His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  “Why are you doing this?”

  I step in front of him.

  “I saw how you were looking at a little girl the other day, Burt. You see a lot of kids at your practice? Is that why there are cartoon characters on the walls? Ever feel one up, Burt? Ever give them a little laughing gas, stick your hand down their panties? Does it turn you on if they have Minnie Mouse on their underwear, you sick fuck?”

  “I didn’t—”

  I pick up a pair of pliers and step toward him.

  “Don’t, oh God, please don’t—”

  “I know why you’re begging. You’re a dentist, you know how much this will hurt. But you’re right, I won’t. It’s too cruel.”

  He sighs with relief.

  “I really just want to make sure you don’t touch any little girls, so I think I’ll cut your balls off instead.”

  I lift a scalpel from the tray and tip back his chair.

  “Stop!” he shrieks, “Please stop—”

  “No more websites, Burt. No more affairs. If you so much as lay a finger on a patient, I’ll do something much, much worse than cut your nuts off. Look at me.”

  I tip the chair back a bit more.

  “Look at me.”

  He looks.

  “If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll know. There is nowhere you can run. There is nowhere you can hide. There is no one you can call. I’ve made much, much harder men than you beg me to end their lives. Do you want to know how I do it?”

  Holding his chair with one hand, I lift a potato peeler from the tray and hold it in front of his face.

  Burt screams.

  I have to confess, I don’t know what I’d do with a potato peeler, but that always works.

  I tip the chair forward and Burt starts sobbing.

  “Listen to me very carefully,” I tell him. “This is what you’re going to do.”

  8

  Rose

  “Okay,” Burt says cheerfully.

  He doesn’t look cheerful. He’s white as a sheet, and he’s got black circles under his eyes, which dart everywhere like he expects someone to jump out of the shadows and grab him.

  “Okay,” he says again, like he’s been practicing this.

  We’re all in the waiting area, before the doors open. Me, the hygienist, Laura, Burt’s assistants.

  “I’m making a few changes around here,” he says, his voice tight. “First, Rose and Laura will be going to a four-day-per-week work schedule.”

  My jaw drops.

  Oh my God, I won’t be able to pay the mortgage! I can’t feed my kids on—

  He looks at me and the scowling Laura. “Don’t worry, you’re also receiving a fifty-percent raise and I’ve talked to the outsourced human resources people. We’re upgrading everyone’s health insurance. Also, Rose and Laura will not have to wait for six months of employment. You will both receive two weeks of paid vacation, two weeks of paid sick leave, and as many unpaid days as you need with forty-eight hours’ notice.”

  He shifts on his feet. “Also, one of the assistants will be in the room with me at all times with patients from now on.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “Finally, I’ve put the practice up for sale. I’ve already had a few bites. Once a partner buys in, I’ll start reducing my hours. I’m planning to retire by the end of the year.”

  Everyone in the room just stares at him.

  “Last thing, uh, Rose, take a half day today. You’re off tomorrow. That’s it. Um, carry on.”

  Burt turns on his heels and disappears into his office, leaving all of us staring at each other.

  I blink a few times. It’s already eight o’clock. I can go home in about four hours. I want to jump for joy. I rush back into the reception are and sit down, and happily return to running the insurance claims.

  By the time quitting time rolls around, I almost have to remind myself. I’m ahead of the claims, and as of right now it’s officially not my problem.

  As I’m walking out, it hits me. I don’t have a ride. Quentin wouldn’t know to pick me up, and I can’t call him. He doesn’t have a cell phone. I should have pressed him for his home phone number.

  Sighing, I start for the bus station. It’s only been, what, three days of skipping the bus ride? Yet I feel I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like.

  A horn blasts behind me and I almost jump out of my skin. I spin around to see Quentin rolling up in his Impala.

  I walk to the passenger side window and peer in.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He looks over at me slyly. “Need a ride, gorgeous?”

  “Maybe,” I say, “but my mother told me not to accept rides from strange men.”

  “Get in,” he growls.

  Laughing a little, I slip into the car and sit next to him.

  “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

  “I was out cruising and I just happened to drive by and spot you. I could spot that red hair a mile away, Rosey.”

  “Don’t call me Rosey.”

  “I will if I want.”

  “You were out driving around. What happened to working from home?”

  He shrugs and shifts in the seat. “Don’t worry about that. It’s my day off. I can’t waste a beautiful day like this.” He gestures at the bright sun above. “Perfect day to pick up a hot nurse and eat her pussy.”

  “I’m not a nurse.”

  “But I am going to eat your pussy. Your place or mine?”

  “Yours.”

  “Nah, your place. I pick.”

  Before I can answer him he floors it and throws me back in the seat, screaming. Quentin and his damned car. He takes a turn and I go scooting across the seat and end up with my arms around his neck before he finally slows down. I sit there panting and push off from him.

  “Getting excited?”

  “You drive like a crazy person.”

  “I just like driving you crazy.”

  I don’t know what it is about him, but just talking like that, he gets my blood pumping. I must be beet red.

