Royal Mistake: The Complete Series

by Ember Casey

  She seems to get over her surprise quickly. Her arms loop around my neck, and I back her into her room, kicking the door shut behind us. My hands slip beneath the back of her shirt, running over her bare skin.

  She tears her mouth away from mine.

  “While this is fun, we have a dinner to prepare for,” she says. “I need to get my notes ready, and considering we just spent half a day on a plane, I should probably shower—”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here,” I say, nuzzling her cheek with my nose. “I thought I might join you for that shower.”

  She hesitates. I lean forward a little, letting my tongue slide across the edge of her ear.

  “We’d actually have to shower,” she says. “Seriously—I’m not going out in front of those people until I’ve gotten this plane stink off of me.”

  “I think you smell quite nice,” I say. Her honey-autumn scent that I missed so much is still there. “But I think a real shower can be arranged.”

  I don’t wait for her answer. Without warning, I reach down and grab her ass, lifting her. Her legs hook around my waist as I carry her toward the washroom.

  Maybe I frightened her by telling her I chose her over Princess Justine. But if I can’t speak to her about my intentions, then I can communicate with her in other ways. Ways our bodies understand. Her lips might continue to insist I marry Justine, but right now her mouth is busy with other things.

  I flick on the shower without setting her down. My mouth continues to devour hers as I wait for the stream to warm up, and once the water is a comfortable temperature, I step into the shower.

  She gasps as the water washes over us, pulling away from me again. “Our clothes!”

  “Ah, yes,” I say, finally setting her down. “Let’s fix that.”

  I practically tear her out of her clothes. I toss the wet garments onto the tile floor outside the shower before helping her pull off my things. And then I grab her again so quickly and so tightly that she lets out a squeak.

  I kiss her fiercely, wanting to drink her in, wanting to make up for the week we’ve spent apart. I didn’t know my body could miss someone this much. Didn’t know it could feel so hollow. But now she’s here in my arms again, and I plan to take advantage of every minute.

  “We…actually…have…to…shower…” she chokes out between kisses.

  Ah, yes. I did promise that, didn’t I? My cock aches to be inside her, but if she wants to drag this out, then I’m willing to play along.

  I reach over to the porcelain tray on the edge of the shower and grab the bar of fragrant soap provided for her. I bring it to her back as I dip my head to kiss her again. As our lips tangle, I slide the soap gently across her skin, letting it glide over her perfect curves from the nape of her neck to the swell of her bottom and then back up again.

  When her back is clean, I pull my mouth away from hers.

  “Front next,” I murmur, bringing the soap around to her stomach. I move it up her body, circling one breast and then the other. Her breath catches, but I refuse to slide the bar across either of her nipples. Instead, I tease her, brushing my lips against her neck as I move the soap across her collarbone.

  “Now your arms,” I say. I take her left hand and raise her arm, sliding the soap down the length of it and then back again. I do the same with her right arm.

  “Now your legs.” My voice is thicker now. I lower myself to my knees in front of her, pulling the soap down the length of her body as I do. Now my face is right at the place where her legs join, and it takes all of the strength in my body not to lean forward and slide my tongue against the delicate skin there.

  I take my time with her legs, moving even more slowly than before. My fingers drag the bar of soap gently down her left leg, all the way to the ankle and then back up again. I slide the bar across the front of her hips, right above the spot where I know she’s aching for me to touch her, but I keep my touch chaste. I repeat the motions down the length of her right leg.

  “I…I think that’s everything,” she says, a slight quiver in her voice.

  I rise, rubbing the bar of soap against my hand to create more suds. “Is it?”

  She nods. Wet strands of hair cling to her face. “I think I’m clean now.”

  “Mm.” I say. “I don’t know. I think there’s still one place we should clean.”

  My body is right up against hers again, but this time my hand is between us, my soapy fingers pressing between her legs.

  “I think we still might need to clean here,” I murmur.

  A shaky breath escapes her, then a soft whimper as I slide my fingers between her thighs, slipping against her silken skin. Her hands cling to my shoulders.

  As with the other parts of her body, I take my time cleaning her here. My fingers dance against her skin, gliding across her, caressing her until she’s shaking against me. Her breaths are shallow, and her nails press into my skin.

  “Much cleaner now,” I whisper. “But there’s still one place…” I slip a finger deep inside of her, drawing a soft moan from her lips.

  Part of me wants to take her right here. To pull my hand away from her and slide my cock inside of her and fuck her until she can’t think of anything but me. But the other part of me is having too much fun drawing this out. I slide a second finger inside of her, moving them slowly and deliberately as my mouth finds hers again.

  Her nails are digging into me so sharply now that I’m afraid she might draw blood, but I don’t care. The pain excites me. She excites me, bringing my entire body to life in ways I never imagined before. She’s trembling against me, and I hook my other arm around her waist, holding her upright as my fingers continue to stroke her.

  She’s getting close to the edge. I can feel her heart pounding against her ribs. Hear her breaths getting shorter and sharper. If I were to move my hand just slightly, press the base of my palm against her clit, I could have her coming within seconds, screaming my name beneath the rush of water.

