of him through the window. He’s composed, tucked away into a powder-blue button-up and nice slacks. The top button of his shirt is undone, which only gives him a slightly more casual look, but to me the hint of bare chest is enough to make me slippery between my legs again.
I can’t help it. This man does strange things to me. I only take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone—he’s literally the royal heartthrob to thousands. The caged, incredibly private Prince Roland has been the subject of many a woman’s wet fantasy. Even I, who generally stays away from celebrity gossip, have stopped when I come across a Prince Roland headline.
Not that there’s a lot to say about him. As far as anyone knows, Prince Roland never leaves the castle. He’s never even been caught drinking tea at a café. Nothing. I remember that, once, some reporter leaked that all of Prince Roland’s (rare) interviews were conducted at the palace with a green-screen backdrop. A rumor went around for a couple days that maybe the prince had some terrible medical condition that kept him from leaving the palace. And then Missy Gadot had a nip slip at her concert, and everyone forgot about it.
Looking at him now, he doesn’t look sick. In fact, he looks quite strong. His sleeves are pulled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and I can see the pure muscle there and the ropey veins that lie just underneath the surface. He’s lean, svelte, and his eyes are clear and unbearably intoxicating. I’ve noticed now that they seem to change color depending on the lighting. In the bedroom, they looked hot and violet. Here, under the crisp overhead light twinkling from the chandelier, his irises are cool, deep-blue pools.
