His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  Dear God, my Max was so hot.

  “You’ve got more clout than I do, Your Highness, but I did just marry you. I’ll probably become the Duchess of Friedricksburgh some day,” I said.

  “Duchess you say? A commanding woman. A force to be reckoned with.” He stood and stripped off his shirt. “Play with your tits for me. You know I love your breasts.”

  “You have to command me, Prince Max. You know the rules.”

  “I command you to play with your tits, wife.” He unzipped his jeans. “I love watching you touch yourself. Your pretty hands caressing your beautiful breasts. Dear fucking God, I’m hard.” He pulled off his jeans, his thick erection bumping against his stomach.

  I was a lucky woman.

  “I can see that,” I said. “Condom.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “I’m on birth control, baby, but we promised extra protection until we were absolutely ready.”

  “Yes.” He retrieved a square package from his pants before tossing them on the floor. “I know. I packed plenty for this trip.” He crawled back onto the bed and sheathed himself, his eyes glazing over. “Are you wet, Vivian?”

  My hand slid down my abdomen. Slid through my neatly groomed, curly hairs, slid until they found slickness. I touched my clit and sighed. “Very wet for you, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.” He pushed my knees apart and angled in, settling between my legs. His erection grew harder as he rubbed his length across my sex until my breath caught in my throat.

  “Inside me, Max.”

  “You come first,” he said.

  “I am the future Duchess of Friedricksburgh,” I said. “Inside me now. You come first today. I want to look into your gorgeous hazel eyes and watch your face as you come first.”

  He cracked a smile, and obliged, lining up his big, beautiful dick with my pussy and pushed into me. Thrusting slowly at first, then harder. I closed my eyes, clung to his toned, hard arms as he rode me hard, then harder.

  “You’re hot as fuck, Duchess,” he said, his eyes glazed, sweat glistening on his brow and chest. “Turn over for me love.”

  “How so, Your Majesty?”

  “On your side, love.” He swiveled my hip. He held onto one breast with a muscular hand and pounded me from behind, the slapping of his body against mine coinciding with the feelings inside that filled me, consumed me. “I’m close, Vivian.”

  “Come for me,” I said. “The Duchess commands.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, baby. This is our honeymoon. I already came in the airplane today when you initiated me into the Mile High Club. We have plenty of time.”

  He leaned in and nibbled my earlobe. “Funny, I always thought you’d love that. Surprised it was your idea and not mine. On your knees, Duchess.” He pulled out of me slowly.

  “As you wish.” I rolled onto my knees and presented my ass to him, high in the air. I looked over my shoulder. Good God, this man, my husband, was sexy as sin. “Is this what you desire, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes,” He grasped the curve of my hips and entered me again. I shuddered from his fullness, from his majesty’s measure. He pounded me, his breath coming quicker.

  “Fuck me harder, Max. Fuck me like I’m yours forever. Fuck me like you want me to never forget that.”

  “The Duchess decrees,” he said, and proceeded to shatter my world. My cares and worries slipped away as my beautiful husband claimed me for an eternity.

  “I’m coming, Vivian.” He stopped and shuddered until he collapsed, spent and sweaty on top of me. “I love you.”

  “I love you, back.”

  He reached for my hand. “We did this, wife.”

  I smiled. “We did.”

  Chapter 26

  MAXIMILLIAN

  Vivian was sprawled on a chaise lounge on our private patch of beach adjacent to our suite, penning old-fashioned thank you notes on white linen cards embossed with the royal mark, when the doorbell to our suite chimed.

  “Hey Max. Can you get that? Probably more celebratory Champagne, or another organic fruit basket from well-wishers.”

  “Yup. They probably want us to attend stifling dull dinner parties. Or hit their kid’s christening. Blah. It’s all so boring. They’ll insist we play a rousing game of Balderdash, Pictionary, or ‘Who Am I?’ Put a fork in me. It appears that word of our private nuptials is getting out.”

  “It’s bound to,” she said.

  “Your ladies aren’t great at keeping secrets.”

  “Au contraire, Maximillian. You’d still be in that prison cell in the dungeon below the Royal Wedding Consultants if my ladies weren’t awesome at keeping secrets. Don’t blame them.”

  “You’re right. It’s probably the trickle down effect.”

  “Someone tells someone, who tells someone else, and then the whole thing just spreads like wildfire,” she said.

  “I bet my grandmother’s old bat friend, Duchess Edith Friedricksburgh let the news slip. They’ve had a love/hate feud for years. I think Edith was one of Royal Nana’s ladies for a while, but then they had a falling out of sorts.” I opened the door.

  A uniformed bellman stood outside. “Letter for Ms. Vivian DeRose,” he said.

  “Otherwise known as the Princess of Bellèno. Thank you.” I took it and handed him a few Euros.

  He bowed and walked away.

  I closed the door and stared at the envelope.

  “I hope this doesn’t sound mean-spirited, or ungrateful,” Vivian said. “I wish folks would send more sensible gifts, like a subscription to a cleaning service or a Groupon for an oil change. If I write one more note that says, ‘Oh thank you for the silver teaspoon, it looks lovely next to the bigger spoons, we will think of you every time we use it,’ I might have to poke my eye out.”

