by Adora Crooks
Ben adds with emphasis, “You can call anyone. Internationally.”
Immediately, the realization hits. Oscar. I’ve emailed him back and forth, of course, but I haven’t been able to speak to him in months. The thought of hearing his voice makes my throat nearly close up with emotion. I yelp and swing my arms around Ben’s neck, yanking him down from his annoyingly tall frame to hug him. “Thank you, thank you!”
He grunts and gently peels me off before nodding to the sliding glass doors. “There’s a closed patio out that way. You can get some privacy there.”
I plant a noisy kiss to the side of his face and then bound off through the sliding doors. As promised, it opens up to a flat pool outlined with stones. The pool doesn’t look as bad as the rest of the place, and I wonder if the locals haven’t been dipping their toes in it while the royal family is away. Dead leaves cover the floor, and I crunch over them to get to the low, pale stone terrace.
Down below me, shimmering blue water crashes against the cliff. To my left, I can see the town of Sorrento tucked away. To my right, the sun starts to set.
I pull out my new phone and dial Oscar’s number. It’s one of the numbers I still know by heart. It takes a couple of rings, my heart pounding in my throat with each one, before I hear his voice.
“’Lo?”
It’s him! I try not to scream with joy. My hand flies to my mouth to stifle my laugh. I give him our standard greeting: “Bonjovi, Otter.”
There’s a moment of hush from his end before he says, almost tentatively, “Ror? Holy shit—is that you?”
“Yeah… it’s me.” The Italian coastline shimmers in my vision as happy tears brim my eyes. “I miss you.”
“Don’t get all blubbery on me yet. Say something funny.”
His voice sounds deeper than I remember it, but there’s something else, too. He’s a little raspy, and I can hear a low, rattling sound every time he breathes. I sniff. “What do you call an airplane that flies the prince of England?”
“What?”
“An heircraft.”
“That’s stupid. You’re stupid.”
“Your face is stupid.”
Every insult is laced with an affectionate note. I know—he knows—what we’re really saying. I miss you. I love you. I needed this.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
He sighs shallowly. “My least favorite question.”
“I know, but… did they put you on the oxygen tanks yet?”
“Rory. You’re calling from who-knows-where. I don’t want to talk about tanks. Where are you?”
“Sorrento. It’s this… little cliff town off of Italy. Here, I’ll show you.” I pull the phone away from my face, find the camera, and take a panorama of the view in front of me. Then I text it to Oscar and put the phone back to my ear. “You got it?”
A second later, I hear his phone buzz. And he whistles. “Damn. That’s beautiful. Are you sure you’re not in front of a green screen?”
I laugh. “Pretty sure. I’m at… uh. The prince’s private abode.”
“So it is true.”
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.
He scoffs a laugh. “Did you think I didn’t know? You’re trending, Rory. Hashtag-Cinderella-Story. Hashtag-Princess-Rory. Hashtag-Red-Hair-Don’t-Care.”
I laugh and cover my eyes. “Oh God. Those are terrible.”
“What’s Prince Roland like up close?”
“Uh… honestly? He reminds me of you.” I hear it and I wince. “Not in a weird way. Just… you’re both so charming and silly and…”
“Annoying?”
“Lovingly annoying.”
“Must be a charmed life. Being a kept woman in the palace.”
“Uhm… it’s amazing.” I draw my fingers through my hair. “It’s sort of… taken on a life of its own. I don’t know if you’d believe me if I told you.”
“I’d believe anything coming from you.”
He’s right about that. I could always talk to Oscar. I bite my lip and then come out with, “I’m sort of… dating two guys. The prince and his bodyguard.”
“At the same time?”
“Yeah.”
“Do they know about each other?”
“They’re together, too. His bodyguard is wildly in love with him—I basically hooked them up—and now the three of us are a thing.”
“Slut.”
It catches me off guard, and I can’t help but laugh. “Dick.”
