The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

by Adora Crooks

  We took her that night. Together. She squirmed and moaned underneath us. And then there was Roland. The prince with violet-vibrant eyes. I’d watched as he cradled the woman to him, cupped her face, and purred sweet nothings in her ear before he impaled her on his stiff staff. She was lust-stupid, her eyes half-lidded and lazy when I eased my own cock into her mouth. And how she whimpered, trembled, and begged for more and more…

  At the end of the night, the three of us were blissfully spent, and Roland and I were hooked. Since then, I’ve continued sneaking women back into the palace. Sometimes we go months, neither of us mentioning it, before Roland clasps me on the shoulder and announces, “Ben, darts tonight. You and me.”

  Darts. That’s our code. I used to live for those words. Now… I’ve become weary of the game. As much as it ignites my blood, it encourages an inch I can’t scratch. I need more. It’s Roland’s fault. His magnetic eyes. His perfect body. His boyish, loud laugh.

  It’s his fault I feel… like this. Like my very blood is buzzing every time he’s near me. And when we share a woman… he’s so close and still so infuriatingly far. I’ve been thinking that maybe I want to end our dart game. I fear that one day I’ll snap like a rubber band pulled too taut and let something slip in the middle of shagging some tourist.

  But I can’t tell him that. I can’t let him know about the demons battering around in my chest. After all, how do you tell the man that you’re supposed to protect that a simple touch on the shoulder from him sends your thoughts skittering in a million different directions?

  So I keep silent. And pine. And do his bidding. And hate myself for it.

  When Roland proposed playing our “game” tonight, I felt my heart drop and my cock stir. I should have just told him then. I should have told him that I like—

  No, that I love—

  No. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  I haven’t mentioned to Rory that the prince will be joining us yet. I’ve usually brought it up by now. Group sex tends to be something of a hard limit for most women. But my tongue is stubbornly dormant as I press forward.

  We walk beside the Thames to get to the palace. The black water sloshes below us and sends a quiet shiver through me. The river is dark and eerie this time of night.

  “When we get inside,” I inform her, “you’ll have to sign a form that says you won’t steal anything during your visit, and that what happens at the palace, stays here.”

  “So like an NDA?”

  “Not like.” No, not like. It is, pure and simple.

  “So are there a lot of… uh… unmentionable things that go on around here?”

  Rory asks a lot of questions. So I spout a couple of sordid facts clinically. “Our master of the household gambles, Queen Selena curses out the staff, and if you’re lucky, you may see Princess Iris stealing liquor from the basement. You know. The usual.”

  Rory’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “What about Prince Roland? What’s his sin?”

  I don’t answer, but the corner of my mouth twitches in a near-smile. She’ll find out herself… soon enough. “This way,” I motion her, and we turn in to the palace.

  3

  Roland

  It’s her.

  I only catch a glimpse of her from the window. A short, slim figure hovering in the shadows near Ben. I’d recognize Ben’s lanky silhouette anywhere. The ballroom has been mostly cleared for the event tomorrow, and the yawning cavern of tall hardwood ceilings and full-wall windows gives me a perfect view of the outside. I’ve lingered here in the dark for the better part of the last hour. Waiting. Pacing. When I see her, the book I’ve only been half reading tumbles from my hands. I press myself against the cool glass of the window.

  As their figures cross in front of Buckingham Palace, I follow them. I flit from window to window, peeking through the curtains like a caged animal. I’m desperate to catch a hint of my woman tonight. Before she vanishes around the bend and out of my line of vision, she steps into a puddle of lamplight.

  Red hair. There’s a flash of it and then she’s gone, but it’s enough to make every vein in my body ache.

  Ben knows I have a weakness for gingers. Then again, Ben knows a lot about me. He knows how I like my tea. He knows how I like my women. He knows when I’m about to blow a casket. He knows exactly how to tame me.

  That’s what this redhead is. A sacrifice to the beast inside me.

