ROYAL

by Renshaw, Winter

  He’s completely focused on me. My needs. My pleasure.

  I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a man put me first. His licks and strokes are equally tender and heart-stopping. A sweet, yet painful reminder of everything I’ve missed the last seven years.

  My sex aches for more, for him, for that connection I crave so deeply it terrifies me.

  Royal abandons me seconds before I reach my peak, rising slowly until our eyes meet and his heat radiates through me.

  He kisses me once more, and I taste myself on him. I taste what he does to me. His hand cups the side of my face, his fingers behind my neck.

  “Come on,” he whispers, his mouth still pressed against mine.

  His hand drags down my arm until he laces his fingers into mine, and then he leads me into my bedroom, guiding me to the center of the bed I’ve shared with Brooks for years.

  The discordant feeling I get when I sprawl across the center of this bed is quickly overshadowed by the ripe rush that floods through me when I watch Royal yank his belt open and unzip the fly of his gray work pants.

  In an instant, he’s naked and on top of me, his thick erection grazing my trembling inner thighs. I want to feel him inside me, all of him, with nothing between us.

  His hips buck and move, his cock teasing my slit. He presses his half-open lips against mine, dragging my lower lip between his teeth and releasing it. When he claims my mouth again, I feel him smile.

  “Why are you smiling?” I whisper.

  He props himself above me, and I trace the indentation of his triceps with my fingernails.

  “Because fucking you in the bed you once shared with Brooks is vindicating, don’t you think?” His voice is breathy, his gaze intense in the dark.

  I nod, my chest rising and falling, my skin sticky against his.

  “This should’ve been us, Demi,” he says. “This should’ve been our bed. You should’ve been living in a house I bought for you, wearing a ring I put on your finger. This was always supposed to be our life.”

  I’ve had that thought a thousand times before. Maybe more.

  “Anyway,” he says, depositing a kiss in the hollow beneath my neck. “Back to this amazing revenge sex we’re about to have . . .”

  I bite a smile and widen my thighs, heart pounding in my ears. Royal has a way of making shitty situations a million times better. Right now, I should be packing, thinking about my eviction and my jobless situation. I’m technically homeless.

  In under two weeks, life as I knew it completely evaporated into thin air.

  I should be lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  But this man, the one with the stormy blue gaze and dimpled smile, who looks at me with nothing but love in his eyes, is all I can think about.

  His hips circle in mine. One slip, and he’d be inside. And I want that so fucking badly.

  Holding his chiseled, bristly face in my hands, I swallow a deep breath and lick my lips.

  “I’m on the pill,” I say.

  “And I’m clean.”

  My heart hammers so hard it almost hurts, and I nod. And with one sliding thrust, he’s deep inside me.

  He settles into a riding rhythm aided by my slickness, and his girth stretches me until I’m formed to him. We fit perfectly, and it feels natural. I’ve never been with anyone bareback before. Even in high school, we only ever used condoms because I was too scared to ask our family doctor for birth control pills.

  I’ve never even been with Brooks bareback before. We always doubled up because he was adamant about not wanting to become a father.

  Apparently, exceptions are made when your pussy is attached to the name Afton Mayfield.

  Tingles ricochet from every part of me, and my body shudders when the hint of an orgasm ripples between my thighs. They’re like little mini earthquakes, and the build intensifies with each one.

  The sheets tangle around our bodies, another subtle “fuck you” to Brooks and his Pottery Barn catalog lifestyle. God forbid our bed ever looked a hot mess. And God forbid he ever took the time to make it. He hated duvets yet insisted upon them because they looked better than quilts.

  Royal’s taut, steely muscles flex and bulge as he moves above me, and his thrusts grow harder, needier. His face lowers to mine, and I welcome his lips with an open mouth.

  I could never tire of his kisses, his tongue, his lips. His taste.

  His body possesses mine with every impalement, and our breathless sighs mix in the dark night air of the room I once shared with the man I was never supposed to be with.

  Once again, in a roundabout way, Royal saved my life by intervening at exactly the right moment.

  “I love you, Demi,” he breathes into my ear.

  His words send tingles dancing across my flesh.

  The words are there, on the tip of my tongue. The feeling has never gone away, no matter how much I tried, no matter how many times I told myself I hated this man.

  “I love you so much,” he whispers, burying his head in my wild hair.

  He’s not expecting me to say it back. At least I don’t think so.

  He’s simply telling me. Stating his truth. And I know, when I look into his eyes, that he means it. That it killed him to stand back and watch me live our happily ever after with the wrong man. A man who clearly didn’t deserve me.

  “I love you too, Royal. I never stopped.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Demi

  I’m wrapped in twisted sheets the next morning. Royal is passed out beside me, his masculine musk invading my lungs.

  Nothing got packed last night.

  We were a little . . . preoccupied.

  The alarm clock on my bedside table gives off a shrill ring at six in the morning. My eyes hurt so badly and refuse to open, but I don’t have a choice. I reach over and silence that annoying little thing. It’s one of those vintage looking ones that don’t have a snooze button, or else I’d tell it to shut up for at least another eight minutes.

  Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe downstairs to where the empty cardboard boxes line my counters. Fishing around in the junk drawer, I pull out a permanent marker and start labeling them.

  I don’t have much, really.

  My clothes and shoes.

  Some toiletries.

  Some artwork painted by my sister, Daphne. Some family photos that do not include Brooks.

  I don’t own as much as a single piece of furniture in this house. None of what I had before was good enough for this house. Brooks made me sell it all on Craigslist for a fraction of what it was worth.

  The tromping sound of Royal coming down the stairs puts a smile on my face.

  “Good morning.” I move toward the coffeemaker, grabbing a white mug off a nearby hook and pouring him a cup.

  “Morning, Dem.” He takes it from me, kissing the side of my face, and hopping up on the ledge of the counter. The morning sunlight paints his chiseled body in a warm glow, capturing his natural tan and highlighting the sleeve of tattoos covering his right arm.

  “What time do you have to be at work?” I ask.

  “Not until one,” he says. “I’m working the late shift today so I can help you pack.”

  “Thank you.” I pour myself a cup and palm the mug in my hands, admiring the gentle sweetness of this moment.

  Everything about being with him again feels natural. It’s as if the war that had been waging within me for nearly a decade has taken a breather. My heart is tired. My head is tired. And being with him brings a brand new sense of calm and completeness I never expected to feel.

  “Where are you going to live?” His forehead crinkles when he takes a sip of the steaming black coffee, and he’s so fucking adorable.

  “With my parents. For now.” I roll my eyes. I’m not proud of being twenty-five and completely and temporarily dependent on my parents, but it’s not like any of this was my choice. “I’m looking for a new job, but it’s kind of hard to find teaching gigs in the middle of the sc
hool year. Once I find something, I’ll move out.”

  Royal’s expression falls, and I know what he’s thinking.

  Me living with my parents doesn’t bode well for us getting to know each other all over again. They’ll never allow him over, at least not without a lot of pleading and convincing, and even then, who knows?

  “I know this is going to sound completely insane,” he says. “But . . .”

  “No, I’m not going to move in with you.” I stop him before he has a chance to even suggest something that ludicrous. “I appreciate the offer though.”

  “I just want to be able to see you,” he says. “Any time I want. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to drive through Rixton Falls on my way home every night and know that you’re a few miles away and completely inaccessible to me.”

  I move toward him, placing my palm against his chest.

  “I’ll come to you,” I say. “We’ll meet at your place.”

  There’s a hint of relief in his softened stare, and he runs his hands through his messy locks. There must be leftover product in them, because they stay where he leaves them. No wonder his hair always smells amazing.

  I smirk at the idea of Royal primping and preening in front of a mirror every day. He always was a pretty boy. Pretty eyes and a pretty smile to contrast with his masculine, chiseled features.

  “Your parents aren’t going to like this, you know,” he says. “You running off every night to be with me.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m not seventeen anymore,” I say. “They can’t tell me who to be with.”

  “So you’re with me?” The left corner of his mouth rises until a dimple centers his cheek.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Then what was last night?”

  “Last night was just . . . sex.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what you said.”

  “Oh?” I hide my smile with my coffee mug. Heat sears my cheeks when I think about how I told him I loved him last night. I’d wanted to say that to him since the second I saw him again last week. But I also wanted to slap him that night too. I’m a confused girl, and I’m going through a lot, so I can’t be held responsible for the crazy shit that falls out of my mouth half the time.

  “You said you loved me.” He sips his coffee. “Did you mean it?”

  I exhale, staring out the kitchen window above the sink behind him.

  “I’m always going to love you, Royal,” I say with a sigh. “When I’m ninety years old, on my death bed and looking back on my life, you’re probably going to be in the forefront of my mind. You have this permanent place in my heart, and I can’t shake the feelings I have for you no matter what I do.”

  He studies me, listening to my words with devastating intensity, like his life depends on them.

  “And I’ve enjoyed these last two weeks with you,” I say. “Despite everything that’s going on right now, you’ve been this unexpected rock for me, and I appreciate it. And I love the way you make me forget about everything, even if it’s temporary. But if you take away all of that, you and I are still a couple of strangers who loved each other once upon a time.”

  He blows a held breath and glances away.

  “So no, Royal. I’m not with you. And I’m not going to move in with you. But I do want to keep seeing you,” I say carefully. “I have a lot of hurt. A lot of questions. And I have a lot of healing to do yet. And looking at you, I think you do too.”

  Our eyes meet, and my hand runs down his rippled abs until it finds his. He takes mine, threading our fingers.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I want you to know that. I’m never leaving you again. Not unless you want me to. And when you’re ninety years old, lying on your deathbed, I don’t want you thinking about what we once had when we were kids. I want you to think about the beautiful life we had together. Because I want that with you. I want us to spend our whole lives together. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you, Demi. And if you decide I’m not what you want, if we go our separate ways, even if I find someone else someday, you should know that I’ll never love her half as much as I love you.”

  “Royal.” My hand lifts to my chest. No one’s ever loved me the way he has, and I don’t think anyone ever will.

