by Leslie North
He gritted his teeth and tore himself away from the thought by sheer force of will. One more meeting. One more. “Thank you for wearing the clogs,” he told her. “It means a lot that you were willing to take part in a Danovian tradition for me. I know they’re not very comfortable.”
“Of course,” she said, and her tone was perfectly polite—but she shifted her foot just a little to the left so that it rested against Simon’s half-hard cock. She didn’t look at him, still blissed out with her head tilted back against the arm of the couch and her eyes closed, but a secret smile played at the corners of her mouth. Damn woman. How was he supposed to keep his composure now? Well, two could play at her little game.
He kneaded a little higher on her foot, moving to her ankle, brushing the hem of her dress out of the way to run his fingers across her lower calf. She muffled another moan when he started kneading there, and he grinned, triumphant. He went a little higher, his thumbs circling on that lovely, soft bronze skin of hers. It practically glowed in the light of the sunset through the window. He lifted her foot and kissed her ankle and she lifted her head, her eyes smoky with need as she met his gaze.
A knock sounded on the door. “Fuck me,” Simon muttered.
“Love to,” Pen murmured back, and his cock—now hard as a rock and aching—twitched in response. He gave her a long, smoldering look as he pulled her dress back down over her feet and crossed his own legs to hide his state.
“Soon,” he promised her in a low voice.
The knock sounded again. Both of them ignored it for a moment longer, then finally Pen cleared her throat and called “Come in” in a voice that was a bit lower and huskier than normal.
The lawyer entered carrying a huge stack of paperwork. “Here’s the marriage contract and additional paperwork for Simon,” he said, separating the documents on the table in front of them as he spoke. The marriage contract was only a few pages, but Simon’s paperwork was a massive pile.
“What is all this?” he asked, astonished.
The lawyer frowned at him. “You’ll need to abdicate all your connections and titles from Danovar in order to move forward. Being a lawyer yourself, I thought you’d know that.”
Simon flopped back in his seat, stunned. He’d spent so much time researching Penelope’s part in all this that he’d forgotten to look very deep into his own. He’d have to give up his titles? His claims to his grandfather’s ancestral home? The security of his ties to Danovar itself? How could he give up things that had been such huge parts of his identity for his entire life?
“Right,” he managed, staring at the documents.
Pen reached over and laid a hand atop his, watching him in concern. He swallowed and smiled weakly at her, some of his courage returning. This was what he was giving up his old identity for. If he wanted to truly support her, truly give himself to her and Escona—and he was taking her name, after all, as a symbol of his commitment to doing just that—then this was something he needed to do. Still, his hands were trembling a bit as he picked up the pen and started signing.
The lawyer scooped the papers back up when he was done and turned to walk out of the room. “The marriage will still need to be consummated before everything is binding,” he said dryly over his shoulder as he reached the door. “Have a good night.” And then he was gone, and it was just Pen and Simon—who could only stare at the table where he’d just signed his entire life away.
7
Pen wasn’t quite sure how much champagne she’d had over the last five hours, but thanks to her mother’s clucking little comments (“dear, that’s the third glass in an hour, are you sure that’s a good look for a queen?”) she was very sure it hadn’t been enough. It had at least taken some of the edge off the day, though.
Although it hadn’t been all bad. In fact, some parts of it had been downright magical. She couldn’t deny that walking barefoot down the aisle in Eastman Abbey had been unexpectedly delightful, or that the look in Simon’s eyes just now had had her wanting to jump his bones right then and there. In fact, he’d been the best part of all today. It was everyone else that was the problem. It was the judgmental murmurs, the blatantly assessing eyes, her mother’s “helpful” comments whispered in her ear—she’d actually said Pen would have to “do better” at her next royal event, and she hadn’t even bothered to whisper. The whole reception had been nearly unbearable. The décor, food, and music were beautiful, of course, but she’d barely known anyone there and had been hard-pressed to even make small talk. It ended up feeling more like a political convention than a celebration of love. But at least the cake had been good, Pen supposed.
Plus, now she got to make love to her new husband. And what a hunky husband he was. She stared at him across the couch from her and had a sudden, physical need to finally see what was under those starched shirts of his. Boldly, she leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she said. The words came out a little more slurred than she’d intended. Maybe her mother had had a point about the champagne after all. Not that she’d ever tell her that. And anyway, all the bubbles were helping immensely with what could’ve been a very awkward evening. Pen didn’t even care about the judgmental looks anymore. She just wanted to see her husband naked.
Simon stifled a smile. “I’d assume it would be kind of hard not to, seeing as it’s our wedding day.”
She ran a finger across his chest, which was sadly still hidden under a shirt. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. Ever since we met. The look in your eyes when you talked about that treehouse—it bowled me over. You looked so… passionate. I want you to look at me that way.”
His eyes turned a little smokier. Much better than the way he’d looked at the sketch of the treehouse. But he didn’t take off his clothes the way she wanted him to. “Have you had a bit too much champagne?” he asked instead.
She scoffed. “Of course not. Well, maybe. But trust me, it was necessary. Did you hear my mother?”
He winced. “I did. I’m sorry. If it helps, I think you did wonderfully today.”
