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Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

Page 66

by Jill Elaine Hughes


  Syr Phillip laughs. “Well, maybe now I wouldn’t have a problem. But the main reason for that is, now I can actually afford to be King.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lisa, in addition to all the time that being Middle Kingdom royalty takes, it also takes money. Lots of it. As you might have guessed by now, just being a lay member of the SCA can be a pretty expensive hobby, what with the garb and the armor and the event fees and all that, but being King and Queen of a kingdom as large and as populous as the Midrealm is an extremely expensive undertaking.”

  “How expensive?” I ask, taking a big gulp of my beer.

  “Thirty or forty thousand dollars for the reign year, give or take.”

  I spit out a mouthful of beer onto Syr Phillip’s face, covering his forehead with foam. “What? You’re kidding!”

  Syr Phillip quietly mops up his forehead with a napkin without comment. “No, I’m not. In fact, the Middle Kingdom Earl Marshal instituted a policy a few years back that created a new requirement for fighting in Crown Tournament. Time was that you could automatically qualify for a spot on the Lists if you were a knight, and a limited number of highly skilled unbelted fighters usually got invited as well. It was based solely on fighting skill, and nothing else. But in the past eight to ten years or so, the cost of being King and Queen got so expensive that it was actually causing some couples who did it to go bankrupt, to lose their houses, and worse. A few marriages even got broken up over the high cost of being Middle Kingdom royalty. So now, in addition to being one of the best fighters in the kingdom, the other main requirement for entering the Crown lists is being able to document that you, and/or your favored lady, have thirty to forty thousand dollars in disposable income available to support your reign year.”

  My jaw drops with a click. “Uhhh, I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Syr Phillip smiles. “Well, I do. I’ve had a couple of very good sales years with Pfizer. And as you probably saw at the Blood and Roses Tournament, my desirability as a possible King Consort therefore has gone up quite a bit with all the SCA ladies. It’s a purely financial thing.”

  Somehow, I doubt that. It seems to me Syr Phillip, with his oozing charm and hammered physique, would be pretty desirable to all the SCA ladies even if he were flat broke. But I don’t say this. I just give him a smile and nurse my beer.

  The waitress shows up with our pizza, and Syr Phillip digs right in. “So, what do you think?” he asks through a mouthful of sausage and cheese.

  “About what?”

  Syr Phillip chews and swallows. “About being Queen. So have I completely scared you off the very thought of doing it by now?”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just shrug my shoulders and grab a slice of pizza.

  “There’s still a lot more I haven’t told you, you know.” Syr Phillip licks sauce and grease from his fingers. “This is excellent pizza, by the way.”

  “Best in Dayton for ten years running, according to the Dayton Daily News,” I say flippantly, hoping to break the sexual tension that keeps rising and falling between us.

  “I can see why.” Syr Phillip’s expression changes from relaxed to serious. “Lisa, in addition to the huge time commitment, and the travel, and the expense of being Crown Princess and then Queen, there’s also the neverending paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork, lots of late-night conference calls with the royalty and mundane leadership of other kingdoms, lots of e-mail and letter reading and writing. Then there’s the researching of awards to hand out around the kingdom during Royal Court. And of course, there’s Pennsic.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing a little bit about Pennsic.”

  “Well, Lisa, if you decide to be my favored lady at Crown Tournament, I’m afraid you’ll be hearing a lot more about Pennsic. More than you ever thought you wanted or needed to know, in fact.”

  I gulp the dregs of my beer and grab another slice of Marion’s famous wafer-thin pizza. “So what is Pennsic, exactly? Pegeen told me it’s some kind of a war, but I don’t know whether I believe her.”

  “Well, she’s exactly right, it is a war. A war between the Middle Kingdom and the Eastern Kingdom. It’s been going on every summer for over thirty years, ever since some crazy old-time SCA guy named Syr Cariadoc of the Bow, who was King of the Midrealm way back in the early seventies, decided it would be cute to declare war on himself at a camping event. And he lost.”

  I drop my pizza slice on the tabletop. “Huh?”

  “He declared war on himself, and lost. Get it?” Syr Phillip chuckles and grabs another slice.

