Royal Treatment (Royal Scandal Book 3)

by Parker Swift

  The evening hadn’t gone exactly as I’d thought. The first part had—getting that ring on her finger made me feel like king of the goddamn world. But fucking Christ, when that text came in, it was like the earth froze over. I’d been thrust out of perfection with the kind of force you can’t predict, a goddamn tsunami with the scraps of happiness I’d found in my life its only target. I had to get the fuck out of there. I left with the intent of calling the fucker journalist and telling him I was giving him exactly an hour to disappear from the planet before I hunted his ass down. Then I listened to his voicemails and realized I needed to actually deal with the wanker. I also realized he really hadn’t known about me when he kissed her.

  What I wouldn’t tell her is that when I called, I made that fuckwit detail every second of his interaction with her. I needed to know everything if I was going to put this to bed. I did trust her, but I needed to hear it all from him. And I couldn’t ask her to do that for me. And I also wouldn’t tell her how pure my satisfaction was when he’d answered the phone expecting her and I heard his gasp when I said, “Dylan Hale here. If it’s not a convenient time to speak, I suggest you make it one.”

  I wasn’t trying to be a prick. Or that wasn’t my sole purpose. But he needed to know in no uncertain terms that just because we hadn’t gone public—yet—did not mean there was anything undecided.

  The only thing that kept me calm was the look of sheer panic and loss in Lydia’s eyes. Her look expressed everything I needed to know—utter terror that we could be over. If she felt that way, then there was no way she’d willingly cheated on me.

  Lydia fell back in her chair, resting her hand on her belly, as though she were full, and smiled a tiny content smile that brought me back to the moment.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said sleepily, sated.

  “As am I.” She looked fucking beautiful—her hair messed from having been caught in the rain, wearing those leggings of hers that drove me bloody insane. “Lydia, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. I did try. You really would have wanted me to?”

  “Honesty. Always honesty.”

  She nodded, her lithe little legs sitting cross-legged in the wooden dining chair. Then she surprised me. She stood up from that chair and sauntered over to me. She was about to crawl into my lap, but I put my hands at her hips, halting her. She tilted her head, curious, just a little wary, her ponytail falling over her shoulder. I gripped the fabric clinging to her thighs and pulled those bloody pants down her lean legs, tapping the back of her thigh to prompt her to step out of them. The lovely girl obliged, and my dick responded predictably. I wanted my hands on her.

  Now, clad only in a sweatshirt, she crawled over, straddled me, and rested her arms on my shoulders. Her eyelids had gone heavy. No matter what had happened over the past week, she fucking belonged to me, and there was no denying she owned me as well.

  “Always,” she said. Then she took my injured hand and brought it to her lips, kissing each knuckle. Apparently I hadn’t fooled the little foal sitting on me. And she kissed me. She kissed my hand, the inside of my wrist, my shoulder, my cheek, and finally she placed those plump perfect-as-fuck lips on mine. “Thank you for being you,” she said. “Thank you for my ring.” She kissed me again. “Thank you for coming for me.” She must have caught my lips’ twitch at her last comment, because she immediately followed up with “Don’t worry. You will.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t worried, damsel. Now let’s get you to bed before I lose my bleeding mind.” My voice came out like a goddamn growl. I looked at the ring on her finger again, and I knew there was a smile wrapping clear around my face. Christ, I was a possessive wanker. “I fucking missed you so much, baby.”

  By the time we made it to her bed, I had her wearing nothing at all. And by the time I had worked her up, had her little wrists pinned above her head so I could feel it when her hips tilted to beg more of me, so I could see all of her, so I could feel her tightening around me, I was desperate for her. “I love you,” she said as we came. “I love you.” The words became a faint chant against my skin, and I chanted them right back to her.

