Kings of Mercia Academy 1-4: The Complete Bully Romance

by Sofia Daniel

  I flicked a strand of wet hair from out of my face. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”

  Edward slid his fingers between my legs and circled my clit, sending pleasure sparking from my core. “I think you’ll climax first.”

  “Ha!” Blake bent at my chest, closed his lips around my nipple, and sucked. The muscles of my core tightened with each gentle flick of his tongue. With his other hand, he rolled my nipples between his fingers.

  A moan reverberated in the back of my throat. If it wasn’t for the shower’s constant stream of hot water, sweat would have broken out on my skin. Sensations swirled through my insides and gathered in my core, which ached with need. This was so unfair. Two of them working on me while my hand movements faltered.

  “I thought Emilia said she could handle us both,” Blake murmured with my nipple still in his mouth.

  Edward rubbed the pad of his thumb over my clit while his index finger delved into my folds. “She never actually said she could.”

  “Fuck,” I gasped out.

  Edward’s relentless fingers continued playing me like I was some kind of toy that dispensed moans and shudders at his command. His fingers pumped in and out of me, making the muscles of my core spasm and clench and twitch.

  I tried to focus on the lengths pulsing in my grip, on making the boys climax first, but Blake’s tongue and Edward’s fingers kept bringing me back to reality. There was no winning with them working together to turn me into a moaning, twitching mess.

  Warm water beat against my face like a summer storm.

  Blake’s dark chuckle caressed my core. “Let go, Emilia. Let us take you to a well-earned climax. There’s no shame in losing to us.”

  Edward huffed a silent laugh.

  “Alright,” I said between panting breaths. “But winning when it’s two against one doesn’t count.”

  “Of course, it doesn’t.” Blake’s answer was too smooth and silky to be heartfelt, but who cared with that hand kneading my breast? “Relax… I want to see you come.”

  A spasm released all the built-up pleasure in a wave of sensation that arched out from my core, swept down every limb, and crashed against each nerve ending. My shoulders seized, both hands curled tighter around the boys’ erections, and I rocked back on my heels. Blake’s arm around my back kept me steady, but the next spasm tore a moan from my lips.

  My muscles pulsed around Edward’s fingers, and his thumb stilled but maintained the pressure on my clit. As I convulsed through this seemingly endless climax, the boys continued thrusting, their slick lengths sliding back and forth against my tight grip.

  Wave after wave of pleasure rocked my body. I couldn’t explain why this climax was so intense. A release of all the pent-up pressure from the night before, perhaps? Edward groaned first—closely followed by Blake, and they both came to shuddering, spasming climaxes.

  My core continued twitching. “I may have started first, but I was the last to finish.”

  Henry had already left to take an early train with Duncan to visit the girls in the Accident and Emergency department of Guy’s Hospital and would join us later with an update on their progress. After an enjoyable drive, where I got a chance to taste the boys as I had fantasized in the shower, the limo stopped at the Dorchester Hotel, opposite Hyde Park.

  The Dorchester was more modern than I had imagined, with none of the architectural features I’d become accustomed to at Mercia Academy. With terrazzo slabs covering the walls instead of bricks or stone-cladding, it reminded me of one of the hotels on Park Avenue. But when we stepped out of the limo and entered the vast, black-and-white tiled lobby, its art deco features made me catch my breath.

  “She’ll probably be at the Promenade.” Blake gestured at a long, open space on the right. It was wider than any hallway I’d ever seen and consisted of three rows of mahogany tables with elegant, green chairs. “Mother often comes here for afternoon tea.”

  “Let’s see if she’s here.” Edward placed an arm around my waist, and the three of us made our way to the Promenade.

  For a Sunday, the dress-code at the Dorchester seemed to be smart-casual. Edward and Blake fitted in wearing the same kind of dark blazers and smart pants as the other men. Feeling slightly disheveled from the boys’ double-teaming in the limo, I stared down at the creases on my ivory, linen sundress, and tamped down the butterflies in my stomach.