  “No, I don’t get it at all, sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Most people in the SCA don’t get it, either. And that’s kind of the whole point.” Syr Phillip gulps the last of his second beer, and I notice the alcohol is starting to do its work on him as his jawline relaxes and his hard, angular shoulders start to ease a bit.

  “So, is there more to this Pennsic story?” I ask.

  “Well, the whole story on how Pennsic came about is pretty complicated, and it’s probably not all that relevant to whether you’d want to be Queen or not. What is relevant is what Pennsic has become in the thirty-odd years since Syr Cariadoc started the whole mess by declaring war on himself. Whatever might have started it, The Pennsic War is the flagship event of the international Society for Creative Anachronism. Over ten thousand people show up for it every year, and the royalty of every kingdom in the SCA Known World—and we’re talking from all over the United States and Canada and several other overseas countries, mind you—all show up and hold Known World Court. It’s quite a spectacle, and if you and I were Crown Prince and Princess at the War, as heir-apparents to one of the warring kingdoms we’d be one of the most visible royal couples there. Imagine it, Lisa. You and I would walk together down the center aisle at War Court, and every single person at Pennsic would watch every move we made.”

  My eyes start to glaze over at the thought of Syr Phillip and me becoming royalty in the midst of such a huge event, with ten thousand-plus pairs of eyes looking just at us as we walk arm and arm into War Court, the flashiest, most elaborate garb Baroness Barlonda can sew adorning our bodies. The very idea is wondrous, exciting, powerful, even sexy—

  Not to mention really fucking scary.

  I flag down the waitress and order another beer.

  Syr Phillip—or just plain old Phil Dawson—stares at me expectantly as he wipes grease from his fingers with his napkin. “Well, Lisa? Are you up to being Queen of the Middle Kingdom?”

  I don’t think it’s a good idea to answer right away. I need some more time to think. “When do you need to know?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Well, that doesn’t give me much time. “How about tomorrow? Can I sleep on it?”

  Plain old Phil Dawson grabs another slice of pizza. “Sure. As long as you tell me for sure in the morning. And maybe I can arrange to be there in the morning when you decide, if that would be all right with you.”

  A slow smile spreads across my face. “Is that a proposition, Phil Dawson?”

  “It is whatever you, the lady, wishes it to be.” Syr Phillip’s rich baritone and knightly charm swiftly replaces the muted demeanor of plain-old-pharmaceutical-salesman Phil Dawson as he takes my greasy, tomato-sauce stained hand and kisses it.

  “I have an idea of what I’d wish for it to be,” I reply, breathless.

  “Then you shall have to educate me of your wishes, milady.”

  “I think I can do that back at my place,” I purr.

  ****

  Syr Phillip and I head back over to my apartment with a doggy bag of leftover pizza in tow. My body is so abuzz with arousal and anticipation, it’s all I can do just to get my keys out of my purse. I try to unlock the door, but my hands are shaking so much I can’t get the key into the lock.

  “Let me help you with that, milady.” Syr Phillip takes the keys and gets the door open. Before I can take a single step inside, though, he sc
oops me up and carries me over the threshold.

  “You may take me to the bedroom, my lord knight,” I whisper in Syr Phillip’s ear as he kicks the door shut behind him with his foot.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want, Lisa? Are you sure you’re ready? Because I don’t want to rush you.”

  “Oh, I’m ready all right,” I breathe.

  “As you wish, milady.” Syr Phillip carries me into my unusually neat-and-tidy bedroom and sets me down gently on my full-sized bed. “This is a lovely little boudoir you have here,” he says, admiring my freshly washed satin comforter and the knickknacks and perfume bottles I’ve arranged carefully on the nightstand. “Very delicate, feminine, and polished—just like you.” Syr Phillip’s rich baritone has such a sexy edge to it now that I let out a little groan of pleasure at these words.

  “I don’t know about polished,” I say. “I’m a total wreck most of the time.”

