Hot Heir: A Royal Bodyguard / Secret Heir / Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  Peach beams and turns to Ms. Aurora. “He told me he fell in love with me that very minute. Viktor—I’m sorry, His Majesty—has a high regard for people who are loyal enough to their friends that they’re willing to risk prison time to protect them.”

  “So lovely to see young people in love,” Ms. Aurora says, her smile growing until several new wrinkles form in her cheeks. “And how is the intercourse?”

  “Just the way I like it,” Peach replies without hesitation. “But His Majesty is far more modest with talking about it, and we shouldn’t make him uncomfortable. That would completely ruin my night, if you catch my drift.”

  “I do indeed, Your Majesty. But I’m still concerned at the rumors floating about today that you wed merely to claim the kingdom, King Viktor.”

  And there’s the volley I’d hoped would not come. “You’ve no reason for concern, Ms. Aurora.”

  “His Majesty was forced to remove the Duke of Prievia from the palace this morning when the duke was quite inappropriate and rude to Her Majesty,” Leonie interjects. “While I should never speak ill of a peer, I would perhaps suggest that there is a long history of division within the country over the rightful heirs to the kingdom.”

  “And I understand you’ve not planned a wedding yet?”

  Peach starts.

  “As we’ve already wed—” I begin.

  The elderly woman snorts. “A courthouse in America,” she sniffs. “A king should have a proper wedding.”

  “Ms. Aurora, our first priority is the people of Amoria,” Peach interjects. “We owe you far more service to earn the privilege of having all these big to-dos before we could impose on the people for more ceremony for us.”

  She smiles.

  Ms. Aurora frowns. “Are you unwilling to declare your love for our king in a public forum?”

  I open my mouth, but am suddenly also the recipient of a sharp elbow to the side. “I assure you, Ms. Aurora, I would not have quit my job, left my friends, and moved my family halfway around the world to live in a land where I don’t speak the language if I were afraid to stand up in a public forum and declare my love for Viktor.”

  “Oh, that’s most wonderful.” Ms. Aurora claps her hands. “The international attention and tourism dollars a royal wedding would bring in will go such a long way toward improving our roads and our schools. But do plan it quickly. Before…” She trails off with a meaningful look at Peach’s stomach.

  “It’s been lovely to—” I start, but a scream from the rose bushes interrupts me.

  I grab Peach and Ms. Aurora both, putting them behind me while Leonie leaps in front of all of us.

  Guests are scattering.

  Someone crashes into the table bearing a tiered cake, and it topples to the ground.

  More screams.

  Half the guards run toward the roses.

  The other half race to me as I’m attempting to herd Peach and Ms. Aurora toward the abbey.

  Peach tries to wrestle her way out of my grip while I try to shove Leonie out of the way.

  “Your Majesty—Oh my gracious heavens,” Leonie gasps, still trying to block us.

  Six brown-and-gray creatures streak before us, running in circles, as panicked as the rest of the party.

  “Oh, they’re so cute!” Peach says, which is diabolically annoying of her, because the woman has never once called anything, not even baby Sophie, cute in my presence.

  And polecats are not cute.

  They’re—

  “Oh my god,” Peach gasps.

  Yes.

  They’re wretchedly smelly creatures, much like skunks in America.

  We all clamp our hands to our mouths and noses as the smell of rotting corpses and decayed elephant excrement pollutes the air. I shove a handkerchief at Peach.

  One of the polecats squeals, turns, and aims its derriere at us.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, you little fucker!” Peach shrieks.

  Before I can stop her, she’s yanked off a shoe and flung it at the animal.

  “Peach,” I bark.

  “Your Majes—” Leonie breaks off with a gag as three more animals join the original half-dozen, all of them spraying anything that moves.

  Peach’s other shoe goes flying.

  Ladies are screaming.

  “Not the jewels!” Leonie gasps out.

