Royally Mine: 22 All-New Bad Boy Romance Novellas

by Susan Stoker

  “I missed you,” I say in a low voice, my cock at her entrance, thick and ready.

  “I missed you,” she replies, tilting her chin up, biting my lip. She sucks in a breath when I impale her, her pussy slick but tight, just like I like it.

  “Fuck.” I’m buried inside her, and I can’t get close enough.

  She’s clinging to me, and desire takes over, the urge to plunder, to re-claim, to take, and possess, and all I can feel is her, her wrapped around my cock, her mouth on my mouth, her breath on me, her wrists in my hands. And when I hear her moan and feel the walls of her cunt tighten around my cock, I come inside her, I come hard, and I know this is where I belong. With her. Holding her. Together. Always.

  ~The End~

  About Natasha Knight

  I am a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance. My specialty is a dark, tortured hero, and I guarantee a Happily-Ever-After in all my books. But I will give you one hell of a ride to get there!

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  Shear Heaven by Katy Regnery

  SHEAR HEAVEN

  Copyright © 2017 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery

  For Maria Raduazzo

  Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Licensed for inclusion in the ROYALLY MINE Anthology from Aug. 1, 2017 – Nov. 30, 2017

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com

  First Edition: August 2017

  Katy Regnery

  Shear Heaven: a novella / by Katy Regnery – 1st ed.

  ISBN: Unassigned until general release

  Chapter One

  “La Contessa de Perugia requires a wash and style tomorrow, Bella. Surely we can fit her in?”

  Bella blinked up at her godmother and boss, Madame Gothel, who stood beside an elegant, middle-aged woman at the reception desk of the salon.

  Surely we can’t, thought Bella, looking down at the already-overbooked appointment log for tomorrow. “I’m so sorry, but tomorrow is already—”

  “Two o’clock?” trilled Madame Gothel, smiling at the client.

  “Sí. Perfecto. Grazie, madame.”

  “Brilliant. Add la Contessa to the schedule at two, Bella.”

  It occurred to her to ask, With whom? but she held her tongue, writing “Perugia” in tiny letters next to the four already-confirmed appointments.

  Madame smiled at the contessa, gesturing with her palm to the glass doors that led to the hotel elevator. “I’m leaving for today. Let me walk you out.” Looking over her shoulder, she scanned the reception area before sniffing at Bella. “Straighten up in here before locking up, Bella. I’ll see you at home. Good night.”

  Though her shift should have ended three hours ago, Bella nodded. “Of course. Good night, Madame.”

  Dropping her eyes back to the appointment book, Bella stared at tomorrow’s schedule in dismay. Madame Gothel’s intimate, world-famous Innsbruck Salon and Spa, located on the top floor of New York’s Metro Tower Hotel, was in high demand but seriously understaffed.

  It didn’t help that the last receptionist had only lasted three days before Madame had sacked her. Which meant Bella was now working double duty: as a stylist from nine to five every day and as receptionist from five to eight every evening as well. Though she didn’t recall agreeing to the increased responsibilities and hours, Bella’s parents had passed away four years ago, and Madame Gothel, her godmother, had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go. Besides, there was something about Madame that made refusing unthinkable. And a little terrifying.

  Closing the appointment book, Bella sighed. Five appointments. Four stylists. They’d have to figure it out tomorrow. Perhaps one of the other two o’clock appointments would cancel, she thought, though she knew it was unlikely.

  Opening the desk drawer, she grabbed the ring of salon keys, then walked over to the glass doors, squatting down to lock them. Back at the desk, she took out the Windex and a fresh rag, then got to work shining the chrome desk top, the glass doors, and the many decorative mirrors and shiny surfaces in the small reception room. She watered the plants, taking care to remove the brown leaves and throw them in the trash. As she fanned out the magazines on the end tables, enjoying the quiet, a knock on the glass doors made her jump, and she whipped around to see a man standing in the darkened lobby, his hand raised in greeting.

  “Are you open?” he enunciated carefully through the glass.

  She shook her head no, stepping over to the locked doors. “Sorry.”

  “Damn it,” he muttered, his eyebrows knitting together as he stared at her.

  As she drew closer, she felt her face soften as she stared through the glass into dark eyes surrounded with longer and thicker lashes than any man on earth had a right to. She guessed he was about her age—in his midtwenties—and he wore a tailored tuxedo, pressed and perfect on his tall, filled-out frame, a white rosebud tucked into the lapel.

  “We reopen tomorrow morning.”

  “I need help now,” he pressed, running a hand through his dark hair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wringing her hands together. Madame would have her head if she suddenly reopened the salon after hours without permission. “I can try to fit you in tomorrow morning at—”

  “No! Please. Let me explain,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “My sister, Valentina…she is…” He rubbed the dark beard on his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Your sister?” she prompted.

  “She needs help getting ready.”

  “Oh?”

  “For her engagement party”—he glanced at his watch—“which is in three-quarters of an hour.” He sighed, clenching his jaw. “Per favore! This is…eh! Che casino!” What a mess!