  Syr Phillip slips off his brown oxfords and settles down next to me on the bed. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  I fiddle with one of the pompoms sewn onto my bedspread. “It’s true,” I go on. “I’ve always had terrible luck with relationships. My parents are both dead. I’m always broke, and I have a crummy dead-end job. I’m shy, I’m terrified of public speaking, and I’ve also never been much good at making conversation. I have dyslexia, so a lot of people just assume that I’m stupid because of that. But I’m not, even if sometimes I say stupid things—that’s usually just because I’m so shy, and also because I get nervous so easily. So it pretty much goes without saying that I don’t exactly have much of a social life. I’ve never had anyone in my life for very long, except maybe for Pegeen.”

  “You have me,” Syr Phillip whispers, kissing me with a delicate touch of his tongue. “And you’re right—you have your goofy friend Pegeen, who seems to care a lot about you. And what’s more, now you have the SCA. A lot of people find that friends made in the SCA become a kind of surrogate family, a family who will accept and love you for the person you are. That’s certainly been the case for me.”

  “You know, it took a lot of convincing from Pegeen for me to even show up at my first event,” I whisper between kisses.

  “I’m glad she managed to convince you,” Syr Phillip coos, slipping his hand under my dress and caressing the inside of my thigh. “I owe Pegeen my undying gratitude for that.” He pauses, nuzzles my neck, lowers his voice a bit. “May I tread upon your secret softness, milady?”

  I guide Syr Phillip’s hand to the place I need it most. “You’re already there,” I whisper.

  Before I know it, my batik dress is somewhere on the floor. Syr Phillip—who is definitely a knight in bed, plain old Phil Dawson is nowhere to be found—eases my silk panties down slowly, tracing their journey down my thighs and calves with soft kisses that send me reeling.

  I tug desperately at the buttons on Syr Phillip’s oxford, ripping a couple of them from their sockets as I tear the shirt from him. I run my hands up and down his perfect pectoral muscles, dotted as they are with a light growth of fair hair that exactly matches Syr Phillip’s sandy head. Once I’ve gotten my fill of his strong, firm torso and rippled forearms, my hands slide down to the waistband of my knight’s khakis, which are already swelling with his need. Somehow, groping half-blind through a haze of desire, I manage to get them off Syr Phillip’s heaving body, and soon we settle together, dancing back and forth in a perfect rhythm, the slick wetness of love the only thing separating our sweating, thrusting bodies.

  We love on in silence. The only sound is our breathing and the swish of the bedclothes as we climb higher and higher together up the ladder of passion. Finally I am driven so close to the edge that I can bear it no longer.

  “Please,” I moan. “Please—“

  “Yes,” Syr Phillip sighs back. “I have what you want.” He gives a final push with his hips and sends me to another place, a world of pleasure I never knew existed. I cry out for the first time during our tryst, and I keep shouting my ecstasy for whoever will hear.

  “Hush,” Syr Phillip whispers in my ear. “Hush, milady. You haven’t even begun to know what I can give you.”

  And he is right.

  ****

  I awaken early next morning entangled in Syr Phillip’s strong arms. I glance at the bedside clock. 5:45 am. My shift at AC Delco doesn’t start until 9:30, so I have time either to sleep a little more, or perhaps to coax yet another lovemaking session out of my gallant knight-in-shining-satin-bedclothes.

  I lay on my side, staring transfixed at my sleeping lord’s stunning, angular face for what feels like hours. Syr Phillip looks so peaceful with his closed eyelids that flutter the slightest bit with each breath he takes, with the near-translucent blonde stubble that has cropped up on his handsome cheeks overnight, with his left arm flung up over his head pell-mell as his right snuggles itself tighter and tighter around my waist. Lying here, staring at my sleeping, strong-as-a-gentle-ox knight after a long night of earth-shattering sex (I lost count at how many orgasms I had somewhere around eleven)—this is a moment I want permanently etched in my memory, right alongside the image of the balmy spring afternoon more than ten years ago that was the last time I saw both my parents alive. This exact moment, this early Thursday morning in May, will last in my mind forever.

  Syr Phillip’s eyes ease open. He looks at me and smiles.

  “You’re a nice sight to wake up to,” he whispers, and kisses me.