“Not nearly as good as you. You were amazing. You remembered everyone’s names, had the schedule memorized, and most importantly you didn’t nearly trip on your own train and fall flat on your face in front of a chapel full of nobility. Not to mention the millions of audience members on the Live Stream.”
“To be fair, I wasn’t wearing a dress.”
“Well, you’re wearing far too much clothing now.” Tired of beating around the bush, she reached out and, with one hand, unbuttoned Simon’s shirt. “Want to try that kiss again?
Simon already had a raging hard-on by the time Penelope’s lips were on his. He’d been mentally practicing his speech all evening about how he trusted her and he could wait until she was ready to consummate, but thank all that was holy, he apparently wasn’t going to need it. Which was excellent, because he’d been thinking about that kiss all day.
They’d been in a church in front of millions of people, and yet they might have been all alone in their bedroom for the way that kiss had made him feel. It had started out tender but gotten passionate way more quickly than he’d anticipated. The way her lips had parted for his, the way her waist had felt in his hands when she’d nearly tripped and he’d caught her—he couldn’t get enough of it.
Pen ducked forward now and kissed him again, but jerked back upright before he could deepen it. “Ow,” she said, sounding surprised.
He cleared his throat roughly. It better not be those damn clogs again. If a pair of stupid shoes kept him from making love to his wife tonight, he would crush them with his bare hands, hallowed tradition or no. “What’s wrong?”
“My dress is too tight. All this fabric—I can’t bend over that far.”
Unbidden, an image of her bending over in an even more delicious way came to mind. Fuck, he needed to bury himself in her right now or he would explode. “I can help with that,” he said. He got up, gently pulled her to her feet, and pulled the zi
pper at the back of her dress down. He took his time, savoring the sight of her soft flesh revealing itself, feeling like a kid opening the best Christmas present ever. He kissed a trail down her spine, following the track of the zipper.
Pen made a little sound that went straight to his dick. “Leave the corset on,” she said breathily. “I love how hot it makes me look. And once it comes off, it’s never going back on.”
He muffled a laugh. Tipsy Pen was a lot of fun. “Okay,” he said, tugging the dress off her shoulders and letting it drop to her feet. He watched hungrily as she stepped out of it and sat back on the couch in just her corset, panties, and stockings. At least two of those things had to go. He knelt in front of her and pulled the stockings off one by one. He kissed down her calves. When he nipped a little, she shuddered all over.
“Oh, I like that, do it just a little harder,” she said. “You’re so good at this. I had no idea.”
Unable to help but feel a little smug, he obeyed when he pulled off the other stocking, and she shivered again. And then there she was—only a corset and a pair of lacy white panties separating him from the place he most wanted to be, which was inside her. He ran a hand up her thigh and stroked her through the lace, relishing the feel of her slick folds through the thin fabric. He slipped one finger beneath it to touch her. She was wet and ready for him, and when his finger brushed her, she dropped her head back on the couch with a gasp.
“Take your clothes off,” she managed. “I want to see you.”
He stood up with a jerky motion. “Fuck,” he said with a rough laugh as he swept off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. Maybe taking his own clothes off would give him enough time to clear his head, get some distance. The way her gravity pulled at him—it was like he was a planet and she was his sun, and he couldn’t get close enough. Not until they finally, gloriously, collided.
When he pulled off his shirt, Pen’s eyes widened. “Holy crap, are you Superman?” she asked. “Judging from those abs I’d say yes. Walking around in that Clark Kent getup of yours is a disservice to the human race, mister. How did I not know about the physique you’ve been hiding under there?”
He snorted, but she frowned and shook her head, sitting up.
“Hey, no, I’m serious,” she said, sounding surprised by that fact. “From now on, let’s be honest and not hide anything from each other, okay? Don’t keep things from me.” Her frown deepened, and Simon had the urge to smooth out the adorable little wrinkles it made on her forehead. “And I shouldn’t keep things from you, either.”
“Okay,” he said easily. Honesty and openness were qualities he’d happily strive for in his marriage. He reached for his fly, readjusting himself—he was harder than he could remember ever being in his life—as he started to unzip.
But her eyes were unfocused like she hadn’t even heard him. “To start, I should tell you my recent deepest darkest secret,” she said. “I’m thinking of this marriage and my reign as a test run.”
His hands froze on his fly. “What?”
“No one, not even me, has confidence I’ll succeed,” she said morosely.
Unable to speak for a moment, Simon swallowed. “Oh,” was all he said aloud. Internally, though, he was horrified. This was his greatest fear—that he’d be displaced again on a royal whim, that he’d never have a real home that wouldn’t be taken from him. His hard-on dissipated as quickly as it had come on. “Pen,” he said slowly, “maybe we should wait on… this. You’re a bit tipsy, and maybe I’ve had enough tonight myself.” He’d only had two glasses of champagne, but he didn’t want her to feel like this was her fault. “Maybe we should leave the consummating for when everyone is sober.”
She blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Yeah, I guess it would be nice to be able to remember it.”
