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

by Pippa Grant

  “Gods above, you’re so much more,” he murmurs into my neck.

  He doesn’t say more what.

  But he doesn’t have to.

  Because he’s more too.

  More than I expected. More than I gave him credit for.

  More than I might be able to walk away from.

  And I don’t know if I can deal with the choices I’m going to have to make when our year together is over.

  27

  Viktor

  I don’t realize I’ve drifted off to sleep until an incessant buzzing wakes me.

  There’s a woman asleep and drooling on my chest, my twig and berries are demanding my attention, and I’ve little care over any of it, because I’m quite relaxed and content here on the floor.

  There’s a snort on my chest, and a blond head lifts. Our eyes meet, and she shrieks and covers her breasts.

  Which is a shame.

  I’m decidedly fond of those breasts.

  “If this is how you always wake, I’m rather grateful you tend to sleep in,” I tell her with a yawn.

  She wrinkles her nose at me, though I see the amusement flash in her bright blue eyes before she angles herself off me with a wince and turns so I merely see a hint of the curve of her breasts and the creamy, freckled skin of her back, hips, and thigh.

  Quite modest for a woman who asked for three go-rounds after the first.

  “I need to check on Papaya,” she murmurs.

  “If she were in trouble—” I stop myself, because my phone is buzzing again, which would be the first manner in which someone would contact me were Papaya in trouble.

  I frown.

  Truly, I should check that.

  “Alexander shan’t let her escape,” I tell Peach. “Has she shown signs of forgetting the lesson with the armor?”

  I reach for my phone, because I’m awake and responsible once again.

  For a brief moment, I’m rather disappointed in myself for not stretching this afternoon out further.

  But duty calls.

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter.

  She makes a funny face over her shoulder as she shimmies into her pants on the ground.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “You said hell. And bloody.”

  She’s likely to say far worse when she discovers Alexander covered for me with the Prime Minister this afternoon, which means rumors will undoubtedly circulate that I blew off meetings for a booty call.

  And speaking of Peach and profanity—

  “I’m afraid I have unfortunate news,” I tell her. As I, too, must finish a pile of paperwork before I can dismiss my staff for the day, I reach for my pants.

  “Of course you do.” She’s managed to shield most of her body from view while she pulls her bra back on and clasps it dexterously behind her back.

  My tallywacker stirs again.

  “The Duke of Prievia has gone to Parliament to challenge the legitimacy of our arrangement.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Because he has Amoria’s best interest at heart?”

  Why does it warm my chest when she unexpectedly—and perhaps unwittingly—compliments me as only she can? “Never underestimate a man’s desire to hold onto his ego.”

  “You should’ve just had his head chopped off.”

  “Undoubtedly. But the fact remains, there have been more calls for us to hold a formal wedding ceremony here.”

  I take three wise steps back as I deliver the news.

  Four or six probably would have been wiser.

  “What?”

  “’Twould be paid for out of moneys from the various royal estates and holdings, rather than by the taxpayers, and all planning would be handled by palace staff. Unless, of course, you had any particular desire to participate.”

  She’s staring at me as though I’m speaking Mandarin.

  This is not a good omen.

  I tug on my undershirt and follow it with my blue button-down. “I promise the disruption to your daily schedule would be minimal, and I’ve been assured dressmakers could come to you rather than the other way around.”

  “So we have to have a big wedding.”

  I’m uncertain as to whether the thunderclouds are blooming in her eyes because she’s being told what to do, or if it’s the wedding she objects to.

  Most likely both, if I know anything at all about Peach.

  Especially coming on the heels of her best friend’s wedding.

  “’Tis an unfortunate necessity.”

  She purses her lips together. “Just to prove we’re madly in love.”

  “’Twould not be for several months, as the country is still in mourning.”

  “Over a king who put more money into recreating a brothel in his tower than he did into education for the poor,” she mutters.

  “And drove out a man who loved his people more than himself, let us not forget.”