  She froze, the sound of her native language disarming her, making her lean forward and ask automatically, “Posso aiutarla?” How can I help?

  His face, which had been fraught with consternation, softened, his lips tilting up in a slight smile as he looked down at her through the glass.

  “Parli italiano?” You speak Italian?

  “Sí,” she replied. “Sono svizzero, de Ticino.” Yes. I’m Swiss, from Ticino.

  “Sei lontano de casa.” You’re far away from home. As he said this, he unfurled his fists, which were by his sides.

  “Sí.”

  “Mi aiuterai per favore, bella?” Will you help me, beautiful?

  Bella.

  She knew that he’d only used the word as a common endearment, but hearing her name tumble from his gorgeous lips was her ultimate undoing.

  What Madame didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  She nodded, kneeling down on the floor, pulling the keys from the pocket of her dark-blue denim skirt and unlocking the door. Rising slowly, she noted the shiny, stiff black leather of his shoes, the purple silk cummerbund with a repeat of golden shields, and the crisp, white shirt tucked into his trim waist. She took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to his, forcing herself not to linger on the fullness of his lips or swoon when she looked into his dark-blue eyes.

  His hand reached for the door handle, and he pulled it open.

  She’d been deprived of his smell from the other side of the glass, but the breath she held became painful as her heart thundered against her ribs in recognition of it: Acqua Nobile.

  Exhaling softly, she breathed in through her nose, her eyes fluttering closed
just for a moment as she savored the scent.

  “Signorina?”

  Blinking her eyes open, she looked up at his face, taking another deep breath. “Sí?”

  “Do you arrange hair?”

  “Hair?”

  “Capelli?” he asked, pointing to his head.

  Capelli. Her surname. She nodded at him, feeling dreamy from the combination of his ridiculous eyelashes and delicious smell and hearing her name issue from his lips yet again. “Sí.”

  “Stupendo,” he said, reaching for her hand and pulling her from the glass tower. “Come with me.”

  ***

  His Serene Highness Nicolo Alessandro Lorenzo Giovanni De’Medici was not accustomed to begging for help from anyone, but his twin sister, Valentina, had stumbled into their shared hotel suite an hour ago, after being out all last night and most of today. Though he doubted very much that she’d been drinking, she smelled of Eau d’Club: a mixture of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sweat; her blonde hair was tangled; and her eyes were bloodshot and weary. Nico had ordered her into the shower, then left the suite, scrambling to find someone to get her in presentable condition for the engagement festivities that were starting at nine o’clock.

  Racing to the elevator, Nico’s plan had been to go downstairs to the concierge to ask for help, until he noticed a hotel business listing on the elevator wall, including a salon and spa within the hotel. He’d pressed the button for the thirty-second floor instead, relieved to find someone still moving around inside the dark reception area.

  When she’d first turned around, he’d felt an instant jolt of heat sluice through his body.

  Were he handed a brush and told to paint a picture of his “type”—of the sort of girl who attracted him more than any other—little by little, her image would appear on the canvas.

  She was petite with jet-black hair and dark-brown eyes. A tight, black leotard-like top hugged her lush, rounded breasts, showcasing the creamy white skin of her chest. She wore no jewelry and very little makeup, but she needed neither in his opinion. His eyes had dropped to her tiny waist, then to the full, dark-blue skirt she wore a la Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

  There was a country freshness to her that had only been reaffirmed with the realization that she spoke Italian with a Swiss accent. The Italian-Swiss state of Ticino sat almost entirely surrounded by Italy on the south, west, and most of the east and was known for its rivers, lakes, and farmable land. Generally regarded as less sophisticated than the rest of Switzerland, it boasted a healthy wine industry, and Nico imagined this girl, with her dark hair unbound, standing in the afternoon sunlight of a Swiss vineyard, surrounded by plump grapes, green leaves, and rich soil the approximate color of her eyes.

  He still held her wrist as they entered the elevator side by side, but she pulled away from him as the chrome doors closed, taking a step to her left as he swiped his card and pressed nineteen. It was only then Nico realized that he hadn’t properly introduced himself to her.

  “Ah-hem,” he started in English, facing her and holding out his hand. “I’m Nico De’Medici.”

  She turned slightly, taking his outstretched hand in her much smaller one. “De’Medici? That’s a famous name in Tuscany.”

  He shook her hand gently. “I’m from Fiesole.”

  “I’ve visited Villa Medici in Florence,” she said, pulling her hand away.

  He grinned at her casual reference to his family’s ancestral home. “Mm. Yes. They kept the name, but the castle was overtaken by the Borghese family more than two hundred years ago.”

  “Damn Borgheses, always stealing castles,” she said lightly, chuckling softly.

  She seemed fairly proper, so her comment surprised him, but he laughed along with her. “Sold, not stolen. We relocated to an eighteenth-century villa in the hills. Much less drafty.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, nodding merrily as though colluding with him. “No one wants to live in big, drafty castles today with the cost of petrol so outrageous. Villas are so much cozier.”