  * * *

  When I woke in the morning, I forgot for a moment where I was. I stared up at high ceilings, crown molding, and the feeling of sheets wrapped around my legs. And something else wrapped around me. Lydia. Her light-as-a-feather arm draped over my abdomen, her soft breathing on my chest, her hair falling against my arm. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, and I could hear the incessant honking outside, perhaps a block away, but close enough. Every time I’d been in New York, I’d stayed in high-rise hotels in Midtown, safely tucked away from all the noise.

  This was Lydia’s New York—these sounds, the street right outside her door. The apartment was simple, but bigger than her father would have been able to afford were he buying today. She had told me that when he’d bought it, when she was five, the neighborhood wasn’t considered safe. For the first time since arriving, I took in the furnishings, and I could see Lydia everywhere. Slightly bohemian. Creative tweaks to make the place hers. She’d done a good job. Even as a teenager it was probably she who decorated and took care of this place, and the thought made my chest sink a little.

  Along the far wall of the bedroom were her father’s guitars, each on a rack affixed to the wall, better than an expensive piece of art. My girl was talented, and she’d worked hard to get where she was. Christ, it made me want to make her life easier, to give her the fucking world.

  But I also loved seeing this side of her. I hadn’t realized how much of her I was missing. She’d come to me fresh, having left this behind, but this was her. I could see her everywhere. Her scrappiness was there in the inexpensive dresser she’d lacquered and affixed new knobs to. Her beauty and gentleness were there in the long gauzy curtains spilling into the room. And her love for the people in her life was in every single photo placed around the apartment. I couldn’t see them from the bed, but I’d need to savor each one.

  She started to stir against me. Her little waking moans paired with the way her nails curled into my skin gave me a fucking hard-on. She thought I woke up hard, but the truth was her waking up fucking made me hard.

  “Good morning, damsel.” I ran my fingers through her hair and lifted her body against mine, bring her lips into kissing distance.

  Another luscious little moan. I blanketed her atop me, and she burrowed her face into my shoulder. Oh no. She wasn’t going back to sleep on me. I gave her ass the swack it deserved, and she jolted against my dick like her body knew that was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

  It earned me a little shriek and her eyes met mine, challenging.

  “What time is it?” she asked groggily.

  “Half eight.”

  “What day is it?” She groaned, sliding back against my body.

  “Thursday, baby. You must need to be at the store,” I said, stroking where I’d spanked her a moment ago.

  “Nope,” she replied, clearly more awake, and I could feel her lips curl into a smile against my shoulder blade. “I finished prep early—the upside to all that trying to avoid thinking about things. We don’t open until Saturday.” She climbed atop me and sat straddling my stomach—fuck me, her bare tits were just sitting there, pert and high, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Fucking Christ, she was gorgeous. I gripped her hips to stop my hands from attacking her like some kind of feral animal.

  “And…” She resumed leaning forward, bracing her weight on my chest with her small hands and leaning down to kiss me. “I’m showing you New York today.”

  “I do hate to disappoint you, darling, but I have been here before.”

  “No you haven’t. Not with me. You, Dylan Hale, seventeenth Duke of Abingdon, architectural genius, are going to learn to be a Brooklyn boy today. You’re going to find out what it would have been like to date me had we met here, in my world.”

  She had a delightfully mischievous grin and wa
s biting her lower lip. I’d do anything for her, to keep that spark of delight in my life.

  “Am I?” I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Mmm hmm. Think you can handle it?”

  “You sassy Brooklyn thing.” I pulled her down on top of me and flipped us over, so her pert little arse was in the air, and I was standing on my knees above her. I stroked that perfect creamy ass, rounding it out in my palm, not fucking believing how lucky I was that she was mine. “I’ll let you show me this town. I want you to show me your town,” I said, and I knelt over her and interlaced my fingers with her own. “But don’t forget for a second whose ring you wear.”