  She hits me with the eyeballs of shut your trap, Viktor.

  She’s lovely when she’s not amused. “Fine. They’re right,” she declares. “We should have a big wedding. All for the people. The bigger the better. With sixteen bridesmaids. And we can do a random drawing of all the little kids in the kingdom to pick twenty flower girls and ring bearers. And everyone should arrive in hot air balloons, and we should invite everyone who’s ever flown on a Weightless jet and Manning’s whole hockey team and every royal family in Europe, and we’ll have a heart-shaped wedding cake that will feed three thousand people, and we’ll get individual heart-shaped cakes made for every citizen of Amoria so that they can participate in our day of love too.”

  Two hours ago, she was breathlessly begging for more sex, and now she’s tamped her heart down tight behind a wall of sarcasm and attitude. “As you wish, my lady.”

  “And I’ll get a dress made by some big fashion designer who charges twice my annual salary just to design it, before actual fabric costs and sewing it, and that won’t include the veil. And you’ll wear a kilt, because kilts should be a thing here, but you’ll have to have your own plaid special-made. Oh, and I want fried chicken and grits at the reception. And we’ll fly Paula Deen in to cater it. And we can get on one of those cooking shows about wedding cakes, which means we’ll both have to spend some time in the kitchen if we’re going to make this a publicity stunt, and we’ll have a groom’s cake in the shape of a donkey, because you’re being a total ass.”

  If I thought she meant a word, I’d be highly offended. But I rather think she’s retreating into defensive mode rather than dwell on a wedding.

  “That sounds marvelous, my lady.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It sounds horrible, Viktor.” She stalks across the bedroom and pokes me in the chest. “We can’t stand each other, and we’re supposed to spend an entire day with cameras all over us pretending we’re Harry and Meghan? No one’s going to buy it, you’ll lose your kingdom, and then what are we going to do?”

  I catch her fingers and pull them to my mouth. “I’ve no idea what you’re to do, but I intend to picture you naked the entire ceremony.”

  Her jaw drops.

  I nearly smile, because it’s so rare that I render her speechless. “Also, I notice you said we, my lady. I assume you were referring to you and me? As in, the two of us being in the mess together?”

  Her forced anger wavers, but she sticks her chin out and snatches her fingers away. “No, Viktor, you and your other fake wife.”

  She’s utterly bloody irresistible.

  A challenge on the outside, but I’ve glimpsed that soft heart. The sobs she shed over her sister. Her defense of Miss Gracie this past year. Her loyalty to Joey Diamonte.

  Her very bloody marriage to me.

  Her pulse is fluttering fast as a hummingbird’s wings in her throat.

  “We shall get through this,” I murmur. “Because I have every faith in you.”

  28

  Viktor

  The night Peach returned, she climbed into bed fifteen minutes after me, crawled onto my side, and aske
d if I could do that thing with your mouth and your hands and your penis that makes me lose my mind.

  We’ve made love nearly every night in the month since, and several times in the shower—after, of course, I demonstrated for her that the wall was now solid.

  Papaya is finally off kitchen duty, though an incident at her new school with homemade slime, a locker, and an unsuspecting history teacher earned her stable duty for a week. Peach convinced me we needed two more alpacas or Fred would die of loneliness—truly, the internet said so—and she’s managed to charm Mum and Eva, along with finally relenting and allowing the palace to assign her a permanent assistant, if only for translation and wedding planning duties.

  She grumbles every time we’re required to appear in public together, but she often holds my hand.

  Just to screw with all the fuckers who think royalty can’t have feelings, she whispered the first time. They want love, don’t they?

  Manning Frey has yet to come through with any details about Peach that might hint at why she’s so reticent to embrace her feelings. And though I’m generally one to solve issues as soon as I’m aware of them, I’m also wise enough to recognize when a person doesn’t wish to discuss a subject.