  I’ve been born and raised a Pennington. Second in line for the throne after my aunt. Every move is calculated. Every aspect of my life is controlled by the queen. I can’t so much as leave my own house. I haven’t, not in nearly ten years. Not since my father’s jet suspiciously malfunctioned and dragged him to an untimely death. Now, all that exists of the Pennington line is me, my mum, my aunt, and a smattering of cousins. Paranoid that someone was gunning for royals, my mum locked me up in the palace. Yet as much as I try to play by the rules and do what’s expected of me…

  There’s a nagging inside of me. A dark itch that needs to be scratched, or else I’m liable to rip the paintings from the walls and light the whole bloody palace on fire. I need human contact. I need flesh. I need the warmth of a woman—a real woman, not these painted-up dolls the palace provides as subservient entertainment. I need to feel her trapped between Ben and me. I need those soft, begging eyes fixed on me. I need her to moan for her prince.

  These perverse ménages are the only things that get my blood moving anymore. I know it’s wrong. Every time, I tell myself this will be the last time. I’ll stop this indecency. This isn’t how I’ve been raised. This monster instead of me is not the prim and proper prince my mother has trained me to be. I know that I’m inviting danger in every time I open the palace doors. I know I’ve been kept locked away for a reason. I know it’s not fair to continue to tease myself with something I cannot have…

  And yet I want it. Badly. And when Ben makes it so easy… I find it hard and harder to deny myself.

  She’ll be here soon. The thought makes me dizzy, and my blood roars with lust.

  My shirt collar is too tight, and I unbutton the top button to give myself some breathing room. This waiting will make me crazy. My hands are trembling. I need to busy the idle things until I can get them on her warm, bare skin.

  I leave the room and vanish down the hall. The night guards are posted along the walls, and every now and then one of them murmurs a bored sir to me. I approach my mum’s room, and my feet stop at her doorway. The queen’s bedroom door is pearly white, delicate filigree patterns carved into the wood. If she finds out what I’m up to tonight, I’m up a creek. She’ll lock me in my room and throw away the key for sure.

  Quietly, I knock on her door. “Mum?” I whisper.

  My heart is lodged in my throat. I press my ear to the door.

  Nothing. The queen is dead asleep. Relief fizzles through my blood.

  The palace is mine tonight.

  And so is my ginger angel.

  4

  Rory

  I’m glad I had the foresight to use the bathroom at the pub, otherwise I would’ve peed myself with excitement.

  Secret passageways? Underground tunnels? And now Buckingham Palace… all to myself? They haven’t let civilians in here since they closed the gates ten years ago, but Ben strolls up like it’s nothing. There’s a dark service door underneath a bridge that goes over the Thames River. It’s so embedded in the stone, with dark waterlines running down the sides, I wouldn’t notice it if Ben didn’t go straight toward it, tug out an ID card, and stick the card into a slot in the stone. The door clicks and swings open. I follow him, dazed and stupidly happy, as he leads me through an underground bunker and out into a second door.

  A quick ID check and my signature at the door and I’m in.

  Buckingham Palace is grand and intricate. The hallway arches upward in this beautiful, classic archway. My eyes lift to a fresco that stretches across the ceiling. A beautiful representation of heaven, with cherry-cheeked cherubs peeking out of the
clouds and swanlike angels swooping around the crystal chandelier. I step back, my eyes following the painting, and nearly knock over a coat of arms.

  “Sorry,” I say and lift my palms. I’ve apologized to an inanimate object. It clatters noisily back into place.

  Ben stops to turn to me. “Are you coming?”

  I rock lightly on my heels and grin up at him. “This place is… impressive.”

  Ben’s legs are ridiculously long, and he covers the space between us in a single step. “If you think the palace is impressive,” he says, lifting my chin, “just wait to see what I have in store for you tonight.”

  I lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away at the last second, leaving my lips untouched and tingling with anticipation.

  “This way.” Ben leads me down the hallway—how many halls are there? Each one opens up to another room in a different color, this one purple, this one green. I want to stay and ask him a million questions, but I’m nearly running beside him just to keep up with him.

