The Royal's Pet

by Adora Crooks

  Table of Contents

  Rory

  Ben

  Roland

  Dearest Reader

  About the Author

  The Royal’s Pet

  Adora Crooks

  The Royal’s Pet

  Copyright © 2018 by Adora Crooks

  Edited by One Love Editing

  Book Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Rory

  2. Ben

  3. Roland

  4. Rory

  5. Ben

  6. Rory

  7. Roland

  8. Rory

  9. Ben

  10. Roland

  11. Rory

  12. Ben

  13. Roland

  14. Rory

  15. Ben

  16. Roland

  17. Rory

  18. Ben

  19. Roland

  20. Rory

  21. Ben

  22. Roland

  23. Rory

  24. Ben

  25. Roland

  26. Rory

  27. Ben

  28. Roland

  29. Rory

  30. Ben

  31. Roland

  32. Rory

  33. Ben

  34. Roland

  35. Rory

  36. Ben

  37. Roland

  38. Rory

  39. Ben

  40. Roland

  41. Rory

  42. Ben

  43. Roland

  44. Rory

  45. Ben

  46. Roland

  47. Ben

  48. Rory

  Dearest Reader

  About the Author

  1

  Rory

  Adventurer’s code, rule number one: never stop moving.

  I shove a handful of crisps in my mouth and let the messy crumbs stick to my lips. I’ve parked myself in a colorful pub on Buckingham Palace Road called Bag O’ Nails, which has rows and rows of liquors on the shelves behind the bar, coral-pink wallpaper, and a surprisingly bustling crowd for eight o’clock on a Thursday evening. Mostly tourists, fly-by-nighters, like me.

  I try to smooth out the creases of my map of London on the bar in front of me, but I only end up smearing it with darkened grease stains. I can still make out the sprawling bus and train lines that run like veins through the city. A tabby cat lifts herself up from her bed of newspaper at the other end of the bar, stretches, and patters across the bar top, nails clicking on the polished wood. I scratch her head and let her sandpaper tongue lick the salt from my fingers. With my non-cat-occupied hand, I pop off the cap of my pen and circle bus routes.

  I’ve gotten pretty good at reading maps. I’ve had to. I’ve traveled all over the world: South Africa, Japan, Thailand, Nepal, Greece, and Beijing—you name it, I’ve probably been there. I’ve backpacked my way across the globe, skipping from continent to continent. My backpack is bulging—nearly the same size as me now, not that that’s very hard. I’m a travel-size human. Even the soles of my sturdy Doc Martens are finally fraying with all the wear and tear.

  For all my traveling, this is my first time in Europe. I’ve spent this past week digging my heels into Merry ol’ England. It’s nice here, really; I like the tea, the sights, and the fact that everyone speaks English. That’s a plus for sure. These crisps—not chips, as I’ve been corrected, but crisps—loaded with vinegar, might nearly be enough to make me stay.

  And yet… I can’t stop. It’s like an addiction, this need to keep moving. Even lingering in this small London pub is making me antsy. My blood is vibrating with the need to go. I’ll finish my beer and pub hop a couple more times before crashing at my hostel.

  As my brother, Oscar, says, There is too much of this world to see and not enough time to do it in.

  My tabby friend gets bored of me and trots away, allowing me to focus on my map again. It’s a five-minute walk from my hostel to the Tube, and I can take the blue line to King’s Cross. There, I can catch the Eurostar to Paris. I haven’t been to Paris, and even though it seems a bit like a tourist trap to me, it’s just one of those places I feel like I have to see before I die. Oscar would like to see the Eiffel Tower, I think. On the other hand, if I cough up forty pounds, I can jet across to Ireland. There, I can think about replenishing my diminishing bank account, where it might be easier to pick up a part-time job, maybe something rural, helping on a farm in the Highlands and whatnot. I love animals; after all, who doesn’t want to spend their time with a sheep—?

  In the middle of my scribbling, I notice a man approach the bar in my periphery. He takes the barstool one spot down from me, leaving a polite distance between us. One thing I’ve learned about British guys in my short time here: they’re not as gregariously affectionate as Americans. Instead, they tend to leave women a gulf of personal space, as though our feminine antics are something to be observed from afar, like a nature documentary. I’m still circling train times when I hear the low, gravelly voice growl, “Bitter, please.”

  That voice gets my blood humming. I can’t help it; I steal a second, lingering glance. My bar-company is wearing dark jeans, slightly worn and frayed at the knees. His black T-shirt barely contains the muscled chest underneath it. Sizeable biceps stretch his sleeves. His raven hair is cut almost military short around his ears, and his entire physique screams danger. In a cotton tee and jeans, he’s all man, and it’s a painful reminder of my six-month chastity.

  He has to be military, that’s my guess. One of those razor-sharp men with as much good humor as a slot machine. It’s really too bad my brain is flooding with thoughts of those strong arms pinning my wrists above my head.