  Not yet.

  Just when I can feel her starting to stiffen in my arms, I slide my fingers out of her and pull away.

  “We’ve forgotten to wash your hair,” I say.

  Her eyes are wide. She looks almost as if she wants to kill me for stopping, but fortunately for me, she appears to be too stunned and aroused to speak right now. I grab the shampoo and squeeze a little into my hand.

  “Turn around,” I tell her.

  Her lips press together, almost as if she’s thinking of refusing—to punish me for stopping, I’d have to guess—but then she obeys, turning so that her back is to me.

  Her body looks so beautiful with the water running down it. For a moment I just stand there admiring it, watching the beads of moisture slide down her golden skin, skimming over the soft curves of her figure. I should spend more time just admiring her.

  After a minute, I step forward and put the shampoo in her hair, letting my fingers slip through the silky strands as I massage it through.

  I’m standing close enough to her that I feel her body slowly relax, shifting from a highly aroused state into something much more languid. My fingers move in small circles, caressing her. Letting myself revel in the wonder of simply touching her, cleaning her.

  I want to do this every night, I find myself thinking. Just be with her. Take care of her. Worship her body.

  That’s exactly what this feels like—worshiping. It’s almost like a religious rite. A cleansing in every sense of the word.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, running my hands through her hair. Only when my fingers start to ache do I pull them away. I slide my arm around her waist and pull her back fully beneath the shower stream again, letting the water rush down on our heads and wash the shampoo away. She leans against me, letting her head roll back on my shoulder. My hand flattens against her stomach, keeping her close. As my fingers press against her skin, I allow myself to think things I’ve been trying to suppress.

  What if it is possible—a future with Victoria?
Can I be the king Montovia deserves and still have her by my side? She might not be of noble blood or even be Montovian. But she is kind and intelligent and passionate. She has a strong heart. And she would most certainly be able to fulfill the duty of providing me with an heir.

  My hand moves across her belly, and I find myself imagining what it might be like to know my son or daughter was growing inside her. What it might be like to feel that life stirring beneath my fingers. A longing fills me—a yearning so deep and intense that I nearly fall over.

  I must tighten my grip on Victoria, because she suddenly twists her head and looks up at me. “Andrew?”

  I want to tell her what I’ve been thinking about, but after our conversation on the plane, I decide it’s better to wait. If she refuses to entertain the idea of me choosing her over Justine, then she certainly won’t respond well to the idea of carrying my child.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, pressing a kiss against her temple. “But I think it might be my turn now.”

  “Your turn?”

  I twist her around in my arms and smile down at her. “For you to clean me, of course.”

  Victoria

  I don’t know what’s happening to me—why I can’t seem to keep my head on straight when I’m in his arms. When he’s holding me like this. As wrong as I know it is, there’s also something so right. So completely different than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  He’s looking at me expectantly and I can barely breathe as I soap my hands to return the delicious torture he delivered with his bathing of me.

  I stare up at him, rubbing my hands together after I set the bar of soap back in the porcelain dish.

  His eyes fall closed as I rub my hands over his shoulders and down his arms. I move slowly. Deliberately. My fingers trail back up his arms and slide over his chest.

  My lingering touch draws a growl from somewhere deep inside him.

  I smile, allowing my fingers to move lower, tracing the outline of his abdomen over his well-defined muscles.

  I slide my hands around to his ass next, pulling him against me as I press my lips to his chest. He opens his eyes and lifts me up, setting me on the same ledge as the soap dish. He slides a hand between my thighs, slipping his body between them so he’s pressed right up against me.

  He tips his head and kisses my neck, but doesn’t move any closer to me.

  I groan. This is nearly torture, the way he’s drawing this out, making me almost beg for the slightest touch.

  I hook my legs around him, pulling him so close I can feel his pulsing cock next to me. But he turns slightly, denying me, instead raining more kisses over my collarbone.

  My arms slide around his back, my fingernails digging into him as I rock myself up and try to get him to slide into me.

  But he’s enjoying tormenting me too much. He turns his body again, bending to kiss my chest.

  My neck arches and my hand fists into his hair, encouraging him to continue.

  I shift a bit, trying to wrap my legs around his waist again, trying almost desperately to get him to enter me. I thrust my hips against him, but he catches me by my ass, lifting me away from the ledge with one hand and flipping the water off with the other.

  He lifts his lips to mine, kissing me as he carries me out of the steamy bathroom and into the bedroom.

  His lips are still on mine—my legs are still wrapped around his waist—when I hear a shrill scream.

  Everything seems to happen in the space of a single second. Andrew drops me, and I’m barely able to keep myself from face planting as my wet feet slip out from under me when I hit the floor. He pulls a blanket from the end of the bed and wraps it around himself as he runs after the flash of reddish blonde hair heading out the door.

  I blink a few times, trying to determine if I’m injured. Physically, anyway.

  When I can’t find anything wrong, I grab another of the throw blankets from the end of the bed and hold it to my chest as I climb to my feet.