  I grip Peach by the upper arms to stop her from yanking off the royal family’s ear baubles and using them as her next weapon, and I nearly gag at the wall of stink infiltrating my nostrils. My eyes are watering, but I blink and clear them, looking for the nearest escape route. Palace and abbey staff are running amok, some trying to save the tables of hors d’oeuvres, others covering their mouths with napkins or aprons and attempting to shoo the putrid animals.

  There must be thirty of them, all dashing about the abbey’s gardens as though they’re drunken monkeys hell-bent on causing as much destruction and mayhem as possible.

  “What is that?” Peach demands behind her hand while I assist the guards in crowding us toward the palace vehicles. “Smells like a skunk.”

  “Far worse, my lady,” I tell her.

  A guard takes a swipe at one with his ceremonial sword.

  The rabid animal goes up on its hind legs and hisses at all of us.

  “Shoo. Shoo, you mangy asshole!” Peach shrieks.

  It scampers away.

  “I’ve never seen so many in one place,” Leonie says between retching noises.

  Peach and I lock eyes.

  Her shoulders sag.

  My mouth is set so tight my teeth ache.

  “I’ll handle it,” she sighs.

  Then she gags.

  Quite rightly, as the putrid smell is sticking to us as though we’ve been doused in rotten eggs whilst wearing dead ferrets.

  Two guards usher us quickly into the SUV. It’s not until we’ve pulled away that I realize two things.

  One, Ms. Aurora is still with us.

  And two, we shall have to burn our clothes.

  And possibly all the hair off our bodies as well.

  “Lovely party,” Ms. Aurora says. She’s swallowed by the rear-facing captain’s chair she’s claimed, still holding a lace kerchief to her mouth. “Could we open a window?”

  “I hope the palace has gallons and gallons of hydrogen peroxide,” Peach says after she gags again. “And that your mama didn’t want any of these jewels, because I think that smell just clouded them all over.”

  Leonie stifles another wretch, and despite the guards’—and my own—objections, we return to the palace with the windows open.

  20

  Peach

  The only thing saving Papaya at the moment is the fact that I reek so bad I can’t even stand myself. My nose hairs have melted together, my skin itches like it’s trying to peel itself off and go live in a magical land of honey and roses where fucking polecats don’t exist, and I think even the lace on this dress has wilted in horror.

  We dash as quickly as we can through the front wing of the palace, across the courtyard, and into the private apartment, me in bare feet.

  Every staff member we pass starts to smile and approach, gets a whiff of us, blanches, and scurries away with half-hearted wishes that His Majesty have a nice evening.

  We burst through the family room, and Alexander and Samuel both bolt to their feet from the red velvet couch in front of the fireplace.

  Viktor called ahead to warn them, but apparently they didn’t believe us.

  “There’s an anti-stink mix in your bedroom,” Alexander reports.

  “Triple-lined trash bags for your clothes too,” Samuel adds. “Holy mother of god, I’ve smelled rotted corpses less fetid than you.”

  “Don’t go in the kitchen,” Alexander adds. “We’ve acquired actual ingredients for a real meal, and we shan’t have you ruining it.”

  Both men scramble out the door.

  And if I didn’t stink so bad, I’d kiss them both.

  “This would be real f
ucking funny if—” I stop, because if I say any more, I’m going to throw up.

  Viktor drags me up the stairs and into our bedroom suite. He’s already tearing off his suit coat and tie before we reach the bathroom, where—sure enough—bags and buckets are waiting for us.

  I twist around, trying to grab the zipper on this infernal dress. I’ve already dropped all the jewels.

  Unlike the rest of the palace rooms, the bathroom is small. We bump into each other as I’m spinning in front of the cracked marble sink.

  “Hold still,” Viktor orders.

  He must be some kind of superhero, because he says it without gagging. Not even a little.

  But when he unceremoniously unzips me from mid-back to the bottom of my ass cheeks, I gasp.

  And then gag again because I just inhaled straight stink.

  “Off with your clothes,” he orders.