  Edward’s hand rubbed up and down my back. “Are you alright?”

  I gulped a mouthful of air and nodded. It wasn’t like this was a college interview. I was only going to see Mom. And she hadn’t really ignored me for the entire three terms I’d been in Mercia Academy.

  Mom sat at the bar, clad in a sleeveless dress, which was cut in the same style as the black Givenchy number Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Except Mom’s was champagne-colored and knee-length. She swept her blonde hair into a chignon, showing off a swan-like neck encased in a triple-strand, pearl choker.

  “She looks even more breathtaking in daylight,” murmured Blake. “I see where you get your outstanding beauty.”

  A warm glow filled my insides. Mom was the supermodel, but it was nice of him to compliment my looks. “I would have said the same for you if your Mom hadn’t burst in on us with an entourage.”

  Edward chuckled. “This sounds like a fun story.”

  “It wasn’t,” Blake and I replied at the same time.

  “We’ll take a separate table and join you afterward.” As we neared the bar, the warmth of Edward’s hand left the small of my back.

  My steps faltered. “Why?”

  “You both have a lot to discuss,” said Blake. “We won’t intrude on your reunion.”

  Mom stood and swept me into a Chanel Number Five-scented hug. “I worried all night that you would cancel at the last minute like you did that time I returned from Fashion Week and two months ago when I went to Paris.”

  I ground my teeth and held my silence. She didn’t know the person at the other end of her texts wasn’t me, and I wanted to ease her into the whole revelation that she’d married a psychopath.

  After she exchanged polite greetings with Blake and Edward, one of the waiters guided us to a table set with a pristine white cloth and elegant silverware.

  Mom placed her hands on the cloth and glanced across the room. “What happened to Charles? Are you dating one of those two boys instead?”

  I rubbed the side of my neck, and a sheepish smile crossed my face. “Both of them, actually.”

  Her gray eyes widened. “And they know?”

  I nodded.

  Her gaze lingered over Blake and Edward, who were currently shooting furtive glances in our direction. The corner of Mom’s lip curled into a smile. She probably thought I’d been going out for ice cream with the boys and exchanging chaste kisses under the magnolia trees or something equally as innocent.

  Grandma had been a child of the sixties and had experienced her fair share of men. However, Mom had met too many predators in the modeling scene and only dated with a view to marriage. She’d brought me up with similar values, but they’d crumbled into dust the moment I had met the triumvirate.

  When she had finished scrutinizing the boys with her eyes, she leaned back in her seat and raised her brows. “That explains why you never had time to see me.”

  “Mom,” I leaned across the table and placed my hand in hers. The pleasant notes of the piano filled the air, contrasting with what I was about to tell her. “Those texts you’ve been receiving weren’t from me.”

  “What?” She reached under the table where she had left her purse and placed it on her lap. After unzipping it, she placed her hands into its depths and pulled out her phone. “That’s impossible. You and I have texted nearly every day.”

  “Did you ever call?” I asked.

  “Yes, but you either didn’t pick up, or the line was so bad, I couldn’t hear a word you said.” She slid the phone across the white tablecloth. “See for yourself.”

&nb
sp; I scrolled through the fake texts. Whoever had impersonated me had taken phrases I had used in previous texts to Mom and changed things up a word here and there to suit the situation. The imposter had presented him or herself as someone who had immediately made friends within Mercia Academy and was too busy catching up with subjects such as Latin and Classical Greek to return to New York for the holidays or to meet Mom in London.

  The piano paused to a smattering of applause, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  Whoever had impersonated me had even taken photos of a bedroom, shopping sprees, stacks of books, parks, and British meals with quippy messages about toad in the hole, cock-a-leekie soup, and spotted dick. The skin around my eyes heated, and my insides felt as though they’d been scraped out by Rudolph’s grasping, wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. This was probably the work of an enthusiastic, young intern.