  When we arrive at the house, I must not be getting out of the car fast enough for him. He opens my door and takes me by the arm and pulls me to my feet, and half drags me to the front door. I fumble with the keys, and his hand moves from my arm to the small of my back then slides down my ass and squeezes. I jerk and let out a little yelp as the door swings open and he pushes me inside.

  Quentin pushes it shut behind him and grabs me by the waist. My feet barely touch the floor on the way to the couch and he pulls my legs out from under me. I drop onto the seat and he grabs my scrubs so hard I hear stitches pop, and he rips them down and off my legs, tossing them aside with a flourish, then yanks my shoes off.

  I press my legs together and bite my lip. Quentin grabs my ankles and spreads my legs then yanks my panties up and off.

  “You’d better not steal those,” I tell him as he lifts them from my feet.

  “Why not?”

  “If you keep taking my underwear, I won’t have any left.”

  “Good, it just gets in my way.”

  I cry out in surprise as he grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the couch, and sinks to his knees in front of me, between my legs. My thighs fall on his shoulders and I feel his hot breath on my skin. He lifts one leg up and kisses me under my knee.

  It tickles. I bite down on a little giggle.

  “Don’t do that, I’m all sweaty.”

  He looks at me and licks under my knee. I shiver, pulling him closer with my legs.

  “What’s this?” he says, pushing back against my heels. “I’m in charge around here.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really,” he says. “If you’re not a good girl, I won’t let you come at all.”

  He keeps his eyes on me as he kisses down my leg, leaving a hot, slick trail on my skin. I lie back into the couch and sink into the cushions, but I’m quivering all over with excitement.

  Just do it, I keep thinking,
but he likes to tease me. Just when I think he’s going to bring his mouth to my pussy he runs his tongue over my mound and goes to the other leg, kissing his way up to my knee, watching me silently plead with him. As he puts his lips on my calf, his finger presses inside me. I wasn’t even watching his hands.

  My whole body jerks in surprise. He kneels in front of me, slowly moving one finger inside me, his eyes locked on mine. I can see his cock in his jeans, he’s so hard. I lick my lips.

  “Why don’t you fuck me?” I say. “I want it.”

  “I know, but you can’t have my cock until you beg me for it.”

  “Please?”

  “That wasn’t begging. That was a polite request. I’ll know when you’re begging.”

  He ducks down and slides my top up, and starts kissing his way down my stomach. At first I think it’s going to be another tease, but as he moves lower he slows the movement of his finger and slips another inside me, filling me further. I sink back into the cushions as his tongue moves down my mound and slides back and forth over my throbbing clit. My hips jerk from the shock, and I feel myself clench around his fingers.

  “Don’t stop,” I urge him, digging my heels into his back as my legs drape over his shoulders.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, “you’d better stop giving orders if you want to get off. I’m in charge around here.”

  “Oh really?”

  I start to answer but the words melt into a throaty moan as he takes a long lick and curls his fingers inside me. I twist and writhe on the couch as his tongue moves hot and wet over my most sensitive places.

  I close my eyes and knot my fingers in his hair. He has such soft brown hair. I cry out and try to quiet myself but I can’t, and it grows louder and louder. My shoulders pop up off the couch as I curl up, my stomach tightening almost until it hurts as the tension coils in my body, all of my muscles going rigid at once. He’s so good.

  I thrash on the couch as Quentin pumps me with his fingers and sucks my clit. I start to near the edge, my hands bunched into fists as my toes curl and my feet shake in the air, and he eases off, stealing me from the precipice of pleasure.

  Then the sensation intensifies as he pushes me over the edge and I arch and cry out, clawing the couch with my nails as I squeeze a fistful of his hair. Then again. He doesn’t stop. It just keeps coming, slamming through my body until he draws back and I go limp on the couch and roll onto my side, curling up.

  Quentin takes the folded blanket from the end of the couch and pulls it over me, covering me. I grab it and squeeze it around myself, still shaking.

  “Fuck me,” I plead, “right now, hard. Just bend me over and do it.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Please.”

  “That’s not begging. You want my cock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it. Say you want my cock.”

  “Give me your cock.”

  “You’re still giving orders. You want it, you have to show me how much you love it.”

  He flops back on the couch and spreads his jeans open. I shed the blanket and start to lower myself to the floor, but he grabs my arm.

  “Not like that. I don’t want you on your knees.”

  I crawl over the couch and rest my head on his stomach as I draw him out of his boxers. He rests his hand on my back and sweeps my hair away from my face as I take him in my mouth.

  He makes a little satisfied sound and says, “Do you know what they say, Rose? Bad girls suck cock. Good girls swallow. Are you a good girl?”

  Quentin squeezes my side as I suck him, holding his shaft in my hand. He was already rock hard but his cock tightens even more in my mouth. I slip my hand into his boxers and cup my fingers lightly around his balls, feeling them throb and harden as I pleasure him.

  He runs his hand up and down my back. We’re both slick with sweat. His fingers squeeze my ass, and he pulls me against him so I lie curled on the couch, eyes closed, resting against him as I suck him.

  “That’s it. Take your time.”