  Contain yourself, Rory. I tear my eyes away from the stranger and start filling in one of the O’s on my schedule to distract myself. When I dare to lift my gaze again, the handsome stranger is looking right at me.

  No. Not at me. He’s fixed on my stuffed animal, a palm-sized otter holding a fabric clam between its two palms, which sits on the bar, leaning against my pint. Even my otter can’t take its eyes away from him, it seems.

  “Didn’t you ever tell your muskrat it’s rude to stare?” Hot-stranger frowns.

  “Not a muskrat,” I clarify. “An otter. Didn’t they teach you animals at secret-agent school?”

  He shakes his head and cradles his beer. “I’m not a secret agent.”

  “Then what are you? Double-oh? Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”

  “I’m a bodyguard at the palace.”

  “Knew it. Well, Mr. Bodyguard, I thought your kind was supposed to be smart.”

  “I let my gun do most of my talking.”

  Gun or guns? I’m doing a poor job of taking my eyes off those biceps. “I’m just saying, your guns are going to be useless when otters storm Buckingham Palace and you call for muskrat backup.”

  Not a smile from him. Not even a twitch of his lips. Tough crowd.

  Unfortunately for him, I never back down from a challenge. I scoot over and steal the seat between us, inching closer to him. “So, bodyguard. Tell me more. Is it hard to stand outside the palace in a big hat and remain incredibly still? That would make me crazy. The being-still part, not the hat. That hats are pretty cool.”

  Bodyguard tilts his pint to his lips. “Wrong guard. I detail the royal family. The prince, actually.”

  He says it s
o damn casually, but my jaw nearly hits the floor. “The prince? As in future king of England, invisible man Prince Roland?”

  “So they do talk about something other than pop stars in America.”

  I nibble a crisp and shrug. “He’s rich, mysterious, and hot as hell. It’s kind of what we’re all about in America.”

  That was apparently the wrong thing to say. His thick eyebrows crawl together, and he lets out a disgruntled noise against the rim of his drink. “Right.”

  I bridge the gap between us with an offering of my hand.

  “My name’s Rory, by the way,” I say. “Rory March. Twenty-four. Hailing from Michigan. I’m a travel vlogger—you know, like a blogger, but with videos? I’m also a Gryffindor and an Aquarius.”

  Bodyguard sips the foam off his beer before he finally sets the glass down. “Ben Tolle.” Ben. Of course, his name is something like Ben. Strong, solid, simple name. When he shakes my hand, his palm feels ice-cold from his pint glass. “Ben Tolle from East End. Ravenclaw. Taurus.”

  I retract my hand and roll my eyes dramatically. “Figures.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches in a near-smile. It’s progress. He’s warming up to me, at least.

  “Do you like working at the palace?” I ask, resting my chin in my palm.

  “It’s a charmed life.” He nods. “The pay is good. So are the benefits. They put you up in the help’s quarters. There’s never a dull moment. The company can be a bit melodramatic, but they’re the British monarchs, so.”

  “What about the prince?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well? What’s he like?”

  Ben touches his upper lip with his tongue, and it sends a warm, tingling sensation through me. I decide that I like watching Ben think. I’m so starved for human conversation that I blurt out whatever is on my mind. He’s frugal with his words, picking each one carefully as though he’s been saving them up for a special occasion.

  “He’s gracious,” Ben says. “Intelligent. Proud.”

  “Is it true that he hasn’t left the palace since his father died?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was… what. Nine, ten years ago?”

  “Ten years exactly, as of tomorrow.”

  I whistle. “That’s a long time to be stuck in your house.”

  Ben tilts his head. “It’s a big palace.”

  “Still. What if he wants to see Monkey Hurricane?”

  Ben stares at me for a long time. “What?”

  “You know, Monkey Hurricane? The band?” I sing a couple lines from one of their latest releases. It’s badly out of tune. “Come run-away, run-away, we’ll bang-a-rang the sun-away, sun-away.”

  I drum my hands against the bar. Finally, Ben laughs. “Somehow, I think Prince Roland will survive without ever hearing Monkey Hurricane.”

  I’m grinning broadly. “You should do that more.”

  “What?”

  “Smile.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “Your smile really turns me on.”

  Ben scoffs and tilts away from me. Still, I catch glimpse of the small upward turn of his lips.

  This is all wrong.

  I know that. Adventurer’s code, rule number two: never go home with the hot, rugged stranger from the bar.

  But the rule book should’ve had an asterisk for Ben Tolle.

  With his strong grip on my arms, his warm, hard body against mine, and lips butterflying along my throat, I should be saying no, but my mind is swirling with yes, yes, yes.

  I groan under the pale yellow streetlight as Ben pins me to the wall and vanquishes my self-control with his lips. It started out innocent enough; he asked me to keep him company while he “burned a fag” (yes, I was momentarily mortified and offended until I realize he was talking about a cigarette). It didn’t take long, however, before his half-burned cigarette met the pavement and he cornered me into the shadows of the alley behind the pub. He kisses me, his tongue moving in purposeful swipes against mine, and nibbles my bottom lip. I’m a victim of my own lust-addled body, and desire flickers through my veins with every touch.