  I’m too damn smelly to argue, so I drop the dress.

  He grabs it and shoves it in a bag, ties the bag off, reaches for the window over the toilet, and tosses the whole thing into the garden below.

  Someone shrieks.

  “Apologies,” Viktor calls.

  He gestures to me. “Off with the undergarments. We’ve only one bag left.”

  Fuck modesty. I need to be able to breathe without gagging again. I’m about to yank my pantyhose down when Viktor strips out of his pants in one smooth motion.

  And breathing suddenly becomes the last thing on my mind.

  The man is built.

  His thighs redefine muscular, his calves deserve to be knighted, and his round ass cheeks have probably never seen a jiggle in their lives.

  I turn and whip my attention to the crusty showerhead when he turns sideways and grabs the second bag. I pass my panties and hose behind me—the bra was built into my dress—and step into the shower stall. The walls and floor are cracked pink tile, and the drainpipe sits unevenly in the bottom. I crank the water without waiting for it to get hot, and barely stifle a yelp.

  “Careful,” Viktor orders, his voice strained.

  I glance over in time to see a very naked, very muscled, very grim-faced Viktor trying not to look at me while he puts a bucket just outside the normal reach of the shower. “Don’t dilute the mixture with the shower water. I fear we’ll need it all.”

  His biceps and forearms bunch and bulge, and until my dying day, I will never forget the utter perfection that is Viktor naked.

  His chest is wide, hard, and liberally sprinkled with dark hair. His pecs are solid without being so big that they bulge like he needs a bra. His shoulders are so tight they’re nearly balls of muscle. His abs should be framed. His hips are so sharp they could slice glass. And that perfect arrow of hair drifting down from his belly button draws my eye to his heavy cock, thickening and lengthening into a work of art as I watch.

  The slow-motion image of Viktor’s growing erection instantly sears into my brain, even though I jerk my head up and count the pinholes in the showerhead.

  But it’s not enough.

  I can still picture his swollen head, the veins pulsing around his shaft while it lifts to attention, and I wonder if my fingers and thumb would touch if I gripped it in my hand.

  My nipples are pebbling, and despite the smell still permeating the air, natural lubrication is flowing. I’m getting hot and wet over Viktor.

  Again.

  I snag a washcloth from the bent towel rack, dip it in the cool mixture in the water, and tackle my arms while I burst into song.

  “What the devil is that?” Viktor demands.

  He steps into the shower beside me, our hips accidentally touch, and I leap away from the searing thrill and unexpected silkiness of his skin beneath the rapidly warming shower water. “Hush up and let me sing so I don’t look at your ugly body.”

  I can hear him smirk, so I sing louder and scrub harder.

  “Pray tell, why is she ‘comin’ ‘round the mountain’?”

  There’s so much innuendo laced into his voice that I almost have a minigasm. “Because she’s in a better spot that I am.”

  There’s a reason I’m in business and not music, but I can still pick a few songs. I start spelling Bingo instead.

  Viktor coughs.

  No, actually, he snickers.

  Viktor.

  Mr. Prim and Proper. Mr. I need to inspect your baggage, Ms. Maloney. Mr. No Right To Be This Sexy.

  I spin on him.

  Naked as a jaybird.

  Smelling like road kill in dirty gym socks.

  “Do you think this is funny now?” I demand, gesturing to my own naked body and letting him have a good, long look at what damn well better be temptation, because I give up at least six cookies a week to look this good.

  His eyes go dark and rake down my body. His massive woody bobs like it’s drunk on the sight of my skin, and he slows his hand until it stops scrubbing at his shoulder.

  “You’ve freckles,” he says quietly, as though me having freckles makes me as rare and precious as having fairy wings.

  He doesn’t compliment my breasts. Or drool over my pussy. Or even try to touch me with anything more than his gaze.

  He lifts his eyes back to meet mine, and I suck in a breath.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re picturing me naked.”

