Royal Order

by Leslie North

  Pen took a deep breath and stood, steeling herself. Simon touched her arm, lending her his support. “Okay,” she said. “Showtime.”

  The throne room was a disconcerting mixture of traditional and cutting-edge modern. The thrones were high-backed cherrywood chairs inset with jewels and draped in Esconian purple, but they looked out over Hollywood-grade stage lights, teleprompters, and rows and rows of journalist seating. Pen sat straight in her throne, hardly daring to let her spine touch its back, self-conscious in her tablecloth dress. She felt a bit like a little girl borrowing her mother’s clothes and pretending she was royalty. What right did she have to be here, in this centuries-old chair, in front of all these people who called her “Your Majesty” and “Your Royal Highness”? Especially while wearing her tablecloth dress and slut lipstick. She had to make an effort to keep her shoulders square instead of shrinking into herself the way she wanted to.

  “The King and Queen will now take questions,” said someone from the PR department, and chose one of the journalists to ask the first one.

  “Your Majesty, could you tell us what your first undertaking as Queen will be?” the woman asked.

  Pen blew out a breath in relief. This, she could handle. “Absolutely,” she said, making sure to project her voice the way she’d been told. The little mic hidden in her neckline would pick up her words regardless, but a queen mustn’t mutter, or so the PR people kept reminding her. “The first thing I want to do is work on some legislation to add more required play time back into the Esconian school system. Research shows that the move to a stronger focus on academics, especially in primary school, has actually had a negative impact on children’s self-esteem, creativity, and social skills.” She cited more research like a pro, the passion coming through in her voice as she spoke. This was why she’d taken the throne, why she was willing to let herself be judged by so many people—to help the children of her country.

  The next question was for Simon. “Your Highness, what do you think about the perceived gap between the quality of Escona’s school lunches versus that of the surrounding nations?”

  Caught off guard—this wasn’t a topic he’d be as familiar with as Pen—he drummed his fingers against his knee as he tried to formulate an answer. Without thinking, she reached out to cover his hand with hers, steadying him. She addressed the journalist in his place, redirecting the question toward a subject Simon would be able to answer more confidently. “I believe His Highness is focused on the root problem of bringing the Royal Treasury up to date and closing the gap with the national deficit. After all, a lack of funding for the schools is the reason their lunches aren’t as good as they should be.”

  Simon shot her a quick look of gratitude and curled his fingers around hers for a moment before she pulled her hand back. He cleared his throat and clarified his ideas for his pet project of renovating the treasury system, and then it was on to the next question.

  The press conference lasted another half-hour, and while Pen stammered a few times and went completely blank once, the PR person in charge was good at redirecting problem questions and giving the queen time to gather herself. It wasn’t nearly the disaster she’d thought it might be, and when it was over she retreated to the adjacent prep room feeling like she might eventually get the hang of this.

  Until the PR person leaned over to address her in a low voice. “Your Majesty, it would be best to avoid the handholding and those covert looks between you and King Simon. I recommend toning those down to fall in line with the modesty expectations of the Castle.”

  Pen raised an eyebrow, amused. She wasn’t supposed to hold hands with her husband in public? What a load of bullshit. Earlier she’d been a “romantic figure” and the PR department liked that, but apparently she couldn’t look too romantic with her husband or it was deemed immodest. It wasn’t like she’d been dry humping him on national television or anything, for crying out loud.

  But Simon was nodding along, his expression serious enough for the both of them. “Of course, we’ll work on that,” he said.

  Pen sighed but didn’t say anything. Of course Strict Simon would think they’d need to keep to Victorian standards of chastity in public even though they were technically on their honeymoon.

  But as he guided her from the prep room, she couldn’t help but notice his hand drifted a little too low on her back for propriety. She shot him another ‘covert look,’ thinking about all the things she wanted to do to him, and the things she wanted him to do to her, once they were finally alone again. He didn’t return the look, but his eyes did that almost-smiling thing again, and it gave her hope that maybe he hadn’t been as serious about the whole modesty thing as he’d seemed.

  9

  When Simon walked back into the bedroom the next morning, Penelope was still in bed. “I’m too starving to move,” she groaned from beneath her pile of pillows and blankets.

  He smiled fondly. She was kind of adorable, hiding under her blankets like a kid who didn’t want to go to school. Although being too hungry to get up and obtain food seemed a little backwards to him. Still, he graciously held out the remainder of his post-workout smoothie. “You can have the rest of this,” he said. “It’s got kiwi, celery, apples, and far too much peanut butter to be healthy. It’s kind of my weakness.”

  Pen’s head popped out from under the covers. She eyed him—he was shirtless, having just returned from his early-morning workout, where he’d worked up a refreshing sweat—but apparently her hunger won out over her lust, because she merely accepted the smoothie and sucked it down with alacrity.