  Her breathing had shallowed and there was a pink flush spreading across her back, a telltale sign she was ready for me. I ran my palm down her back and resumed my kneeling position behind her. Reaching between her legs, I felt her waiting, ready, so fucking wet, and I sank a finger into her, pressing down into that spot I knew made her crazy. She rewarded me with one of her perfect sighs, her eyes closing just a little tighter, her cheek hitting the mattress just a little harder.

  “So fucking perfect, damsel.” I slid my finger up to her rear and pressed gently, loving the way her buttocks clenched around me, her body struggling between submitting and resisting. Christ, that turned me on—I was going to fucking lose it.

  I gripped her ass cheeks and spread them, wanting to see her perfectly as I entered her, as I felt her pussy squeeze around me.

  We’d ended the previous night with our hands and mouths all over each other—we’d bloody well consumed each other after everything we’d said, but we hadn’t fucked. And now, with my dick inside her, I could feel her impending release, her total submission to us. Each of her little breaths was a response to this, to me, and the way she offered herself was like she was so fucking pleased to be back in my arms. This was her forgiving me. It was me forgiving her. She was going to spend her life slowly dominating me—I knew that—but in this moment she was mine.

  The sweat built between us and I could feel those involuntary quivers, the tiny contractions, pick up pace. “You’re close, damsel. I want you to come for me, baby. Come for me,” I whispered, and she did. She convulsed around me, and my dick gave it all right back to her.

  I thrust into her at a powerful rhythm, my body showing her exactly how much I approved of those little convulsions, how much I needed them.

  My own groans filled the room, and I collapsed to the mattress still inside her, bringing her body with mine, onto our sides, so her back clung to my front. We were catching our breath, our chests heaving. I grabbed her breast—my whole palm covering her, and slid out of her. I felt her wince.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, it’s just intense.”

  “It is.” I kissed her back, and she gripped my hand to her chest, pulling me tighter around her.

  Chapter 15

  Lydia

  So where to first?” Dylan rubbed his hands together outside my front door, scanning the street, taking in the little shops and bodegas. After we’d made love that morning, he’d had his bags delivered—they’d been held by his hired driver so he wouldn’t have to drag them around. He was now standing before me, being his most low-key self. For Dylan that meant designer jeans and a T-shirt that may have made him look like a living version of the David, but could not be accurately described as casual.

  He gripped my hand and tried to move us towards the black sedan parked outside my door, and a driver emerged. He didn’t get far though—I stood my ground.

  “Nope. Sorry, mister. There will be no town cars today.”

  He turned questioning, but a look of acceptance crossed his brow. “Right. Well…then let me just get my jumper,” he started, but I pulled him back. His sweater would be the absolutely gorgeous designer cream cable knit I loved so much.

  “No, that will be our first stop. If you’re going to date me like a Brooklyn boy, you need to dress like one. This way,” I said, practically giddy, and pulled him towards Union Street. I was wearing a loosely fitting floral dress, a pair of flats, and a denim jacket, with a messenger bag slung across my body. He couldn’t be in one of his I-regularly-talk-to-sheiks outfits.

  “Do tell, what does that involve?” he asked, part laughing and part skeptical as he enveloped my body from behind.

  “Trust me,” I said, leaning into him and gleefully throwing the words he said to me so frequently right back at him.

  We walked the three blocks to the Brooklyn Industries shop, its windows lined with mannequins sporting various Brooklyn T-shirts and hipster garb, and he laughed heartily as we entered the store.

  “Lydia.” The pierced blue-haired woman folding T-shirts waved at me as soon as I was inside, and Dylan gave me a side-glance. I used to come into the store weekly when I lived there, and the woman had been working there for years. I caught up with her while Dylan perused, and then I did what I usually did in that store—bounced from table to table and longingly held up cute witty T-shirts and tried on the jackets and bags they had on display. When I looked back at Dylan, whom I hoped would be trying on sweatshirts, he was just staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, but he was definitely thinking something. I put down the shirt I was holding and went up to him.

  “What?” I asked again.

  “It’s silly.”

  “What?”