  And so once again, I’m biting my tongue as Peach wrinkles her nose over evening plans for a ball to celebrate Ms. Fiona Aurora’s sixtieth anniversary as a matchmaker.

  She marches out of her dressing room in a red dress with a skirt so wide it nearly gets stuck in the doorway. “This get-up is ridiculous.”

  I finish tying my bowtie and decline to reply, as I’m quite positive there’s no appropriate response, though her breasts are quite lovely in the sleeveless bodice.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted my secretary to pick this out.” Her eyes go wide and she spins on me. “Oh, fuck. I told her to pick a wedding dress too.”

  “If it displeases you, we shall put it on Fred and have him march down the aisle first.”

  So perhaps I do have a brilliant suggestion or two still tucked away in my brain.

  She huffs, though I can see her hiding a smile. “But that doesn’t solve this problem,” she says, gesturing to the red dress and making her breasts bounce quite pleasantly.

  I heave a sigh as though the question is tiresome, because I’m aware it shall rankle her, though in actuality I’m formulating my second brilliant thought of the evening.

  “I agree ‘twould be quite inappropriate were we skiing, but for dinner, you may cover your shoulders with a shawl and be perfectly comfortable.”

  It’s difficult not to smile when her eyes glow red and the threat of the pits of hell loom in the outraged glare she shoots my way.

  “Have you no shawl, then?” I inquire.

  “I have six fucking shawls, Viktor.”

  “None of the right color?”

  She fists her hands on her hips and stalks across the Persian rug to stare me down from two paces instead of twenty. “Would you be comfortable in this dress?”

  “I sincerely doubt it’s my size.”

  She grabs onto her own hair, hanging in lovely ringlets about her face, and groans. “You—you—”

  “Oh, you’re uncomfortable in the dress.” I fear I’m overacting, a fear which is confirmed when she trains a flat blue gaze on me.

  “Yes, Viktor. I’m uncomfortable in the dress.”

  I study it thoroughly, taking in the frilly lace hearts covering the satin, the decorative edge of the bodice so very delightfully accentuating her breasts—I’m aware I’ve already mentioned this, but I find it’s rather my favorite part—and the flouncy skirt so wide she appears to be a heart bell when she walks.

  My attention drifts back to the lovely cleavage on display.

  “Are you ogling me?”

  “Of course not, my lady. Merely debating the best method to solve your problem.”

  “By looking down my dress.”

  “I find regardless of the number of times I see you naked, I’m still quite enthralled with the prospect of unwrapping you.”

  “Viktor, we don’t have—wait. What are you—”

  I slip a finger into her cleavage.

  Quite a lovely location for a finger, if you ask me, though I swear on my honor as a gentleman my primary mission is testing the strength of the fabric.

  “Viktor…”

  “This feels rather loose, my lady. As though perhaps a strong wind might blow it down. And that would be most unbecoming at a formal dinner.”

  She lifts her chest, and my twig and berries surge to attention, the former expanding, the latter tightening. “You think we’ll have wind in the ballroom?”

  “It did snow upon the mountaintops today.”

  She shudders.

  I stroke her cleavage, and her shudder turns to a whimper. Color is gathering high in her cheeks, and her heavy-lidded eyes have gone unfocused. There’s so much goop on her face, ‘tis a wonder I can see any natural color, but it’s the part of her lips, rather than the blood red color, that have a heavy drumming pulsing in my cock.

  “I fear this shan’t do at all,” I murmur as I grab the fabric with both hands, right at the center of her bodice, and rip it.

  It does rip rather easily.

  As though perhaps the fabric were a poor choice for an event where one might dance.

  Or threaten one’s husband with a knife should his eyes linger too long upon one’s cleavage.

  She gasps and looks down at the gaping fabric.

  “Oh, dear,” I say dryly. “Your Majesty, I must forbid you to wear such indecent attire to dinner this evening.”

  Her gaze slowly travels back to my face, and there’s nary a milligram of outrage in her expression.