  Finally, we stop in front of a door. The door is pearl white and trimmed in gold leaf. He pushes it open and holds the door for me. When I step inside, my feet come to a sharp stop.

  Holy hell.

  Now this is a bedroom. It’s modern Gothic, like a set piece from the Phantom of the Opera, but if the Phantom was an English hipster. The wooden walls are paneled to match the rest of the palace, only instead of light, airy colors to match the aesthetic, these are gunmetal gray. The cabinets are dark, stained and polished wood, with a matching coffee table.

  A gas fireplace, lit and ghostly, flickers quietly from its place carved into the wall. It’s as though it were waiting for us. Even with the roaring fireplace, this room feels about ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, and it sends a shudder through me.

  “This is your room?”

  Ben closes the door behind him and shakes his head. “This is Prince Roland’s room.”

  A stab of fear runs through me. Fear and… something else. Excitement. I’m in Prince Roland’s bedroom! What I wouldn’t give to see His Highness spread out on that bed, his golden blond mane glistening in the firelight. Does he sleep naked? Inquiring minds want to know. I want to stick my face in the pillows and just smell them. That’s weird, right?

  Weird.

  It’s weird that Ben took me here, of all places. I’m on pins and needles, and I twist to face him. “We shouldn’t be here. What if he comes in and sees us—?”

  “Sees us like this?” Ben crushes my mouth in his. That’s what I’ve been aching for. His kiss is hungry, and it ignites a flame low in my belly. I get the feeling he’s holding back; his kiss is delicate, but his whole posture is stiff. He cups the back of my head, and his fingers curl and tighten in my hair, making me gasp.

  “You can pull my hair,” I whisper. “I like it.”

  A small noise leaves his throat, like a sigh of relief, and it makes me wet. “Be careful what you wish for,” he growls, his voice low and thick with lust.

  Just then, he yanks my head back by the roots of my hair. “Ah!” I yelp. His lips are on my throat, ravenous, and the pain and pleasure sensations make me squirm. I’m soaking my panties; I can feel it.

  He’s been a gentleman and carried my bag, but now he drops it from his shoulders with a heavy thud. “Get on the bed,” he orders.

  He dominates me like it’s nothing. The tight muscles in his shoulders and brow have relaxed, and his dark eyes shimmer with a new focus. It’s as though it takes effort to rein in his controlling personality, but here, in the prince’s bedroom, with me under his thumb—finally, he’s in his element.

  And I submit. I take pride in being an independent, strong woman, but get the right man to control me in the bedroom and I turn to putty.

  The bed is plush, stacked with peach and olive throw pillows. It sinks when I sit on the edge. A circular light fixture hangs above me, as large as a ceiling fan, and lights twinkle from the stalagmite tips. It looks like a crown, looming and suspended over me.

  Ben stands in front of me, reclaiming my attention. “Take off your shirt.”

  “You first,” I tease.

  He calls my bluff. He rips his shirt above his head and throws it to the ground.

  I swallow.

  Jesus. The man is stacked. His chest is strong, with a dusting of dark hair that trails tantalizingly down the center of his body. Those abs look perfect enough to trace with my tongue, and I lick my lips at the thought.

  “Your turn,” he reminds me.

  Right. It’s only fair, after all. I undo the buttons of my shirt and peel it off my arms. Then I reach behind, unclasp my bra, and let that fall as well.

  Ben watches me, silently. Is he judging me? What does he think of my curves, my large breasts? Then I don’t have to wonder before he grabs the enormous bulge in his pants and starts to fondle himself. Jesus. That shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does, but it makes my thighs clench to watch him openly caress his erection. I want to peel open his pants and feel his fingers in my hair as he pushes me to my knees and parts my lips with the head of his cock. The thought nearly makes me orgasm then and there.

  “Your jeans as well,” he says huskily. “Now.”

  There’s no room to wiggle out of that command, not by his tone. So I kick off my boots, my socks, and then unbutton my jeans. It takes a little maneuvering, but I shove them off my hips along with my underwear.

