Reign: A Royal Military Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Fuck, that feels good,” I say as she does it again and then again, moving slightly faster and harder with each stroke. I look down and watch her, moving her hair out of her face as the heat pools inside me and I hear myself groan.

  “Slow down,” I say.

  “Hmm?” she says, and her voice vibrates through my cock and straight up my spine. It makes my toes curl.

  Hazel pulls back until her lips are just around the head of my cock, her hand around the base, and she looks up at me, swirling her tongue around it for a deliciously long moment before taking me back in her mouth. With every stroke I get closer and closer to the brink, my breath coming in gasps, and just as I’m about to tell her to stop before I come she pulls back slowly and looks up at me, grinning.

  She stands and I push her backwards before I even know what I’m doing, until she’s up against the ugly Soviet truck. My hand’s behind her head, in her hair, and I’m kissing her hard.

  “You taste like me,” I murmur.

  “You’re probably dirty enough to like it,” she says, her fingers on my spine, dragging upwards.

  “Probably,” I say, and kiss her again, her body moving against mine as she presses her hands into my lower back, urging me closer.

  That’s it. I need her now.

  I grab her and lift, and in a moment her legs are wrapped around my hips and my length is pressed against her as she squeezes and I bite her neck because it’s there and she’s driving me wild. Then she wriggles and relaxes, grabs my cock and guides it to her entrance.

  “Slow, right?” I tease her.

  “Goddammit,” she whispers.

  I know what she wants. What we both want. I’ve got the claw marks to prove it.

  I slide into her with one hard stroke, and it feels so good it takes my breath away.

  “Fuck yes,” she whispers into my ear.

  I bite her earlobe and fuck her again, listening to her moan.

  “I wanted to do this the night we took the motorcycle,” I murmur. I’m driving into her, hard and deep, trying to control myself but it’s hard. It’s hard as hell.

  “Push me against a truck and fuck me?” she asks.

  I thrust again and her eyes slide closed, her head back against the green paint.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Good,” she says.

  She’s slowly falling, because as fun as it is, this isn’t a long-term position. I put her down, and then we’re around the back of the truck and she’s up on the tailgate. I shove the canvas out of the way, and some of it rips, but Hazel kisses me hard and I don’t give a shit about anything else.

  I push her gently and she lies back in the truck, one knee over my shoulder and I slide into her again, even deeper than before and Hazel gasps.

  “That good?” I growl at her.

  “Yes,” she gasps.

  I lean over her and try to go slow, one hand on her shoulder. I can’t quite kiss her but I can watch her as she moves, like some kind of beautiful sex goddess.

  A sex goddess who I’m balls-deep inside of. I can already feel her muscles clenching and releasing around me, and it’s intoxicating. Even here, in a garage, I feel like I’m utterly lost in her, the only thing that even matters.

  “Kostya,” she murmurs.

  “Yes?”

  “I like saying your name when we’re fucking,” she says.

  I thrust again, hard and deep, and she arches into me.

  “I like hearing you say it when I’m inside you,” I say.

  “Kostya,” she says again, but this time she moans it, and holy fuck. I keep going and she keeps saying my name, and soon there’s fire pooling inside me and I know I can’t last much longer. Not like this, but she’s starting to clench around me, harder and harder.

  I slide one hand down until I’m stroking her clit with my thumb. Hazel gasps.

  “Fuck, Kostya,” she whispers, and explodes. She clenches around me so hard I see white and I hear her moaning oh fuck yes Kostya as she comes and it feels so fucking good that I go right over the edge, like I’m falling into her endlessly.

  Everything goes white for a second and my mind goes totally, completely blank except for this and how fucking good it feels to be here, with her, and how good she feels and how perfect this is.

  When I finally stop I’ve got one hand on her stomach and Hazel puts her hand over it, still breathing hard. She swallows, and then we look at each other. I push her knee off my shoulder, kiss her, and climb into the truck next to her as she snuggles against me.

  “You bit my knee,” she says.

  I pause, blinking.

  “Just now?”

  She laughs.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Not hard,” she says. “But you definitely bit my knee when you came.”

  I kiss the side of her head.

  “Sometimes I get out of control around you,” I murmur.

  “Good thing I like it,” she says.

  We’re quiet for a long moment, Hazel curled against me, my hand stroking her shoulder.

  “We should go in and pretend that it normally takes two people half an hour to park the car,” she says.

  “I’m not keeping you secret any more,” I say.

  “I don’t particularly need to announce that we had sex in the garage while people were waiting for you, though,” she says.

  It’s a good point.

  “I don’t want to leave,” I say. “Back there are people who want things and have questions and demands and suggestions and I just want to sit here with you in this horrible truck.”

  She nuzzles against my shoulder.

  “We could get on the motorcycle and run away,” she suggests.

  “To where?” I ask. “We don’t have passports, or a change of clothes, and I don’t even have my phone with me.”

  “Kostya, you’re terrible at this,” Hazel says.

  “At running away?”

  “At co-authoring a fantasy that’s not going to happen,” she says.