  Nay, I daresay she’s utterly thrilled.

  She grabs me by the cheeks and pulls me down for a hard kiss on the mouth. “Oh my god, you are my hero.”

  “Careful, my lady, or I might get a big head.”

  She cocks a thoughtful brow, and sheer mischief overtakes her expression. A hand slides over my hip to cradle my stiff tallywacker through my suit pants. “This head?” she murmurs.

  I make a guttural noise in response, as I find I’m incapable of much more with her hand rubbing my hard cock whilst she continues to provide me with the lovely view afforded by her ripped bodice. Her nipples are still shielded, but the round curves of her inner breasts are enticing all on their own.

  “I’ll have to change,” she whispers.

  She wiggles, the dress falls to her hips, and I decide marrying Peach was the smartest decision I’ve made in my life.

  It’s entirely possible I’m thinking with the head in my pants.

  Which she’s continuing to rub through my trousers.

  “My lady—”

  “Oh, dangnabbit, Viktor, you’re right. We shouldn’t ruin your outfit too.”

  My pants are suddenly unbuttoned and unzipped. She pushes them down, and a soft giggle slips through her lips.

  She flicks at my shirt garters, which hold my shirt flat and tight by hooking it to my socks. “What on earth…?”

  “A gentleman never tells his fashion secrets,” I grit out.

  “You are weirdly adorable.”

  She punctuates her statement by reaching into my briefs and taking my cock in her bare hands, and I find she could call me nearly anything and I shouldn’t mind a bit.

  And that’s before she drops to her knees and licks my tip.

  Her hot wet tongue sends electric lust through my veins. “Peach—”

  I cut myself off with a strangled moan as she traces a path around my engorged head and sucks my cock all the way to the back of her throat. She cups my bollocks and strokes between them with a firm finger while she works my dick with her tongue, sliding her mouth on and off my cock, her teeth grazing my stretched skin.

  I grip her fancy curls, because I have to hold something or my knees shall buckle. She suckles my underside, her mouth hot wet velvet and vibrating with a hum of appreciation that m
akes my cock impossibly harder. My release is building so hard and fast that my thighs are trembling and my heart is racing and sweat is pooling beneath my collar.

  “Peach—” I strangle out again. My bollocks tighten, and I know it’s a matter of moments before I’m done for, which is quite the embarrassing predicament, as she’s barely just begun.

  But this woman—this stubborn, complicated, sexy as fuck, big-hearted woman—has rendered me beyond control. “I cannot—I’m about to—”

  Her eyes lift with devilish delight as she takes me all the way to the back of her throat again. I know, that look says. She grips me at the base with her free hand, squeezes my berries, and I’m completely done for.

  I come hard and fast and thick, so powerfully that a garbled cry wrenches from my chest as I empty myself down her throat. She sucks hard, grips me harder at my root, and the second spasm is equally powerful. Her eyes lift to mine again, her mouth still wrapped about my cock, and I realize that though she’s the one on her knees, I’m the one completely without power.

  She holds my fate in her hands.

  And not the fate of my country, of my kingdom, or of my palace.

  Mine.

  Me alone.

  My heart. My soul. My whole being.

  There is nothing I would not do for this woman.

  Nothing.

  I spend my last, and she draws out releasing me, licking and suckling my now over-sensitized skin until she releases my cock with a soft pop as a knock sounds at our bedroom door.

  “Your Majesty, your guests are waiting,” Leonie calls.

  Peach flicks my shirt garters with a smile. “Five more minutes won’t hurt them,” she calls back. She rises to her feet, her breasts full and heaving over her torn dress, her lipstick smeared—dear gods, I’ve lipstick all over my tallywacker too—her hair mussed.

  She’s quite unfit for company.

  “Or maybe fifteen,” she amends.

  She lifts onto her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “You can thank me later,” she whispers with a wink.

  And then she’s gone, back into the dressing room, and I’m still quite unable to form a single word, much less a sentence.