  I should probably get dressed—I might not have any physical wounds, but I can already feel an emotional wound starting to rip through my chest.

  Clarissa might have seen us in a compromising position, but it doesn’t matter. What can she do? Andrew just said he’d chosen me, so why should it matter if some noblewoman saw me naked? Even if she were to go to the international press about it, it seems unlikely anyone would believe her.

  I poke my head into the sitting area, but as I suspected, Andrew isn’t there. I wait for a few moments before I go into the closet and pull out an appropriate dress for dinner.

  For some reason, I’m dawdling, not really wanting to pull my clothes on. I’m not sure what I hope will happen—that Andrew will come back and finish what he started? That seems unlikely, even if Clarissa hadn’t just caught us about to have sex.

  I finally dress and finish getting ready for dinner. But Andrew never returns. And I spend the next hour debating whether or not I should show up to dinner alone.

  Didn’t he tell me on the plane that he wanted me by his side tonight? Didn’t he tell me right before our shower that he’s chosen me? If his decision is really so tenuous it can be changed in the space of a moment, how is that really a decision at all?

  Anger bubbles inside me the longer I think about it.

  I can’t believe I let him talk me into this bullshit pageant again. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I wait for something—anything—to tell me the right answer. But it never comes. No servant ever knocks on the door to tell me I’m wanted for dinner. And I’m coming to realize that I was an afterthought. Probably no one in this place realizes I’m here. There was likely never an invitation extended to me for dinner tonight—the king is weird about who eats dinner with him in the palace, and there’s no way I would be invited to eat with him, now that I’m thinking about it. I’m pretty sure Elle still hasn’t been invited to a family dinner here, and she’s carrying the child of one of the royal children.

  Shit. Part of me hopes that this is a repeat of my past—that he’s somehow found out about the secret I really don’t want to share with him—but I have a feeling it isn’t that simple. It seems a lot more likely that Clarissa is using the scene she witnessed to her advantage than the slim possibility that Andrew found out something about me that he’d rather not have heard.

  I change into more comfortable clothes when it becomes obvious I’m not going to be joining the party at dinner. I decide to pass the time by crafting a story about the dinner I obviously was not invited to attend. And I write it exactly how it should go—with Andrew choosing Justine at the end.

  Of course, I know that isn’t how this evening will go. Andrew still has a pageant to put on—he still has a few other women to publicly audition. And I know nothing about the new women. I don’t even know enough to make anything up.

  I toss my first draft into the trashcan near the desk. My fingers are digging into the armrests of the chair. I need to get out of this room, if not Montovia. And even though I spent the better part of the day on an airplane, I can’t help but feel I need to get the hell out of here. That something shitty is about to go down that I want no part of.

  I’m about halfway through another draft when I hear a soft knocking on my door.

  My stomach does the weird fluttering thing it does when I know I’m about to see Andrew and a smile comes to my lips despite my efforts to hide it.

  I should be pissed that he abandoned me the way he did. And even more upset that he didn’t at least send someone to escort me to dinner if he didn’t want to do it himself. But there’s a part of me—a part I’m sure I’m going to hate sometime soon—that is somehow overjoyed that he came back at all.

  I walk over to the door and swing it open.

  The stupid grin falls from my face when I see it isn’t Andrew on the other side of the door. It’s William.

  He clears his throat before he gives me a formal nod, trying to cover his own smile. “Hello, Victoria.”

&nb
sp; I give him a small nod in return. “Hello, William. I’m pretty busy.” I glance over my shoulder at the small desk in the corner. “I’m working on the next draft of Andrew’s story—”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders drop. “Andrew sent you?”

  He nods again. “He sends his apologies that the dinner plans he suggested did not come to fruition.”

  I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at the unnecessary formality. “Tell him it’s fine. And if he wants—”

  He interrupts with a wave of his hand. “He also wanted me to tell you that the plans you had for later…” He clears his throat. “He’ll also not be able to join you for the plans you had to work together on his story tonight.”

  I nod. The cottage isn’t happening.

  William stares at me. “I realize it is inappropriate to ask, but might I come in for a moment?” He glances over his shoulder. “We might enjoy a bit more privacy.”

  I allow him through and he takes a seat on the small sofa near the desk.

  I take the chair across from him.

  He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel, shifting in his chair and unable to make full eye contact with me.

  “How was the dinner?” I force a small smile.

  He frowns and looks over at me. “To be quite honest, it was horrid.”

  I lift a brow. “That’s a pretty strong word. Was it really that bad—?”

  “Oh, you have no idea how bad. Andrew has really stepped in it now. And by it, I mean shit.”

  I grin. “I figured.”

  He nods. “I wasn’t sure if that was an American saying or not.” His gaze falls to the floor. “I believe my eldest brother may be feeling something akin to shame. Something I had no idea he was capable of feeling.”

  “Oh.” Heat rises in my cheeks. “So you heard what happened tonight?”

  “Heard?” He lifts his gaze to mine, frowning. “I was there. I’m a little…disgusted.”

  “You…you were there?” My ears feel like they’re on fire. “I thought…I thought it was Clarissa—”