  I lean my head back against the truck.

  “I don’t understand any of what you just said,” I say.

  She laughs quietly.

  “Okay,” she says. “I say, ‘We could run away on the motorcycle,’ and you say, ‘We’d go to the beach and drink champagne and watch the sun come up and it would be very romantic.’”

  “Where are we going to get the—”

  She puts one hand over my mouth, gently.

  “We’re not going to do it, just talk about it,” she says. “Your turn.”

  “We could...” I trail off and look at her.

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “Go to another town,” I say.

  Hazel closes her eyes and bites her lip, laughing silently.

  “We’ll work on it,” she says, and kisses my shoulder.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you too,” she says.

  We should go back. I should face the people back at the palace.

  “Stay here,” I say.

  “In the truck?”

  “In the country,” I say. “If you can. I can get your visa extended.”

  Hazel shakes her head and looks up at me.

  “Kostya, you’re too much,” she says. “You’re the fucking king, of course you can get my visa extended. You could outlaw visas if you wanted.”

  “Not really,” I say. “There’s a—”

  “I’ll stay,” she says, and pauses. “I’d like to. But only if you can extend my visa, of course.”

  “I won’t if you keep making fun of me,” I say.

  “You like it,” she says, and pushes me.

  We climb out of the truck and find our clothes. Then we walk back to the palace through the gardens, holding hands.

  I know everything could be shit again tomorrow, but right now, it might be perfect.

  41

  Hazel

  One Year Later

  “But what do I call him?” Courtney asks. “Like,
to his face.”

  “Kostya,” I say.

  She sighs over the phone.

  “Don’t make it weird,” I say.

  “He’s the king of a whole country,” she says. “It’s already weird.”

  “They’ve got a parliament now,” I say. “I mean, we’ve got a parliament now? Fuck.”

  Courtney laughs over the phone.

  “At least becoming royalty hasn’t stopped you from swearing like a sailor,” she says.

  “I’m not royalty yet,” I say. “I can misbehave my ass off for another week.”

  “I’m really sure you’ll change your ways after that,” she says.

  I just laugh, and Courtney laughs too.

  “Okay, I have to go to work,” she says. “God, the time difference is impossible.”

  I’m watching the sun set.

  “You’ll be here and jet lagged in a couple of days, though,” I say. “We’ll feed you good caviar and okay vodka.”

  “As long as it’s at least okay.”

  “And as long as you don’t tell anyone the vodka’s just okay,” I say.

  “My lips are sealed,” Courtney says.

  I think I was almost as nervous about the rehearsal dinner as I am about the wedding, but it’s gone smoothly, so smoothly I’m almost suspicious. I haven’t forgotten anyone’s names, I haven’t gotten too drunk, I haven’t accidentally called someone a raccoon anus in Russian.

  It’s almost like I’ve finally learned how to do all this shit right.

  Around ten, people start to trickle out. My mom and dad both got slightly drunk, and they each hug me twenty times and tell me that they’re beyond thrilled and over the moon that we’re getting married, and my mom insists that she knew it from the moment she introduced us, though I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit.

  Sergei and Dmitri are both drunk, and they both say polite things to me and then clap Kostya on the back and shout.

  Niko’s less drunk, and he gives me a warm hug when he says goodbye.

  “Take care of him,” he tells me.

  Even Kostya’s mom is nice. She’s still wearing black, as if she’s in mourning for his father, but Kostya thinks she’s only doing it out of guilt that she’s so much happier now.

  Misha, his brother, just disappears. No one seems surprised.

  Afterwards, we walk back and sit at a table with my college friends, Courtney, Alice, and Vivian.

  “Kostya,” Vivian says immediately. “I can call you Kostya, right?”

  Already off to a great start, I think.

  “You met earlier,” I say. “Like, three times. You hung out.”

  “I’m just checking,” she says.

  “You can call me Kostya,” he says.

  “How does that even make sense,” Alice says. “Konstantin doesn’t shorten to Kostya.”

  “James doesn’t shorten to Jim,” Kostya points out.

  Alice looks at him intently.

  “Huh,” she says thoughtfully.

  “John doesn’t shorten to Jack,” Courtney says.

  “Jack is a nickname for John?” Alice says.

  “Guys, focus, please,” Vivian says.

  She turns to Kostya.

  “I have it on good authority that you thought beer pong was only in movies,” she says.

  Kostya looks at me.

  “This leads me to believe you’ve never played it,” she says.

  “I haven’t,” Kostya says.

  Vivian reaches into her very large handbag.

  She pulls out a stack of red solo cups and a package of ping pong balls, and I just start laughing hysterically.

  “Tell me you brought those from the States,” I say, barely able to breathe.

  “Of course,” she says, looking pleased with herself.

  “Did you bring a ping-pong table?” I ask, still giggling.

  “No,” she says.

  Now she looks very pleased with herself.

  “I told some of the palace staff that I’m in training for the World Ping Pong Championships, and I really needed to practice my craft,” she says. “Turns out there was a ping pong table in a rec room somewhere, and now it’s in the living room of our suite, along with lots of shitty Ukrainian beer.”