  “You are naked.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  It’s hard—I mean, difficult to keep my gaze from lingering on his erection. I try telling myself it’s a snake, but that doesn’t do any good, because I’ve always been fascinated by snakes, and when faced with this snake, I’m even more fascinated.

  And way more turned on than I’ve ever been by anything crawling in the grass.

  Which should make me think of those damn polecats, but it doesn’t.

  It makes me think of Viktor hustling me to the car without chiding me for losing my shoes, like Miss Aurora did.

  “I shall endeavor to keep my hands to myself, my lady,” he says, and the sincerity behind his words is like boiling water on the ice cube in my chest. I’m cracking and melting and soon there will be nothing left for me to protect.

  “Though ‘twould be significantly easier were you not looking at me as though you’ve been imagining me naked,” he adds.

  “I am,” I confess.

  His straining cock reaches for me. I swear it does. It’s like the Go Go Gadget cock. “Are you embellishing my features, my lady?”

  Only Viktor could make prim and proper so fucking hot. Embellishing his features. I’m cold, wet, and smell like skunk, and there’s so much throbbing going on between my ovaries and my clit that I’m about to start dribbling lady juices.

  “If I embellished it much more, I couldn’t embellish making it fit.”

  “Ah, so you’re imagining us quite closer.”

  “Only physically.”

  “Is this a request, or an inconvenience to have such inspirations?”

  “Both?” My mouth has disconnected itself from my brain. “Let’s face it. Neither one of us is getting any for at least the next year. And if people keep talking like they were today, it’ll only get worse if you keep looking like you need to get laid.”

  “Quite considerate of you to make that observation.”

  Oh, fuck, even his sarcastic voice is making my clit tingle.

  He squats to get his washcloth wet again, and rubs it over the back of his neck. He’s not leaning toward my crotch, but I swear I can see his nose quivering.

  Like maybe he’s trying to smell me through the rancid weasel spray.

  He rinses his cloth again and stands, rubbing his short hair, still staying as far from me as he can. “Would you prefer I take the bathtub?” he asks.

  A shiver runs through me, but it has nothing to do with the cold, nothing to do with the smell, and nothing to do with any insecurities about my body.

  The first time I took my clothes off for
a man, he was really a boy. I was fifteen, and he was a year older. On his way to being captain of the football team. Son of the town’s only doctor. My foray into finally being something more than a poor troublemaker, to fitting in with the right crowd, to being recognized for who I was instead of what I was.

  I love you so much, Peach, I have to have you.

  Please, Peach, please let me just touch you.

  Oh, god, Peach, you’re so perfect, I want you so bad, I have to have you.

  I love you, Peach. I just love you so much, I want to show you.

  I gave him my virginity.

  And I’ve never trusted another man since.

  But I want to trust Viktor.

  We’re living together for the next year. If today has proved anything, it’s that I’m going to need his help more than I want to admit.

  His brows lower. “Peach?”

  “Why don’t you like me?” I’m grasping at straws to keep from throwing myself at him. Because I can’t remember why I’m supposed to not like him. And why I’m supposed to keep my distance.

  Not when I’m standing here bare, alone, and safe.

  “I don’t believe I do dislike you anymore.” He says it as though he’s just as surprised as I am.

  And possibly aware that it’s not exactly a compliment.

  “And why, my lady, do you dislike me?” he inquires.

  Thor help me, I can’t remember right now, but I’m pretty sure why ever it was, it was wrong. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “I rather suspect I do not.”

  “Do you—can you—will you get my back?”

  I’m almost breathless, and my heart is pounding double time in the weird hollow in my chest. I shouldn’t do this.

  But I can’t remember the last time a man took care of me.

  Or the last time I wanted one to.

  But now, just this once, I want to let Viktor.

  21

  Viktor

  I cannot recall ever bathing a woman before, but taking a cloth to Peach’s back beneath the pounding hot water feels more intimate than bending her over a bed, blindfolded, and ramming into her as though I were a rutting bull.