  “You. I love seeing you here. I love you. Let’s go back to your apartment”—his voice fell to a whisper—“and I’ll do that thing to you—”

  I interrupted him with my laughter. “You can’t stand not knowing where we’re going or what we’re doing, can you?”

  He shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

  “No. This is going to be great,” I said as I reached behind him and grabbed a navy-blue hoodie that said BROOKLYN across it in orange letters. “And I’m getting you this.”

  He leaned down to kiss me and tried to grab the sweatshirt out of my hands. “I’ll be buying the sweatshirt, you saucy little thing.”

  “Nope,” I said, pulling it back. “Today is my treat.” He reached to try to grab it back, but I walked straight to the register and gave the clerk, who’d been watching us, a help-a-girl-out-and-don’t-let-that-guy-pay look. Meanwhile, Dylan’s body was pressed against my back, his arms trying to reach past me, but I reached behind me and playfully pushed him away with one arm as I handed the clerk my credit card with the other. Finally, he shook his head in defeat.

  As we left the store, Dylan looked down at his new sweatshirt while I ripped the tag off the sleeve with my teeth. He stared at me, horrified, and I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head. This was going to be fun.

  “Trust me, babe, if you were one of the guys I dated before you, you’d have been jumping for joy that I was willing to pay for the sweatshirt.” I was still laughing, knowing how frustrated the whole thing would make him, wanting to egg him on.

  “Prats,” he muttered under his breath as he took my hand firmly in his own.

  Once we were a block away, he stopped in front of an upscale children’s shop. He stood in front of me, put his palm to my chin, and forced my gaze up to his. “Are you really going to fight me on paying for things the whole day?”

  “No.”

  He sighed satisfactorily. “Good.”

  “Because we’re not going to do things that cost money. Or not much anyway.”

  He gave me a skeptical raised eyebrow, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

  “You know, you’re just as much trouble as I thought you’d be when I met you in Canada,” he said while he shook his head in mock disapproval.

  “I’m as much trouble as you’d hoped I’d be,” I corrected him, and once again I had my fiancé laughing in the middle of the street. “Now come on, fancy boy, I have a park to show you.”

  We walked past the brownstones on President Street and headed towards Grand Army Plaza and Prospect Park. “See,” I said, pointing to the gas lamps st
ill in use in front of some of the houses, “we have old-fashioned things here in Brooklyn too.”

  “I can see that,” he said. “You know, these brownstones are from the Victorian era,” he started, and even though this was my neighborhood, I found myself getting the local architecture tour from Dylan. He waxed on about how he could tell things about the sourcing of the stones, and why people had a parlor level and a ground entrance. I could see his love for architecture written so plainly on him. Stripped away of all of the business and the firm politics, and what was left was his true love for what he did.

  We ambled into Grand Army Plaza and stopped in front of my favorite coffee cart, set up every weekday morning for the people running to catch their subway.

  “Lydia!” said Charlie, the roaster and owner behind the little cart. “Where has my favorite customer been?”

  “Hiya, Charlie,” I said, walking around the side of the cart to give him a hug. “I’ve been in London. I’m just back for a bit. This is my fiancé, Dylan,” I said, introducing the two men. I could see Charlie wince, ever so slightly, as they shook hands. Dylan must have been engaging in the handshake version of a dick-measuring contest. My future husband, the Neanderthal.

  “Dylan,” I said in a slightly scolding tone. “Charlie and his wife are old friends and have been making the best coffee in Brooklyn for years.” I couldn’t exactly blame him for his jealous tendencies after the Eric thing, but I knew he caught my tone. His arm loosened around me, very slightly. “Charlie, can we have two of your exquisite lattes, please?”

  “You got it, kid,” he said and got to work behind the little single-shot espresso thingy. “I’ve been hoping to see you for a while, you know. I never got to say how sorry we were about your dad.” He looked kind and sincere as he said it, and I nodded. “He was a like a neighborhood institution.”