  They’d shared a bed for two nights now, but hadn’t consummated. He could’ve blamed the bed, which was so enormous that the entire royal family could sleep there and still practically need a postal system to communicate, but to be honest he remained a little gun-shy about completely committing after she’d admitted her uncertainties. Of course, judging from early signs, she was going to be just as magnificent a ruler as he’d known she would be. All she needed was more confidence in herself. And he hoped she gained it soon, because waiting to make their union official was going to be the death of him. He could hardly stand to look at her—especially now, with her lying in bed, eyes half-lidded and hair mussed from sleep, in a thin nightgown he could almost see her nipples through—without wanting to lay her back down, spread her legs, and drive her to the brink of pleasure until she was begging him to let her come.

  He wasn’t sure if she was ready to go that far yet either, though. She hadn’t initiated anything last night even though both of them had been sober. She had, however, rolled—and rolled and rolled—in her sleep across the huge bed until her legs were all tangled up with his and she was snuggled on his chest. He’d had to mentally review all his research on the most boring topics he could think of before his hard-on finally faded enough for him to be able to sleep.

  Revived by the smoothie, Pen sat up, knocking a pillow on the floor in the process. “Thanks,” she said, but something in her voice sounded off.

  “Everything okay?” Simon asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She pursed her lips. “To be honest, it wasn’t just starvation keeping me in bed. My only duty today is to get a new dress for the Children’s Education event tonight. ‘Something not resembling a tablecloth’ was the directive both from the Castle and my mother.” She blew out a breath. “The hills aren’t far enough away for the holding I’m going to grant her,” she muttered. “I’m going to have to export her to America or something. Doesn’t Ella own a farm over there?”

  Simon frowned. He hadn’t liked it when the assistant had brought up public opinion on Pen’s dresses yesterday, and he liked it even less now. Penelope looked both regal and sexy in her lacy dresses, but beyond that, she should be able to wear whatever the damn hell she wanted. She was a grown woman, not to mention the Queen. No one could stop her from parading across the royal lawn naked if she wanted. Why would she even listen to those nattering mean girls? A category whi
ch included her mother, apparently. “No,” he said, answering her question. “Ella lived in America as a teenager, but never really had a home there. Going back to Danovar showed her where her true home was.”

  “That’s right. It’s lovely that she found her home with Phillip.”

  “I hadn’t quite thought about it like that before,” Simon admitted. It did make sense though—Ella and King Phillip both certainly seemed at home with each other no matter where they were. Simon could only hope that someday he and Pen might have something like that with each other.

  Pen looked at the clock and groaned. “I’m supposed to meet the stylist at her shop in town in an hour. I’m totally gonna call you in on your vows, mister—I need your support on this. Come with me and help me pick something out?”

  “Of course,” Simon said. This was perfect. He didn’t have any sisters, but he had quite a lot of female cousins amongst the Danovian nobility, and since he’d been a quiet, observant kid he’d picked up on a lot of secondhand fashion knowledge. With any luck, he’d be able to help Pen find an outfit that made her feel confident and didn’t make the mean-girl PR people throw a hissy fit.

  His plan failed miserably. Before the end of the first hour with the stylist, Pen looked ready to either cry or throw her own hissy fit, having been stuffed into soulless dress after soulless dress as the woman politely but completely ignored her requests. The outfits looked like something Simon’s grandmother would wear: stiff, impersonal, and boring as hell. The current gown was a muted brown—which also completely muted Pen’s airy, fun personality—with only a single heavy emerald necklace and no bracelets because the Castle had apparently phoned ahead to ensure Pen was outfitted with minimal jewelry so she wouldn’t be tempted to play with it like she always did when she was nervous.

  The stylist stood back, putting one hand to her chin while she looked Penelope up and down. “You know, dear,” she mused, “it would help if I knew what you wanted to hide, what you wanted to work on. Maybe your thighs? Or that arm flab?”

  What the hell was the woman talking about? Arm flab? And Pen’s thighs were so perfect that Simon ought to hire an artist to sculpt them in tribute right this second. Even if the stylist really did see some sort of invisible flaw in Pen’s hot-as-hell body, why did she need to highlight all the negatives that way? Pen already had a fragile body image, not to mention confidence issues. How on earth had the stylist stayed in business so long if all she did was insult her clients?

  Then the stylist sealed her own fate. “Do you think you need a bigger size Spanx?” she asked, and Simon inserted himself between the two women.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” he said, smoothly ushering her toward the door of the large dressing room. “Pen will go over the outfits you’ve set out for her and make a decision shortly. Thank you for your time.” The woman protested, but he gently shoved her out the door and locked it behind her. “Good riddance,” he muttered once she was gone.

  Pen was looking down at the dress. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice so uncertain and small it made Simon ache. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should just wear whatever they put me in. I mean, they’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.”

  Simon advanced on her, furious at the stylist for making Pen think less of herself. “They certainly haven’t. You’re the Queen, not them. You should decide what you want to wear. And I have to say, even though you could wear literally anything and still be the most gorgeous woman in the country, that dress is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She smiled a little and glanced up. “It kind of is, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. Personally, I loved that lacy thing you were wearing when we first met. It really showed off your lips—and whoever thinks your lipstick isn’t the right color for royalty can shove their alternate shade right up their ass, by the way—and hair.” He was surprised at how much heat was behind his statement. Normally, he’d be completely on board with the stylist and PR department, wanting to ensure that the public’s expectations of modesty and decorum were met. But that was before public expectations had insulted the woman he was starting to care deeply about.