  Now I’m completely bare in front of him. I’m sitting, naked, on the bed of the next king of England. I should be mortified, but instead I feel another jet of lust pool between my legs and puddle on the prince’s blanket. Whoops.

  “That answers it,” Ben says suddenly and I’m so deep in my head that I nearly jump at the sound.

  “Answers what?”

  “You are a ginger.”

  Oh. He’s commenting on the red thatch of hair between my legs. “Is that good?”

  Those eyes, dark as well stones, meet mine. “You’re fucking perfect.”

  Gulp. Before I can find the words to respond, Ben gets on his knees in front of me. He spreads my legs with his strong arms, bends his head, and—oh God. Those are his lips on my sex, his dirty kisses. His tongue spreads my slit, and he drinks from me, deeply. He laps at my nectar, that flexible muscle pushing inside. Before I know it, I’m gasping and my fingers thread through his black hair as I hump his face.

  “Hands off. Palms on the bed,” he commands. His mouth feels so damn good, I quickly retract my hands from his head and place them on the mattress instead to steady myself. Then he dives down again, but this time he’s found my sensitive little nub. Sparks of pleasure zip all through my body as he swirls around it, sucking and gently nibbling the small bundle of nerves. My fingers twist the comforter. He presses one finger inside of me, and then another, all the way to the knuckle, and curls them.

  That does me in. Before I know it, I’m careening against the edge. I shout as my orgasm floods through me, pulsing and throbbing around his fingers. He draws it out of me, coaxing every wave from me, until the smallest motion of his tongue makes me jerk and squeal.

  When Ben sits up, his mouth and chin are glistening. He wipes both on his arm. “God,” I pant, my legs still spread lewdly because I’m too blissed out to close them. “That was… incredible.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Ben says as he catches my head in his hand. “I’m not done with you yet, love.”

  He claims my mouth in his, and I moan. I can taste myself on his lips. It’s dirty, forcing me to taste myself like this, but I love it. I find myself lapping at his tongue, hungry for more. He shudders—it’s small, almost imperceptible, but to put even a dent in this strong man’s composure sends a thrill through me.

  “Don’t move,” Ben says.

  I obey, and he rises to his feet. Ben steps over to one of the rosewood cabinets and opens the top drawer.

  “Are you supposed to be going through the prince’s things?” I ask.

  Ben doesn
’t answer. He procures two dark satin ties. He holds them out in his palms, as though in offering. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  I like where this is going already. I obey. Ben goes behind me. I can’t see him, but I feel the mattress sink with his weight. The satin is soft as it slides around my wrists. I feel it loop around my wrists, then between them, and then it tightens. When I try to pull my arms apart, they won’t budge.

  I bite back a smile. This is exhilarating.

  “Is that too tight?” he asks. He sounds oddly concerned, and I’m surprised he’s asked at all.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  The mattress springs back as Ben leaves it. He comes back around in front of me and holds up the final tie. “Close your eyes.”

  I do. The tie goes around my eyes, blocking out the light. It’s thick and I can’t see a damn thing.

  My world goes dark.

  5

  Ben

  I’m good with knots.

  Half hitch. Square knot. Clove hitch.

  I grew up on the East End by the Limehouse Basin. You learned knots quickly on those docks. You learned a lot quickly in Limehouse.

  Bowline. That’s the one I used on Rory’s wrists. It’s a reliable knot. Used to hitch yachts to the dock. Won’t slip. The knot I use to tie the wrap around her head is simpler. Easy. It takes me less than a second to complete it, and then I stand back to admire my work.

  Here, like this, she’s a picture.

  I want her. Badly. I’ve been half-hard since the bar, but now that I have her naked pussy drooling on Prince Roland’s bed, I could cut glass with my dick. My monster is throbbing in my pants, begging to be let out.

  But I can’t. Not yet.

  She has to be presentable for her prince.

  She’s smiling—this innocent, adorable little smile that nearly makes me come undone on the spot. “Well, you’ve got me where you want me. What are you going to do to me?”