  We kiss for a long time, but soon the mutual urge for an early-morning pee separates us. Once we’ve both relieved ourselves, we settle back into a light embrace, just listening to each other’s heartbeats as the first light of dawn starts to peek its way through my miniblinds.

  Syr Phillip finally breaks the silence. “Do you have to go in to work today?”

  I sigh. “I’m afraid so. I’ve used too many sick days as it is.”

  Syr Phillip sits up and runs a hand through bed-tousled locks. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to spending the day with you. I’ve finished up my regional sales rounds for the month since I’ve already met all my quotas. I was really looking forward to a few days off to spend with my new lady.” Syr Phillip gives me a light kiss on the top of my head. “Plus, I need to get some fight practice in. Too many days away from my sword and shield, I get rusty. And I can’t be rusty for Crown Tournament.”

  Syr Phillip stands up to stretch and I catch a nice view of his firm buttocks. I notice that he has a small tattoo of crossed swords, outlined in blue, on the left one.

  “Nice tattoo,” I giggle. “I’d never have pegged you for the tattoo type.”

  “Oh, that’s left over from my drunken fratboy days,” Syr Phillip says. “I was the only guy in my fraternity who played with swords in his spare time.”

  “I’d never have pegged you for the fraternity type, either,” I say, standing up and wrapping my arms around Syr Phillip’s waist. My fingers trace the prominent outline of his pubic bone where it rises along his hips.

  “I was considered the resident oddball at Ohio State’s Delta Tau Delta chapter. But enough about that, Lisa. Have you decided whether you want to be my most favored lady at Crown Tournament yet? Were you able to sleep on it?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t exactly do a lot of sleeping last night,” I protest.

  Syr Phillip takes my chin in both his hands and kisses me on the nose. “I don’t want to put any pressure on you, dear, but I really need to know now. Today is the deadline for submitting my Crown Lists application, and I have to indicate whose honor I will be fighting to save.”

  “What if I say no?” I ask, backing away from Syr Phillip’s fast-rising groin and grabbing my bathrobe from its hook on my closet door.

  “Then I would be eternally disappointed, milady.”

  I ponder this for a moment. “So disappointed that you wouldn’t fight to save the honor of someone else?”

  “Well, I suppose there’s always Duchess Danyel,”
Syr Phillip laughs, swatting my bare behind. “Or maybe even Baroness Barlonda.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I shoot back as I give him a return slap on the right buttock.

  “I will dare if you were to place me in such a difficult position, milady,” Syr Phillip grins. “You see, I desperately want to be King. I’d much rather have a beautiful young woman such as yourself as my royal consort, although if you force me to fight to save the honor of a fat, middle-aged, unattractive woman almost twice my age, so help me, I will.”

  I throw my arms around Syr Phillip’s neck. “Well, I won’t force you to do that. I would love for you to fight to save my honor, Phillip. I’m ready to be Queen of the Midrealm. I’ll do whatever it takes, but I definitely want to be your Princess, and then your Queen.”

  Syr Phillip tears off my bathrobe, picks up my naked body, and twirls me around. “And I’m ready to be your Prince and King,” he replies, kissing me passionately. “But remember, I have to win the Crown first. And that’s easier said than done, especially considering some of the competition I’m going to have.”

  I sit down on the bed. “Like who? There aren’t many other knights, are there? Or at least many knights with forty grand to spare.”

  “Well, no, there aren’t. There will only be twenty-four fighters and knights qualified for the Lists this year, all of whom are also financially qualified to be royalty. But I’ll still be up against some of the greatest fighters the Middle Kingdom has to offer. Plus, you might remember Master Melphus. Rumor has it he might publicly abandon his Dark Horde affiliation for just long enough to fight in Crown, which is highly unusual for Masters-at-Arms to do, since they don’t swear fealty to any one king or kingdom.”

  “I remember Master Melphus all right,” I say as I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “He seemed like a real jerk.”

  Syr Phillip starts pulling on his boxers. “Well, Lisa, Master Melphus certainly isn’t my favorite person, either. But the Dark Horde has asked Master Melphus to make an attempt on the Midrealm Crown. Or so I’ve heard, anyway.”

 

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