  I frowned and handed her the note. “Telegram addressed to Vivian DeRose. Your maiden name. Odd.”

  “Tell me about it. Who sends telegrams these days?” She pulled my sunglasses off her head and dropped them on the side table. “Do you know who it’s from?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t have clue.”

  “Oh, crap.” I ripped open the envelope. “I hope Roman’s okay. Your mom would have just emailed us, right?”

  “Yup.” I leaned in next to her.

  “I hope my Uncle Florio’s all right. I told him not to come out for our second wedding. He’d just arrived back in Chicago and had barely settled into his routine at The Aspen Assisted Living. The physical therapy is good for him, you know.”

  “You’re on the emergency call list with The Aspen, right?” I leaned in behind her chair and massaged her shoulders that had suddenly risen like elevators toward her ears.

  “Yes. Have been ever since I checked him in there and paid the monthly rent.”

  “Then it’s not The Aspen, and your Uncle Florio’s okay. Just read it, Vivian. It’s probably well wishes from a distant Bellèno cousin who’s touring the Galapagos Islands, felt bad they didn’t send us a fruit basket, and wanted to send their warmest regards, albeit in an old-fashioned way.”

  She leaned in and read it out loud.

  “Dear Ms. DeRose:

  * * *

  We regret to inform you that the lay minister who performed your wedding, Mr. Roberto, was not licensed by the Holy Catholic Church, or the Country of Bellèno to legally execute baptisms, funerals, confirmations or weddings.

  We’d like to apologize for the confusion, and offer our chapel at no additional charge for a special event (a wedding, perhaps) in your future. We have returned your signed copy of the marriage certificate and stamped it null and void.”

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  Archbishop Causesperdues of the Church of Bellèno

  Royal St. Francis of Assisi Sanctuary

  “Oh, holy crap, Max.” Vivian burst into tears.

  “It’s a misunderstanding, darling. It has to be a misunderstanding.”

  “What if it’s no
t? What if we’re not royally wed?”

  Readers! Thanks for reading HIS MAJESTY’S MEASURE! I hope you love the romantic adventures of Vivian, Prince Max and Prince Leo. The romance, the intrigue, and the fun continues in HIS AMERICAN PRINCESS.

  A few years ago, I, Vivian DeRose was an impoverished cocktail waitress, an American commoner, struggling to pay the bills and keep my uncle in assisted living. Now I’m marrying gorgeous Maximillian Rochartè, the Prince of Bellèno. Or at least I’m trying to…

  PRAISE: “…I loved this one! I just couldn’t read it fast enough.” BCherry 27. One-click HIS AMERICAN PRINCESS now!

  If you loved THE CROWN AFFAIR you’ll love the steamy, hilarious, and very sweet stand alone romantic comedy THE CLIENT!

  I was an underpaid assistant working at a matchmaking agency. How was it possible that I made a love match that resulted in the society marriage of the year?

  I didn’t plan on running into the smoking hot, tuxedo-clad brick wall of a man at the wedding. I didn’t plan on him stopping my fall by grabbing onto my boob and Not. Letting. Go. I most definitely didn’t plan on this gorgeous man being my new CLIENT. One-Click THE CLIENT now!

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  If you like your stories dark, sexy, angsty, filled with twists and turns you’ll fall hard for 21st CENTURY COURTESAN!

  It’s an addictive series filled with love, lust, family loyalty, deceit, revenge, and all the sweet little things in life worth killing for.

  Start the series FREE by One clicking TYCOON: A 21st Century Courtesan Prologue (FREE!)

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  Turn the page to read a few excerpts. Happy reading!

  Excerpt: His American Princess

  THE CROWN AFFAIR: BOOK 3

  * * *

  PRAISE

  * * *

  O-M-Freaking-G!!!... I loved this one! I just couldn’t read it fast enough. BCherry 27

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  VIVIAN

  It was my first Christmas as a married woman and I couldn’t be happier spending the holidays in Bellèno with my new husband, Prince Maximillian.

  Correction #1. My gorgeous husband was shopping for a Christmas tree with his brother while I shopped at a local farmer’s market with my Ladies in Waiting.

  Correction #2. I was fairly certain that I was married, but lately there had been some confusion about that.

  Snowflakes wafted through the air, dusting our hair and warm winter coats on a Saturday afternoon as we wandered through St. Luce’s Old Town Farmer’s Market. It was the second weekend in December and the Christmas/Hanukkah holidays were already in full swing. Twinkly lights were wrapped around trees and draped from the tops of gorgeous old buildings.

  Shoppers walked briskly through the urban streets as three or four member bands played Christmas carols and classic holiday standards like “White Christmas” and “Jingle Bells.” Despite the cornucopia of pressing world problems, there was still an undeniable holiday spirit in the air: hope, love, and longing for peace on Earth.

  We browsed the booths looking for presents, farm fresh groceries, and baked goods. Joan held a bar of homemade soap close to her nose and sniffed. “This has a hint of bacon. I might get distracted in the middle of showering and be tempted to eat it.”

  “As will your numerous shower mates,” Esmeralda said.