  “Fine,” he says. “You’re not mine now. You’re not with me now. But someday you will be. And I’ll wait, because you’re worth waiting for.”

  He leans down, kissing the top of my head, and I burrow into the crook of his warm, bare shoulder.

  “You really love me, don’t you?” I ask.

  “You’re the only thing I’ve ever loved.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Demi

  Mom’s rolled sleeves are covered in flour dust as she rolls a piecrust on the kitchen island Thanksgiving morning.

  “Look who’s up,” Daphne teases, peeling and slicing apples by the sink. She got in from Paris a couple of days ago, and I’ve been spending as much time with her as I can, balancing my nightly visits with Royal with catching her up to speed.

  Daphne confided in me last night about her French lover. He was almost twice her age, and Mom and Dad would flip if they knew. Although she only spent a semester away, it’s like she came back years older and wiser, and she wants to go back for another semester. Her lover has the hookup for a graduate residency at a centuries-old art museum in the south of France, but I have a hunch she mostly wants to go back to see him.

  My sister was surprisingly unfazed by and at the same time supportive of the Royal reunion, and she wants to see him before she goes back to school after break.

  “Late night?” Daphne winks when Mom’s not looking, and I lift my fingers to my lips to shush her. It feels like we’re back in high school again. It always somehow seemed like Daphne was the one covering for me when I’d sneak downstairs into Royal’s room at night.

  I’m twenty-five, and they can’t control who I spend my time with, but I don’t think they’d appreciate me sneaking in the house at one in the morning most nights. And no matter my age, they can always pull the “my house, my rules” card, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

  “Demi, sweetheart, why don’t you roll up your sleeves and start peeling potatoes?” Mom asks. “I’ve got a five pound bag over there. Peeler’s in the top drawer.”

  I get to work, my heart racing in my ear when I think about dropping the news on them.

  I’m not staying here for Thanksgiving dinner today.

  It’ll be my first Thanksgiving without my family. Ever. And I don’t know how they’re going to take it, especially with Daphne being home from Paris for the first time in months.

  Biting my lip, I drag in a slow breath and clear my throat. “I’ll help you cook today, Mom, but I won’t be staying for dinner.”

  Daphne drops an unpeeled apple, brushing a wave of blonde hair from her frozen face, and Mom turns to face me.

  “Since Royal’s not welcome here, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving at his mother’s house.” The collective weight of their stares prevents me from speaking another word. I need a reaction. I need to know how upset they are with me.

  “His mother?” Mom asks. “Is he in touch with her?”

  Her curiosity and the fact that she didn’t sweep any mention of Royal under the rug makes me hopeful. She always did have a soft spot for him.

  “They reconnected.” I clear my throat. “She was there for him when no one else was.”

  Mom returns to her piecrust and Daphne picks up the slick, naked apple and slices it into thin strips.

  “I don’t appreciate your passive aggressive tone, Demetria,” Mom says.

  “That’s not how I meant it. I was simply stating the reason they reconnected.” I run a potato under water and start peeling, nearly slicing a thin layer of skin off the side of my index finger. “Anyway, that’s where I’ll be today.”

  I’m met with radio silence, and when I turn
around, I see Mom staring to the side, lost in thought. I don’t want to upset her, but it’s not right that Royal’s intentionally excluded without so much as an attempt to see the kind of man he’s become.

  “Well.” Mom clucks her tongue, dusting off her hands and moving toward the stove where some pumpkin pies are cooling. “Be sure to take a pie. You can’t show up empty-handed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Royal

  “What are you doing here, Demi?”

  The love of my life stands on the other side of my door, a covered pie in hand and a warm smile on her face.

  “Surprise.” She grins, her shoulders shrugging. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with you today. And your mom.”

  I move aside, and she steps into my apartment, setting the pie on the ledge of the counter.

  “When did you decide this?” I pull her into my arms, resting my hands on the curve above her hips.

  “On the drive home last night.” She inches on her tiptoes to meet my kiss.

  It kills me, but I know Demi is not my girlfriend. We’re not together. She makes it perfectly clear anytime I ask.

  But she kisses me like she loves me. She looks at me like she loves me. And she says she loves me.

  I’ll take real love over some stupid formality any day of the week.

  “You ready to meet Mona?” My lips inch into an apprehensive smirk. “She’s like the anti Bliss Rosewood, just so you know. She’s everything your mother . . . isn’t.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “Not everyone has to be Bliss. Not everyone can be Bliss.”

  I glance at Demi and smirk, shaking my head. “All right. Let me throw my coat on. Let’s go introduce you to Mona Lockhart.”

  ***

  I don’t warn her before we get there. I don’t tell her that Mona’s house smells like death warmed over or that she’s probably going to end up doing most of the food prep because Mona can hardly walk across the room without losing her breath. I don’t warn her that Mona’s speaking voice is comparable to anyone else’s yell or that sometimes she decides not to wear her teeth, and it makes her lips cave in in a really weird way. I don’t warn her that Mona tends to rub people the wrong way with her blunt honesty, and she doesn’t have a clue she’s doing it half the time.