  Pen snickered, some light coming back into her expression. “Thanks,” she said.

  He tilted his head, examining the discarded dresses spread across the bench in the corner. “You know, that second dress she had you try on wasn’t half bad. Maybe we should ask whether she has it in white, and maybe have her alter it to add more sheer lace to the sleeves and take out some of that poofy fabric around the bust.”

  Pen nodded enthusiastically. “I could totally see that working. Come here, help me get out of this monstrosity and I’ll try that one on again.” She reached around to her back, the tight corset preventing her from reaching the zipper.

  Simon stepped around and pulled it down for her, suddenly very glad he’d made the stylist leave the room. Pen had undressed a dozen times in the last hour and he’d had to force himself to look away and do mental algebra to avoid getting a boner in the presence of a stranger, but now he suddenly had all sorts of ideas for ways to spend their newfound alone time—and to show Penelope how beautiful and desirable and perfect she really was.

  Pen turned her head and met his gaze, her eyes going smoky as she read his intent. He traced his thumb down her spine, following the path of the zipper, and she shivered. He leaned down to kiss that spot on her shoulder blade that he’d been wanting to kiss forever. Then he slid his hands under the sleeves and pushed them slowly down her shoulders. The fabric dropped to the ground, leaving her in only her shapewear and bra, which he unhooked.

  He pulled her back against him then, showing her his swiftly-hardening desire for her. She wiggled her ass a little, dropping her head back, and he groaned. “You love torturing me, don’t you?” he murmured.

  She wiggled more, smirking. In retaliation, he reached around and caressed one dusky pink nipple, rubbing it, gently twisting it, watching it pebble for him. Not wanting to play favorites, he moved to the other side and gave it the same treatment. Her breathing got a bit heavier as he teased her. She pressed herself further into him, ground her ass hard against his cock, and it took everything in him to not bend her over the bench, nudge her knees apart, and take her right then and there. But he held himself back, because he had something else in mind.

  He hooked his thumb under her Spanx and pulled them off, then her panties. Then he wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, and set her down on the bench.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, in a husky voice that shot straight to his aching dick.

  “Showing you how beautiful you are,” he answered, and ducked down to kiss her. She eagerly met his lips, nipping on the bottom one. He slipped a hand down her delicious curves, to the spot that was already slick and wet for him. She made a little noise in her throat as he touched her, whimpered when he brushed a finger over her clit.

  “Simon…” she gasped.

  “Right here,” he murmured. “Always.” He traced his fingers around her, over her folds, teasing her. She spread her legs wider, her breath coming in pants now, her kiss deepening with her desire. He rolled her clit between his thumb and forefinger and she muffled a moan. When he dipped a finger inside her, though, she couldn’t stay silent.

  “I need you,” she panted. “Fuck me, Simon. I want your cock inside me right now.”

  “That’s where I want to be too, but not today.”

  “But what are you…”

  “I want to go down on you.” He added another finger to the one that was already inside her, stretching her wider as his thumb worked her clit.

  She inhaled, her eyes darkening. “Yes,” she managed.

  He kissed his way down her neck, took one nipple in his mouth and then the other. Then he was kneeling before her, watching his fingers work inside her, overcome by her beauty and the way she felt—and the way she made him feel. It had never been like this, not with any other woman. He wanted to give her so m
uch. All of him. Forever.

  “You are amazing, Penelope. You’re fucking beautiful,” he said in awe, and then he took her clit between his lips, sucking gently. Her taste was intoxicating, perfect, just like her.

  She gasped, her back arching against the wall. She shoved the dresses that had been lying next to her off the bench so she could grab the wood, use it to anchor herself as she spread her legs wider and squirmed beneath him. “Fuck, yes, just like—Simon, that’s so good—oh God…”

  He licked and suckled, plunging his fingers deeper, working her until all she could do was whimper and writhe and grind herself against his fingers. His free hand clamped around her thigh, holding her in place.

  Her fingers tightened on the bench, white-knuckled. “I’m going to come. Simon, I’m… I’m so close… Harder, harder,” she pleaded.

  He added another finger and thrust them as deep as he could, working her clit with his lips and tongue, and her muscles clenched around him with her climax. She muffled a wordless shout, arching off the bench, driving herself hard onto his fingers as she came for him.

  After a moment, he sat back. She leaned bonelessly against the wall as she recovered. “God, Simon,” she whispered. “That was…”

  But whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a knocking on the door. “You okay?” called the stylist’s voice. “I thought I heard some banging. No one fell, did they?”

  Simon stifled a laugh. There’d been banging all right, but not the kind the stylist was probably picturing. “We’re fine,” he called. “We had an idea for some alterations to one of the dresses, we’ll be out in just a moment to show you.” Or, well, they’d be out as soon as he wasn’t sporting a painfully obvious boner.