  I’ve never seen three women look happier.

  It’s not like we have a choice. We head back to the suite they’re sharing in the palace and invite along all the Americans, mostly family and a couple other friends, because if they managed to set up beer pong, I think we have to play it.

  They even have a playlist for this, full of Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Bon Jovi, Old Crow Medicine Show, and all the most hyper-American music they could think of.

  We set up the cups as Vivian explains the rules. The adults decline beer pong and mill around, wandering from the balcony to the living room, drinking wine.

  “I drink if you get the ball into a cup on my side?” Kostya says. He’s frowning at the table, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Right,” says Vivian.

  “Why don’t you drink that? It would make more sense,” he says.

  “Because I’m trying to get you drunker than me so I can win,” she says.

  “The loser gets drunkest?”

  Vivian stops and looks at me, standing on the sidelines.

  “Cultural thing,” I say.

  “I still don’t understand why you don’t just drink the beer,” he says.

  “Drinking is not a game in Sveloria,” I say. “They take it very seriously.”

  “I can hear you,” Kostya says.

  “Just go with it,” Vivian says.

  “These cups aren’t even full,” Kostya says.

  “Remember the time a couple months ago that your brother was visiting and I got so wasted on three glasses of wine that I spent half an hour trying to talk him into adopting a kitten?” I ask.

  “Right,” Kostya says. “Americans.”

  “For the record, your brother should not have a cat,” I say.

  “No, he shouldn’t,” Kostya agrees.

  “Okay!” Vivian shouts. “It’s my turn until I miss, then it’s your turn until you miss. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Kostya says.

  Vivian wins the first one, and I play her. She wins again, then Courtney beats her, then plays Alice. People wander in and out of the room. If they’re surprised that the king is playing beer pong, they manage to keep it to themselves.

  “They take this seriously,” Kostya says. He rubs his knuckles down my back.

  Beer splashes on Courtney, and she yelps, then laughs so hard she snorts.

  “They do?” I ask.

  Alice beats Courtney, and it’s Kostya’s turn again, and he wins by one cup. Then he beats me, and Courtney, and Vivian. My aunt Esther pokes her head in, shrugs, and leaves again.

  “Is he even drunk?” Vivian whispers to me with the world’s loudest whisper, watching Kostya play Alice.

  “These people can fucking drink,” I whisper back. “I don’t know how they have livers anymore. Just goddamn vodka all fucking day.”

  “I hope you’re ready for a royal rumble!” Alice shouts at Kostya.

  Kostya throws a ping pong ball into her beer, and Alice grumbles.

  Courtney giggles, then side-hugs me, her head on my shoulder.

  “I can’t wait until you’re the world’s filthy-mouthest queen,” she says. “Filthiest-mouthed? Yeah.”

  “You’re gonna wear a tiara, right?” Vivian asks.

  “God, no,” I say.

  “Come on,” she says.

  “What happens to your title if Kostya dies?” Courtney asks.

  “Courtney!” Vivian says.

  “I become the dowager queen until I remarry and then I receive my new husband’s title,” I say.

  “Oh,” Courtney says.

  “I asked all the questions already,” I say.

  “If you have kids, does succession go in age order or do boys go first?” Vivian asks.

 
I sigh.

  “Right now, boys go first,” I say.

  “She says the baby factory’s not open until that changes,” Kostya says, then throws another ping-pong ball into Alice’s cup.

  My friends look at him.

  “What? We talked about it,” he says.

  I shrug. Kostya beats Alice, and she flops dramatically on a couch.

  “This is unfair,” she says.

  “I’ve never even played before,” Kostya says. “How is that unfair?”

  It’s my turn to play him. He makes a big show of rolling up his sleeves, and I roll my eyes at him.

  “You’re going down,” he says.

  “Are you trash-talking me?” I ask.

  “I’m gonna take you to beer pong school,” Kostya says, and I giggle.

  “Tell me more about beer pong school,” I say. “Do I get grades? Is there recess?”

  “I think beer pong school was Alpha Chi,” Alice says from the couch.

  An older couple wanders in. I’m pretty sure they’re diplomats my mom invited, but I don’t know.

  “I didn’t know there was beer pong,” the woman says. “You know about the stoplight thing, right? When there’s three cups left, arrange them like a stoplight. It makes it harder.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “That’s the kind of thing you learn at beer pong school,” Alice says.

  I throw the ball way too far, off the table, and Kostya catches it.

  “I have to stop after this one,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” Courtney says. “Be fun.”

  “I’d prefer not to be hung over during an hour-long ceremony in Russian,” I say.

  “It’s gonna be an hour?” Alice says, still exactly in the position she flopped in.

  “You just have to stand there and look pretty,” I say. “I have to do all the right stuff and say all the right stuff and not look like an idiot.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Kostya says.

  I throw the ping pong ball. It bounces off the rim of a cup, off the table, and Kostya catches it again.

  “Fucking stop catching it,” I say.

  “What, I should just let it fall on the floor?” he says.