  “I’m not dating anyone,” Joan replied. “I shower alone.”

  “Not for long,” Esmeralda said.

  “Who doesn’t love bacon?” I said.

  Joan waved a handful of Euros at the vendor. “I’ll take five of these, please.”

  “That booth on the far left is selling gingerbread crèches,” Lady Beatrice Hafligher said. “The Wise Men’s hats are covered in jewel-toned sugar icing. My girls would love them.”

  Esmeralda rolled her eyes and pointed to a kiosk. “Hey look, that guy is selling holiday-themed unicorn mugs.”

  “Even better!” Bea squeezed through the crowd toward the display.

  “She overdoses on Christmas every year,” Esmeralda said. “I think she’s an addict.”

  “There are worse addictions to have,” I said.

  “Speaking of, does your new husband keep you tied to the bed?” Esmeralda asked. “We never see you anymore.”

  “Cut a girl a break. I got back from our honeymoon a little over a week ago. And Max does not tie me to the bed. Well, only on occasion.”

  “Max ties you to the bed?” Joan rejoined us, clutching a tote filled with fragrant purchases. “I suspected. Tell all.”

  “No. We are not into that kind of stuff,” I said. “The last thing I need right now is for rumors to spread.”

  “What rumors?” Bea asked.

  “Kink,” Joan said. “Vivian and Max are into kink.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Bea said. “Are you the submissive?”

  “No! This is how rumors start. I am, however, happily married to a gorgeous prince. My sex life is robust, hot, and I’m not sharing the details.”

  “What ever happened with that weird note delivered on your honeymoon?” Bea asked. “The one from Archbishop Causesdesperdues?”

  “The one that said you weren’t married?” Joan asked.

  “Just more rumors.”

  “Are you sure?” Joan said. “The Archbishop has the religious authority to put a damper on your married life if he wants. You wouldn’t be the first couple whose lives he’s ruined.”

  “That bloated diehard tears the wings off butterflies for sport,” Esmeralda said. “I suspect he travels undercover to shopping malls this time of year telling children that Santa isn’t real.”

  “I’m sure everything’s just fine,” I said as we headed to our waiting town car. The driver opened the back door and bowed.

  “She’s right,” Bea said. “We shouldn’t be borrowing trouble. It’s a magical time of year.”

  “I agree. Besides, if you whisper trouble’s name long enough,” I said, “it has a way of showing up on your doorstep.”

  “And you, Vivian, out of all people,” Esmeralda said, “should know that.”

  We dragged our purchases up the walkway to my new townhome. The red brick three story home was large without being ostentatious, and had a killer view overlooking gorgeous Tiefencastle Park.

  Roman, my yellow Labrador, bounded down the steps into the front yard, greeting us with a few excited barks before disappearing to the far side of the yard to make a potty.

  “I’m starving.” Bea said. “You’ve stocked up on Christmas cookies, right?”

  “Yes. And Champagne.”

  “Don’t overdo the sugar,” Joan said.

  A royal guard was slumped on a stool next to a tall hedge lining the front of our property. He was twenty-something, tall, and reed thin. He kept a low profile, wearing plain clothes, stationed on the border of our courtyard and Prince Leopold’s place, next door. It seemed like he was always on duty and I suspected he was ordered to keep an eye on us as well. I hoped they paid him a bit more for his extra work, but knowing government bureaucracy, they’d probably nickel and dime him to death.

  I reached into my recyclable bag and dug around until I found the package of warm, fresh, chocolate chip cookies that I’d just nabbed at the market. “Excuse me, officer. I’m embarrasse
d to say that I don’t know your name.”

  He looked up at me. “Private Parker.”

  “Thank you, Private Parker, for all your terrific work. I know this isn’t the easiest job. It’s boring and you can’t tell your mates the details of your employment as you’re bound by a privacy order if you’re on royal watch.” I passed him the warm bag, the scent of sugar and chocolate wafting through the air. “I used to cocktail waitress, so I know what tedious labor feels like. This isn’t sufficient compensation for all you do. It’s just a small ‘gratitude’ present.”

  “Thank you, Ms. DeRose. You didn’t have to do that. Can I help you and the ladies with your purchases?” He grabbed a few of the heavy bags we’d deposited on the walkway.

  “Ms. DeRose?” My eye twitched as its matching brow slammed up toward my hairline of its own accord. Prince Maximillian and I are married now. Technically, that makes me a “Missus,’ even though that sounds terribly retro and provincial.”

  “I heard news of that Ms.,” he said, hauling my bags up the steps and depositing them inside the front door. “Would you like me to carry these into the kitchen for you?”

  “No, you’ve already been so helpful.”

  First rule of becoming a newly minted royal: if you come from humble roots, never forget them. The citizens of Bellèno had nicknamed me Almost Fake Bellèno Princess with a Heart, even giving me the hashtag “#AFBPHeart” almost two years ago, after I bolted from the cathedral in a mad dash to not marry the wrong prince. They’d even signed a petition to make me an official Bellèno citizen. Their outpouring of love and concern meant the world to me, but sadly, as was often the case with these online appeals, the automatic citizenship thing never happened.