“Do they love you, Ror?”
That throws me off balance even more—he sounds sincere now, thoughtful. I cradle my phone to my ear and say, “Yeah… I think they do.”
“Then make sure you’re not just in it because it’s easy.”
I knit my eyebrows at that. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always looking for an escape hatch, Ror. Just because they’re into each other doesn’t mean you can slip out quietly one day and no one will ever notice. If they love you like you say they do… then that’s real. You’ve got to give it a chance.”
His words sink into my bones. Somehow, Oscar always manages to see straight through me. He tells me what I need to hear. “I will,” I tell him.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“All right.” He shifts gears. “You want to talk to Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah… sure.”
Oscar wrangles our parents and puts them on speakerphone. Mom brags about how I’m blowing up on “the social media,” and Dad wants to make sure I’m wearing enough sunscreen in Italy. I close my eyes and just listen to the murmurs of their voices for a while, their familiar inflections and loving quips at one another. This trip, my endless adventure around the world, March On… it all would’ve been easier if I hated my family. It would’ve been easier if I’d been raised with an evil stepmother and had only a few mice to call my friends.
But I love my family. I love my brother, above all. It’s harder than anything to leave them. Times like these, I want to buy a plane ticket back and cut my trip short here and now.
Only I don’t. I know what I’m doing is important. I know they’re proud of me for doing it—especially Oscar. It takes all the strength in the world, but eventually I tell them, “Hey… I’ve gotta go. But I’ve got basically… unlimited minutes here, so I’ll call you soon. Okay?”
“Love you, Ror!” comes the wave of voices from the other end of the phone.
“I love you, too,” I say. “Love you lots.”
It’s almost too silent when I hang up the phone. I let out a deep sigh and listen to the waves crashing below, the gulls cawing ahead.
I will not cry, I will not cry.
I miss my family back home like crazy. It helps that I have a bizarre, crazy, loving little family back inside the villa. I didn’t expect Roland and Ben to turn into something, but… here we are. And for the first time in years, I’m allowing myself to depend on these two voraciously loving men. Who knows? Maybe they can even be a permanent fixture in my life. It’s been so long since I’ve had something that lasts… This feels scary, new, and exciting all at once. Like how I felt when I bought my plane ticket out of Michigan with barely enough money in my pocket, a stuffed otter in my bag, a little spunk, and a lot of determination.
I need to distract myself from the emotions rattling around in my chest, so I click through my phone to visit my March On site. Even though I’ve been neglecting it as of late, it’s gotten an insane amount of hits since I last signed in. Apparently, my little unofficial sex tape with the prince of England has made my site go viral. Whodathunk? The good news is that my donation meter for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is higher than ever. If accidentally showing off my blowjob skills to thousands of VidO views is what it takes to find a cure… then a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
All the same. My page is littered with comments. Some are supportive, but there’s my fair share of anonymous hateful in there as well. It’s time to take my narrative back
.
I turn the camera on myself, smile, and hit Record. “Hello and March On!”
24
Ben
The limoncello is important.
I knew it would be the first thing Roland asked for once we got back to his place. The sour, tangy lemon liqueur is strong enough to knock even the prince off his feet, and it’s nearly impossible to find quality limoncello outside of Southern Italy. I knew there wouldn’t be any at Villa Leon d’Oro, and if there were, it would’ve spoiled by now. So I rang the driver up before we left England and told him to have a bottle waiting for us. I have the paper bag in hand now, and when I take the bottle out of the bag and set it on the kitchen counter, it’s still cold. Condensation leaks between my fingers and onto the azure-blue countertop tiles.
Details. The devil is in the details, and one of us has to pay attention to them.
It won’t be Rory, who is as excitable as a terrier, and it won’t be impulsive, spontaneous Roland, who decides at the spur of the moment to announce to all of Italy that he’s here.
So much for discretion. The best-laid plans of mice and bodyguards.