  “I sent you phone calls and texts.” My voice broke. “All this time, I thought you were too caught with in being Mrs. Trommel to bother with me.”

  Her jeweled hand reached across the table and covered mine. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but no matter who I marry, you’ll always come first.”

  A lump formed in my throat. When we were young, it was just her and me, living in that cramped Brooklyn apartment. Mom would leave me with a neighbor whenever she was lucky enough to get modeling work. But it had been fun. Mrs. Williams had daughters my age, and I had loved the sleepovers. I’d never felt neglected until she had married and decided to send me to an exclusive prep school.

  The piano restarted, ending the silence, but the melodic sounds did nothing to soothe my nerves.

  “Are you sure you sent them to me?” Mom asked in a voice as soft as a hug. “My number hasn’t changed.”

  Rudolph must have gotten one of his minions to change the number I had for Mom on my phone to make it look like she wasn’t communicating with me. His home was full of servants. One of them could have snuck into my room while I was asleep or in the shower and done the deed.

  “It’s an impostor,” I whispered.

  Mom’s lips turned down. “I traveled down to Mercia in October and spoke to the headmaster, but he told me you were on a school trip.”

  A pang of sadness struck my heart. I reached for the napkin and twisted its ends, anything to distract me from the oncoming tears. Maybe she thought I was lying to cover up having snubbed her all year. It was as though she couldn’t believe anyone would go so far to impersonate me, and she was scrabbling for other explanations. After the events of this term and the last, I was willing to believe anything of Rudolph. Mom had probably only seen his charming side.

  The waiter strode out from beside the bar and took our orders. As soon as he left, I turned my attention back to Mom. “I didn’t send any of these texts.”

  Her brows drew together. “They sounded like the kind of things you would say.” In a smaller voice, she added, “I wondered if you resented me for not insisting that you stayed in New York.”

  My shoulders drooped, and I slumped into my seat. I had resented her for a lot of things, but it had been my decision to go to England, even though I had secretly wished she had seen through Rudolph’s attempt to keep us apart by sending me abroad.

  With a long sigh, I said, “Someone’s put a wedge between us, and I think I know who.”

  “Rudolph,” she snapped.

  “Huh?” I hadn’t expected her to come to that conclusion so quickly.

  “Every time we traveled to Europe, I would ask to stop at Southampton.” Mom balled her fists, looking as though she wanted to slam them on the table.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the nearest airport to Mercia Academy. Rudolph would make an excuse and offer to drop me off at one of the London airports. I suppose he needed time for his impostor to fabricate a convincing excuse for why we couldn’t see each other.”

  The waiter placed an egg-white omelet in her place setting, and she murmured her thanks. It was a far cry from the usual graceful appreciation she would show serving staff, but I guessed she was in shock.

  I thanked the waiter for my avocado toast with poached egg, something I hadn’t eaten since coming to England. How much should I tell her about recent events? There was the gauntlet and my being framed for Henry’s kidnapping, but the events of the second term had made what I had suffered back then insignificant.

  “Emilia,” said Mom. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  I poked my poached egg and stared at the yolk bleeding out into the avocado. Was there any point in rehashing my experience with Mr. Carbuncle and breaking her heart? Even though suspicions about Rudolph lingered in the forefront of my mind, I kind of believed that Philippe was behind the kidnapping.

  Since he worked for the Saturday Correspondent, he knew that Rudolph had paid the Bournevilles a million pounds not to press charges against me for Henry’s abduction. It would make sense in his twisted mind that Rudolph would pay the same amount to stop pictures of the battered face of his stepdaughter from appearing in the press.

  Before I could muster up an answer, Mom’s phone rang. A scowl crossed her delicate features. “If that’s him checking up on me…”

  “Mom!” I dropped my fork. “Don’t confront him, yet.”

  “Why not?” she hissed. “All this time, he’s been keeping us apart. I want to know why!”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “What?”

  “He wants you to himself.” Her bullish expression remained in place, and I added, “Plus, you don’t know what he’ll do to either of us if you accuse him without all the facts.”