  Her tone made it clear that she didn’t recognize him, but then, she wasn’t actually one of his countrymen, since she was Swiss and he was Italian. Very Italian. As the only son of His Serene Highness Prince Filipe De’Medici, Nico was an Italian prince.

  An Italian prince with a dwindling family fortune, he thought, thinking of the villa he’d just mentioned, which his family was on the brink of losing.

  “I loved Florence,” she commented with a small, wistful sigh.

  “Were you only there once?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. Many times. When my parents were still…” Her voice trailed off and she dropped his eyes, looking down at her little black slipper-shoes.

  “Your parents?”

  “We traveled a great deal in Italy,” she finished softly.

  He sensed that speaking about her parents bothered her, so he nudged her gently in the side with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood. “But you never met any De’Medicis or Borgheses on your travels, eh?”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” she asked, her eyes brightening again as she looked up at him and grinned. “To meet a real Medici or Borghese?”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Think so?”

  She nodded. “The Italian nobility isn’t nearly as famous as the British, of course. I mean, I could pick William or Harry out of a crowd, but plop an Italian prince in front of me and I’d have no idea.”

  “None at all,” he echoed, staring at her sweet expression.

  “But I still think it would be fun. You know, to meet actual royalty.”

  “Hmm.” He wondered if he should reveal his identity, but he was enjoying her comments way too much to confess who he was. “Maybe you will. Someday.”

  The elevator dinged on the nineteenth floor, and Nico held the door for her, watching her skirt swirl softly as she stepped from the lift to the plush carpeting of the hotel’s presidential level.

  “I’ve never been on this floor,” she whispered. “Only guests and ‘necessary staff’ have keycards.”

  “Well, consider yourself necessary staff tonight,” he said, exiting the elevator.

  Nico glanced at his watch. It was almost eight thirty and Valentina would be expected downstairs in the Grand Ballroom in exactly thirty minutes.

  “Come on,” he said, turning left down a wide, elegant hallway.

  She followed behind him, her footsteps soft.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said over his shoulder.

  “It’s Bella,” she said. “Bella Capelli.”

  He stopped short and turned to look at her. “Your name means ‘beautiful hair’?”

  She blinked at him, then shrugged.

  “Is that a joke?”

  “No.”

  “A pseudonym? For work purposes?”

  “No,” she said again. “It’s my real name.”

  “Coincidence or fate?” he asked, staring into her bright, coffee-colored eyes.

  “Both?” she murmured.

  “Coincidence and fate,” he said softly, then added, “Your eyes are very beautiful too, Bella Capelli.”

  “Grazie,” she murmured, her pink lips softly parted as she gazed up at him.

  Not far down the hallway, they heard the sound of pottery hitting a wall and shattering to the floor, and both of them flinched, turning in the direction of the melee.

  Hmm. Valentina must be out of the shower.

  “Cos’hai?” she asked. What was that?

  He looked at her wide eyes, then grabbed her elbow. “Valentina can be…a handful.”

  She didn’t resist him, so he tugged her the remaining hundred feet, pulled his key card from his pocket, and flashed it in front of the reader.

  “Ready, Bella Capelli?”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “To meet my sister.”

  Without giving her time to respond, he surged through the door to his suite, holding it open for her to follow.

  *
**

  The gorgeous parlor was in complete disarray.

  A coffee table was resting on its side, throw pillows were lying on the floor, and a smashed coffee mug lay in pieces on the hardwood floor.

  Someone was having a tantrum.

  “Vai a cagare!” screamed Valentina, stalking out of the bedroom holding the in-room coffeemaker, a white towel wrapped around her chest and her wet hair lying limp around her shoulders. She spied Nico and Bella by the suite door. “Chi é lei?”

  Who is she? she demanded of Nico, narrowing her eyes and staring daggers at Bella.

  “This is Bella,” he said. “Lavora al parrucchiere dell’hotel.” She works in the hotel salon.

  “You are…hair stylist?” asked Valentina in heavily accented English.

  “Yes,” said Bella, flicking an uneasy glance at the coffeemaker.

  Valentina sighed with annoyance. “What ees your specialty?”

  Bella turned her head slightly, showing the intricate braids woven into a complicated bun on the base of her neck. “I did this without a mirror. Do you like it?”

  “Eet’s okay,” she said, fighting to look unimpressed. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at Bella. “Understand, stylist-girl, I need hair for princess.”

  She scoffed lightly. Someone has a high opinion of herself.

  Bella gestured to the desk and chair to her right, then reached for the poor coffeemaker. “Why don’t you give this to me and take a seat over there? We’ll get started.”

  Valentina frowned at the machine in Bella’s arms. “That is broken…and I need coffee.”

  Turning away as Valentina sauntered over to the desk, Bella reached down to right the upended coffee table and placed the troublesome coffeemaker on it. She lifted her eyes to Nico. “Could you ask room service to send up some coffee?”

  “Of course,” he said, cocking his head to the side. “You know, you’re very calming. You’re good with her.”