I twist the metal around the neck of the bottle and the cap pops open. I hunt around the cabinets until I find two glasses and rinse them out carefully.
“Aren’t you having any?” Roland pops in beside me as I pour the yellow liquid into one of the small glasses.
“No.”
I don’t look at him; I just continue to pour.
Roland laughs, an airy, bitter sound. “Are you giving me the silent treatment now?”
“Only teenagers and princes give the silent treatment.”
That makes his lips twist in a scowl. The prince takes a glass, tilts it to his mouth, and sips. “You’ve been a right prat since we’ve got here,” he comments.
I look up at him. “If it takes being a prat to keep you safe, then I’ll accept that title.”
I expect him to come at me with some snarky remark, but instead he stands there and stares at me. The thoughtful way he’s looking at me… it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on inside that head of his.
“It occurs to me,” Roland postures, like a doctor giving a diagnosis, “that you may be a control freak.”
I squint at him. Where is he going with this? “If either of you try to tie me up, I’ll break your nose,” I warn him.
“I’ll drink to that, 007.”
Roland finishes his glass in one fell swoop before setting it down with a clink on the counter. Then he steps behind me and corners me against the counter, his front to my back. I feel him reach around and flick open my gun holster. He takes my gun out and sets it down on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?” I growl. My words are husky with equal measures of lust and panic.
“Everyone is having a good time except you,” Roland says. His hot breath beats against my throat. “Get off the bloody clock for once.”
All at once, his hand is between my legs. I suck in a sharp breath. He’s cupping my groin, fondling me. And dammit if I don’t get instantly hard for him.
All the prince has to do is so much as look my way and I’m ready to burst. Like a fucking virgin. Only now he’s fondling me, rubbing his palm over my length. It’s embarrassing how quickly I get painfully erect, even though there’s still a tent of fabric separating us. I grip the sides of the counter, and the blue tile gets slippery under my fingertips. “Fuck,” I moan.
My zipper hisses open and frees some room. Boldly, Roland’s fingers slip under the waistband of my briefs and wrap around my needy organ. The way he touches me… it’s familiar. As though his hands were made for my dick. He’s slow to start and holds me first, all five fingers wrapped around.
It has to be his first time touching another man’s cock. Has to be. I’ve been there. I was a teenager the first time I touched another man. He was a fellow dockhand, and we jerked each other off in an expensive old schooner that didn’t belong to either of us. I remember the fumbling touches. The frantic gasps. Biting back sex sounds as the tethered boat pitched side to side in the stormy waters.
I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a man, in an estate worth ten times my life savings. Roland is different, too. He’s curious. Each touch is purposeful, exploring. His fingers slip up and down my cock, and I feel them tracing the ridges of my veins. When he draws a circle around my ultrasensitive head, I inhale with a sharp hiss. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he slows but continues to fondle the tip of me, painting me with my own precum.
Fuck. He’s testing my limits. I know because that’s exactly what I do. I learn a body. Find its weaknesses. Push them. I’m not used to being on this end… and I’m not complaining. I grit my teeth and brace myself as agonizing pleasure shudders through me.
“The way you kissed me last night”—Roland’s breath feels hot on my throat when he speaks—“that was something.”
“Was it?” My mind is swimming.
“You kissed me like you’d been waiting to do that.”
“I have,” I blurt out. He’s sliding my cock through his fingers in long, slow pulls, and it’s making me fucking idiotic.
“For how long?”
Since the first time I laid eyes on you. My pride only lets me choke out, “A long time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Now it’s like a vice is wrapped around my throat. His body is warm at my back, though, and his hand continues to stroke. Encouraging.
“I couldn’t.”
“Because I’m the prince of England?”
“Because you’re my best mate.”
He lets out a soft noise, like a sigh in my ear, and it makes my heart pound. When he shifts forward, I can feel his hard bulge press against my rear. “I’d say we’re a bit more than mates now, don’t you think?” Roland says.