  He leans back and his hand moves from my back to the nape of my neck. It feels strangely pleasant for him to knead the muscles around my shoulders while I slowly slide his shaft through my lips and suck the head of his cock.

  A strange impatience comes over me and I start moving faster, faster. Quentin grunts and his hips buck, and I can feel the tension in his stomach as I rest my head on him. I can feel him holding it in, but it’s too much and he can’t hold back the power of his own release.

  He fills my mouth in a hot rush and I gulp it down, holding my lips tight around his shaft, squeezing him with my fingers to get it all out. He gasps when he feels me swallow, then again. There’s a lot.

  I hold him in my mouth to make sure it I have it all, then slowly sit up and lick my lips.

  “Didn’t spill a drop.”

  Quentin looks at me hungrily, grabs my arms, and pulls me onto his lap. I want him inside me so badly. He kisses me hard, his tongue invading my mouth as I gasp in surprise, and I melt against him, sliding my hands up under his shirt to feel his warm skin. I put my head on his chest and breathe out slowly.

  I haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time.

  Then the fucking doorbell rings.

  I lurch to my feet and immediately fall bare-assed on the rug.

  Quentin sighs and tucks himself back into his jeans. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Mrs. Campbell,” a thin voice calls through the door.

  “I’ll get it,” I sigh, and more softly, “I need my pants.”

  Quentin stands up and holds them while I step into them, taking another opportunity to grab my ass when he pulls them up around my waist. A girlish little flicker passes through me and I stick my tongue out at him before I walk to the door, my legs still quivering under my own weight. Quentin settles back into the couch.

  He snatches my panties from the floor before I open the door.

  Standing on my porch is Mrs. Campbell, the block captain, self-appointed guardian of all things yard related. A thin woman, she reminds me vaguely of a grasshopper, or maybe a praying mantis. A foot shorter than I am, she stands to her full height on my front porch.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she says primly. “Here.”

  I take the sheet of paper she extends with a coil of dread in my stomach, expecting some ticket from the home owner’s association for some asinine violation like the wrong color flowerpot in my yard or something. Instead I sigh in relief. It’s a flyer for some community event.

  We’re having a block party.

  Of course she can’t resist pissing in my Cheerios.

  “You need to cut your lawn,” she says, narrowing her eyes. She looks past me to Quentin. “Sir, is that your Chevrolet outside?”

  “Yup,” Quentin says.

  “You need to keep that vehicle in a garage at all times. Only cars three model years old and newer may be parked on the driveways.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, yawning.

  “See that you do,” she says, eyeing him, then me.

  I can see it in her eyes. She’s judging me.

  Well, fuck you, bitch.

  “I’m required to give you the flyer. I’d rather you didn’t attend.”

  She turns and steps down from the porch and I throw the door shut.

  “What the hell did she want?”

  I sigh, sit down next to him, and skim the flyer.

  “Oh, I forgot. We’re having a block party this weekend. It’ll be such fun.” I roll my eyes. “If she wants me to stay inside, fine. The hell with it.”

  He takes the flyer from my hand.

  “The kids would like this.”

  I eye him. “Yeah, probably.”

  “We should do something.”

  “I’m supposed to cook a dish.”

  “I’ll do it.” He shrugs. “No big deal.”

  “You seriously want to participate in this?”

  “Why not?”

  I sigh. “
Fine. You, ah—”

  “Check your watch.”

  I do, and I sigh. Kids will be out of school soon.

  “I can pick them up, if you want.”

  “I’d have to call the school. I’ll meet them at the bus stop.”

  “Class tonight?”

  “No.” I blink a few times. “Apparently tomorrow is my day off.” I flop back into the couch and let out a long sigh.

  He slips his arm around me and kisses me.

  “I have something I have to take care of,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek. “I could come back and help with dinner…”

  “Please,” I moan. “I’d love that. God, I just want to sleep.”

  He runs his hand between my legs over my clothes then sweeps up and cups my breast.

  “You need to learn to beg soon,” he purrs in my ear. “See you later, Rosey.”

  “Stop calling me that,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.

  9

  Quentin

  When I sit down at the computer, there it is, staring at me. I have a message.

  Decrypting it is a long and arduous process. There’s only one person in the world I would trust to contact me like this, and even then it’s only because the message is unreadable to anyone but me, and the reverse is true of one that I send. Decrypting it requires a public and private key, essentially two keys for one lock. It’s more complicated than that, but I only need to understand it that far and make sure I’m using it correctly.

  The message is short, clipped, and to the point.

  Quent, it’s Dale. Sensitive info, drop 23.

  Drop 23 is a dead drop. Sighing, I check my watch. I have enough time to make it back and…

  I sort of mentally trail off. Make it back and what? Cook dinner for Rose and her kids?

  “Jesus Christ, Quentin. What are you doing?”

  I get up and pace a bit before I head to the car. I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying here, and I can’t get so involved with these people. Sooner or later somebody is going to try to finish what that lunatic woman in the hotel room started, and I’ll either end up bleeding out in the dark or have to move on and completely sever any ties to this place.