  Mom sniffed. “Alright. I’ll hold my silence until I hear the full story. But if that old degenerate has done anything else, I’ll wring his scrawny neck.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief. When Mom was agitated enough, there was no stopping her temper.

  “Hello,” she said with an impatient snap in her tone.

  The male voice at the other end of the phone spoke.

  Mom’s features melted into a pleasant smile. “Oh. How are you, Philippe?”

  Chapter 3

  A palpitation seized my heart. It reverberated through my chest and shook me to the marrow. Suspicion joined in and kicked me in the gut. Philippe. I turned to where the boys sat at another row of the Promenade and waved them over. Blake and Edward exchanged confused looks and rose from their seats.

  The pianist tinkled a relaxing tune, but the sounds only made my muscles tense. I needed to hear what this Philippe was saying. Mom continued a pleasant conversation with Philippe, and I leaned across the table, straining to listen to his voice. Her delicate brows scrunched into a quizzical frown, and she tilted the phone, so I could hear.

  “Monsieur cannot spare the private jet and would like to know if a first-class ticket on British Airways will suffice,” said the same, creepy Frenchman from the night before.

  My lips tightened. Philippe had to be more than an employee of the Saturday Correspondent. Blake and Edward stood by our table, both seeming to recognize Philippe’s voice.

  Mom’s expression turned from quizzical to worried, and she said, “Can we continue this conversation later in the afternoon? I’m having problems with my order.”

  “Of course,” said the smooth voice from the other side of the line. “A bien tôt, Madame.”

  She clicked the End button and gestured for the boys to sit. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who’s Philippe?” I asked.

  “Rudolph’s European Personal Assistant,” she replied. “Why?”

  A mixture of triumph and disgust rippled through my insides. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, but vindicating, all the same. Turning to Mom, I said, “There’s a girl at my school who lured me to London with a fake party invitation.”

  Mom clutched at her chest, her breathing ragged. “What happened?”

  My mouth opened and closed as I formed the best way to skim over being beaten and groped by Mr. Carbuncle. The more I hesitated,
the more her face slackened until she looked like she’d been punched.

  “Blake rescued me and took me to Kensington Palace,” I blurted.

  “Kensington—” Her gaze darted to Blake. “What on earth is going on?”

  Blake, who sat in the seat next to Mom, placed a hand on her wrist. In a soothing voice, he said, “Two men employed by Philippe abducted Emilia and wanted to hold her for ransom.” The tone sounded so well-practiced, I wondered if he had used it often on his mother. “I found her less than an hour after she was taken and carried her away to safety.”

  Mom’s brows drew together. “Anyone who works closely with Rudolph would know never to cross him.”

  The waiter who had been tending to Blake and Edward paused at our table. He leaned into Edward, and after a whispered conversation, he walked back through the Promenade and disappeared behind the piano.

  Blake turned back to Mom. “We believe Mr. Trommel instructed Philippe to organize the kidnapping, perhaps in revenge for a disagreement he had with Emilia.”

  Mom’s eyes bulged, and she turned to me, her expression a mask of slack incredulity. Her arms wrapped around her middle, and she asked, “Disagreement?”

  I told her all about how I had volunteered to get revenge on some classmates by gathering information on them to be published in his failing newspaper. The waiters brought the boys’ plates, and we continued breakfast, albeit at a much slower pace. Mom’s face turned from furious to pale to disgusted. As I told her about him forcing me to return to Mercia Academy after my cover would have been blown, she bowed her head with the weight of my news.

  “I didn’t know.” Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. “He’s known for being ruthless in business, but I didn’t think it would carry over to his personal life.”

  My stomach twisted into a knot, and a tight fist of guilt clutched at my heart. “Sorry for piling this all on you. But I’m fine. I survived.”

  She shook her head. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t remarried.”

  “Mrs. Trommel,” said Blake. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have married him if you had known the extent of his malevolence.”