He re-zipped his fly and pulled his shirt back on, muttering something about taking a shower as he retreated to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but mentally go back over all that paperwork he’d just signed, remembering the lawyer’s parting words: The marriage will still need to be consummated before everything is binding.
He wanted this to work out. He wanted a life with Pen, a life of meaning with an amazing woman at his side. But if this was all no more than a test run to her… maybe it would be best if the contract wasn’t binding just yet.
8
Penelope’s first official duty as Queen was to preside over a royal press conference. It hadn’t even started yet, and she was already twitchy, shifting in her seat—a comfy couch, not nearly as stiff and intimidating as she imagined the throne would be—and twisting at her bracelets. At least Simon was with her, though. The new King was solid as a rock at her side, completely focused on the assistant who’d been assigned to prep them. Pen tried to draw strength from his fortitude rather than focusing on how she’d be greeting her people for the first time ever in a few minutes.
The assistant flipped a page on her clipboard. “There are a few more issues you’ll need to be prepped for that are less about the actual… well, issues—and more about the public perception of you two since your wedding yesterday. First up is Simon’s lips.”
Pen blinked. The public was interested in her husband’s lips? She gave him a sideways glance. To be fair, they were pretty damn excellent lips. She could still remember the feel of them on hers last night, how they’d been soft and yet so deliciously demanding, full and biteable. Not that she’d had the chance to bite them. Yet.
“What about my lips?” Simon asked, sounding adorably befuddled. He’d put on his reading glasses to look over the list the assistant had given him, making him look more like Clark Kent than ever.
“They have a Twitter account,” the assistant answered dryly. “TheKingsKisser. Apparently the females of the world are obsessed.”
Delighted and suddenly feeling more than a little mischievous, Pen whipped out her phone before the assistant could continue. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling when she found the account. The profile picture was a close-up of Simon’s puckered lips, which could only have been taken during a speech but was made to look like he’d been caught in the act of a bad-boy pout. “Twenty thousand followers already!” she crowed, scrolling through the pictures on the timeline. They’d caught his lips from every angle, in every light. This was too good.
“Let me see,” Simon urged, but she ducked away before he could grab the phone from her hands. The assistant looked on, straight-faced while she waited for them to regain propriety, but with a twinkle in her eye.
“‘They’re so kissable I’m going to die,’” Pen quoted a reply to one of the pictures. “Ha! Apparently there’s a downside to having the best lips in the kingdom. You’re killing your subjects, Simon.”
He made another grab for the phone, and she dodged again. She tried to think of more downsides. “Ooh, and you know what, it must be hard for you to eat too. Those luscious lips have to get in the way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bitten them clean off by now.”
He crossed his arms and huffed, stern-faced, but he was trying hard to contain a smile, which as far as she was concerned felt like a challenge.
Feigning thoughtfulness, she tapped a finger on her own lips. “Hmm, I bet they could think of a better handle though. Maybe RoyalSmoochers? Deathbylips? StrictIsSexy?”
One side of that delicious mouth curled up in a tiny half-grin. Victory! And now she was feeling better too—much readier to face her people for the first time ever, with this man at her side.
The assistant cleared her throat and shuffled her papers, regaining control of the pre-conference meeting. “They may also ask about some upcoming political issues,” she went on as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “The House of Lords has been seeing a bit of drama lately, so I hope you’re both up to date on that. Then there have also been some grumblings about Your Majesty marrying someone from outside the country. It would be a good idea to focus on the way this union strengthens Escona’s bonds with our allies and starts off your reign
with more stability. Lastly, there’s the issue of Penelope’s looks.”
Simon glanced up from his papers. “Her looks?”
Penelope’s stomach twisted. The assistant’s tone was faintly apologetic, which could only mean bad news. “What about my looks?”
“Well, the focus groups really liked how you’re more ‘traditional looking,’ with those beautiful dark eyes and hair. However, they wish you wouldn’t wear… um, ‘tablecloths,’ is the way several members of the groups phrased it.”
Penelope felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. All her newfound confidence dissipated like mist on the wind. She loved her Bohemian dresses. They felt like her, part of her identity. Her team had tried to convince her to wear some stiff-looking high-necked monstrosity this morning and had traded looks when she’d chosen a dress she’d felt more comfortable in. Now she understood what those looks had meant. “Oh,” she managed.
“Also,” the assistant went on, her tone still apologetic, “the Castle’s PR department isn’t convinced that your lipstick shades are the best suited for a Queen. Your makeup artist will have some alternative suggestions for you tomorrow.”
Because, of course, it was already too late to change for today. Pen would have to face the press for the first time ever knowing that many of them thought she looked like some sort of style-deprived tramp. She shrunk in her seat. “Right. Okay.”
“I don’t think—” Simon started, his voice official and a touch cold, but he was interrupted when the door connecting to the throne room opened.
“We’re ready,” said a man in a suit, motioning them out.
The assistant nodded and turned back to the King and Queen. “Show time!” she said, her voice back to cheerful as if the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. “You’re gonna do great, Your Majesty,” she assured Penelope. “Most of the people see you as a very romantic figure, a people’s queen, someone with a good head on her shoulders. You’re already off to a good start. Keep things under control and soon the press will be eating out of your hand.”