“What does that make you… my boyfriend?” I’m throwing darts at the wall and hoping they hit.
To my relief, he breathes a single word in my ear, “Yes. And you’re mine.”
I can’t tell what he means by that—does you’re mine mean you’re my boyfriend or you belong to me? Maybe both.
I top. I always top. But here, with Roland’s hand around my prick and his shaft against my rear, I just might make an exception. I shift back, brushing against his erection, and it makes my lion purr.
In his explorations, he finds a golden spot under my bulbous head. My hips jerk forward, and I feel my cock flex in his hand.
“Do you like that?” he murmurs, his ministrations unceasing.
I’m breathless. My face burns. “Yes.”
“If I keep stroking you right here, will it make you blow?”
“Yes,” I gasp urgently.
He kisses my throat, and I feel his smile. “Good. I want you to lose control. Just for me. Come on, Ben.” He jerks me quickly now, his thumb rubbing tiny circles right fucking there. “Give me everything you’ve got.”
Normally, I’m quiet as a bloody church mouse when I reach my peak. Now? I howl. I explode in his hand. I’m a throbbing, leaking, panting mess.
Roland presses a single, firm kiss to the back of my neck, where my skull meets my spine. I shiver. It grounds me. “You came all over my hand,” he observes.
“Yeah,” I pant. No shit. I want to say something sarcastic or snippy to distance myself from the situation, but my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. Instead, I come out with, genuinely, “You have that effect on me.” My defenses are thin. Everything is exposed, raw. My pulse is beating in the palm of his hand. For once, I’m not rushing off to recover my composure. I’m safe here. I let myself unravel.
The sound of the sliding glass doors breaks me out of my dream state. “It is sooo beautiful out there,” Rory chirps. As soon as she spots us tangled up, however, her feet come to a quick stop.
Shit. I straighten up and tuck myself back into my pants. Should we have done that without her? What are the rules? I
’m so fucking out of my element; I need a bloody guidebook to navigate these waters.
“Should I come back in later?” Rory asks.
Without any sense of haste or urgency, Roland unwinds from me. “Ben, I told you not to leave the door open,” he says. “We’ve got a little ginger stray.” With that, Roland crouches down and makes little whistling, clicking noises. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he coos, extending his hand toward her.
Leave it to Roland to find the most bizarre ways to include Rory. Effortlessly, he turns an awkward situation into a game.
And leave it to Rory to play along. Without batting an eye, she gets down on her knees, and begins to crawl over to us.
She meows when she reaches Roland and nuzzles her head against his thigh. Say what you will about Rory, but she goes all out. I find myself watching, mesmerized, as he pets her hair.
“Does kitten want cream?” Roland asks and shows her his hand, glistening with my cum.
Rory sits down in front of him, and her green eyes go wide. She licks her lips and mewls.
Roland offers his hand. Rory licks him clean bit by bit, her pink tongue lapping over each finger. “Good girl,” Roland praises.
Bloody hell. Even with my orgasm only moments ago, the sight of them makes my organ stir to life again. I want seconds. I want her to lick my cock the way she’s licking his hand.
Normally, I have better control over myself. Rory and Roland have unleashed a beast.
Once Rory has licked every drop, Roland takes her chin and rewards her with a kiss. “Thank Ben for your treat, pet,” Roland commands.
Rory crawls over, sits at my feet, and looks up at me. She’s submissive now, a role she falls into so easily, but still so bright and bold. Those green eyes meet mine, and she says, “Thank you for my cream, sir.”
Goddamn. It’s enough to make me purr. I lower myself so I’m level with her. “Good girl,” I say and kiss her. She sighs into my mouth. She tastes like me, and the warmth of her tongue sends pleasure sparking through my blood.
My hand slips inside her jeans, and she spreads her knees, wanting.
“Let’s take this outside,” Roland announces just as my thumb grazes her knickers. “And bring the limoncello.”