  “Do I turn you on now, Rory?” he asks, his voice like a tiger’s purr in my ear.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  Those dark eyes settle on mine. “Show me.”

  I’m hypnotized by his intense gaze. He tugs my jeans and pops the button out of its slit before his hand dives boldly under the zipper. I don’t stop him, not even when he pushes my panties aside and his fingers find my sex. I’m sopping wet, and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from moaning.

  A cocky grin cuts over his mouth. “You are worked up. Spread your legs, love.”

  Love. The word is like honey, and it makes me shiver. I part my legs as far as my jeans will allow. He strums me like a guitar, his fingers curling and caressing as he makes me slick with my own arousal. I gasp when he zeroes in on my clit and flicks the bundle of nerves repeatedly, sending shock waves of pleasure through my blood. My thighs clasp around his wrist, and I grip the back of his neck for support. He boldly slips a finger inside of me, thumb still working my button. I’m writhing, rutting against his hand, and I hook my arms around his tall shoulders and pant against his chest.

  It’s wrong to let a palace bodyguard grope me in public—I’m aware of that. The pub is bustling behind us, and at any moment, someone could step outside and see us tangled up together. But I’m completely swept up by this rugged bodyguard who dominates me so effortlessly.

  I’m not normally this kind of girl. I know I wear combat boots and overdo it on the eyeliner, but I dream about a Prince Charming who opens doors and stands when I enter a room and whispers in my ear that he’d take down the stars in the sky for me. Ben is not that man. Ben is rough, calloused, and when my hips pivot against his hand, I can’t be sure if that’s his gun or his cock I feel pressing into me, because it’s huge and hard as steel.

  His free hand takes a handful of my hair and captures my aching lips in a messy kiss. I feel deliciously dirty, and I love every second of this.

  “We need to go somewhere private,” he informs me.

  He removes his finger from inside of me and buttons my pants. He needs more than this—so do I. My sex feels achingly empty and buzzing with lust.

  “My place… isn’t far from here,” I pant. “If you don’t mind a little voyeurism.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, it’s a hostel.”

  “A hostel.”

  I nod. He looks like he’s just bitten into a piece of tinfoil.

  “We’re not shagging in a fucking hostel.” He latches his fingers around my wrist like a handcuff and tugs. “Come.”

  I stumble after him like a dog on a short leash, walking twice as fast to match his long strides. “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “The palace, of course.”

  2

  Ben

  Buckingham Palace is hauntingly beautiful at night.

  The neoclassical columns and half-lidded windows are underlit with spotlights. The Victoria Memorial shines the brightest, however, the golden angel reaching up toward the night sky, her wingtips outstretched.

  A tall black gate separates us from the palace. Rory stops and stares, her mouth hanging open. I shift her bag over my shoulder (it weighs nearly as much as her) and tighten my grip on her arm to pull her away.

  “This way.”

  “But I thought you said—?” She points longingly at the palace, like a child whose parents won’t let her inside the candy store.

  “We’re going through an underground entrance,” I explain.

  “Oh!” She lights up. “Like a secret passageway?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  Rory is adorable. Painfully cute. I want to bruise that smile with my kiss and consume her light. But I hold back. After all…

  She’s not mine. Not truly.

  She belongs to him. To us.

  This game of ours started four years ago. P
rince Roland—twenty then, precocious, and a lady’s man—had already had a taste of love in the palace. And still, his hunger wasn’t satisfied.

  “I think I’m going crazy,” he’d told me one night. We’d been playing darts down in the rec room, a stone-encased underground space with a dartboard, pool table, and assortment of what the queen called “boy toys.” Even with a belly of wine in him, the prince landed a bull’s-eye. Every time. He’d mastered every game in the palace. He’d read every book in the library. Twice. And he’d fucked every viable maid, waitress, and pastry chef.

  “If I have to hear yes, Your Highness one more time, I’m going to snap,” Roland complained, chucking darts at the board. Bull’s-eye, bull’s-eye, bull’s-eye.

  The thought came to me so suddenly I wonder if it hadn’t been sitting quietly in the back of my mind for a long time. “I may have a solution,” I’d told him.

  So the game was born. Roland couldn’t leave the palace—he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his mother. So I went instead. That night, I went to the pub and scooped up some pretty, pliable, sweet-tasting woman. I seduced her and snuck her back into the palace. I was fully aware that the action could cost me my job. If the queen caught me, she’d put my head on a pike. But for Roland, I would do anything.

  We took her that night. Together. She squirmed and moaned underneath us. And then there was Roland. The prince with violet-vibrant eyes. I’d watched as he cradled the woman to him, cupped her face, and purred sweet nothings in her ear before he impaled her on his stiff staff. She was lust-stupid, her eyes half-lidded and lazy when I eased my own cock into her mouth. And how she whimpered, trembled, and begged for more and more…