The King's Secret Bride_A Royal Wedding Novella

by Alexis Angel

  Her cunt clenches around me, and I continue to swirl the hard bead in my mouth. She grabs my head pulling it into her, and she begins to writhe underneath me. Her hips grind against me, and her back arches, lifting her breast fully into my mouth.

  “Hmmmm…you taste so fucking good.”

  Her body quivers, and her drenched walls tighten around my fingers. I hold on to her waist and watch her orgasm shatter beneath me.

  This has to be considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World, because holy shit, she’s breathtaking.

  “David,” she groans out softly and slowly comes back to reality.

  “I want more,” I admit. “Grab on to the coat behind you.”

  I get down on my knees and grab her free leg that was once wrapped around me, and put it on my shoulder.

  “You smell so good,” I growl.

  “Fuck, David. Take me, please.” I swear, it’s like magic. Sooner or later, they always beg me for more.

  “I’ve been wanting to dive into this wetness since the moment I saw you,” I run my nose up and down her slit, nuzzling it on her clit.

  “Hmm…I love seeing the king kneeling before me,” she moans, grabbing my head and pushing me into her.

  Jeez, thank God I know how to swim. Even now, she’s so controlling. But I do like these new demands, I’ll be more than happy to oblige to these always.

  I lick her pussy from taint to clit, coating my tongue with her juices.

  “You taste so fucking sweet, love.” And it’s true, she’s intoxicatingly sweet.

  How in the hell could I ever resist this? What was she thinking? It’s like denying a dog a bone, it’s just mean.

  “Suck me, David.” She demands.

  “So greedy, Ms. Taylor,” I smile, and suck her clit, grazing it ever so slightly with my teeth.

  Her hips buck against me, and I grab her ass, keeping her in my hold.

  “Yes, yes…” She starts to shake around me, and I insert a finger into her, sliding it in and out swiftly.

  She really seems to like it when I break the rules. I’ll definitely be filing that crucial bit of information for later.

  She moans, and the once whisper gradually becomes louder.

  “Shhh…love,” I remind her, but my voice is muffled seeing as my mouth is full of her pussy.

  I continue to stroke her with my tongue, and she grinds up against my face. I feel her body start to tense and a rapid fire of intense quakes roll through her.

  “Oh my God, David!” She screams loudly and then combusts. My fingers coax her through what feels like an earth-shattering orgasm.

  She exhales, and her body relaxes.

  “OH MY GOD!” A voice screams in…terror?

  What the fuck? That didn’t sound like Vivienne.

  “Oh my God, David!” Vivienne repeats herself, this time in a ‘we’re fucked’ tone that’s riddled with humiliation.

  I guide her leg down, and I bring one of my knees up for balance. Turning towards the voice of what I think is a woman, I’m instead met with a hound of photographers and yes, a woman—a very old woman—with her hands over her mouth.

  “WHO IS THIS WOMAN?” The photographers start to yell, and the cameras start to clink frantically.

  “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING IN THE COAT CLOSET?”

  “YOUR MAJESTY, IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?”

  I smile, tightly, and look up at Vivienne who’s mortified. She covers herself quickly and puts her hands on my shoulder and faces the cameras, like she’s in some fucking Miss Universe pageant.

  “We didn’t close the door, did we?” She says through a plastered-on smile.

  “I guess that’s one thing we’ll have to practice.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  I know this looks bad, really fucking bad, but a part of me—including my aching cock—is enjoying this.

  So much for that fucking PR strategy, love.

  Chapter 10

  Vivienne

  The flashes of the cameras are still blinding me, and the woman’s scream continues to echo in my head.

  There’s no way in hell I got a wink of sleep last night. Everything that happened at the gala keeps playing over in my head, like some goddamn hamster on a wheel. I would’ve actually liked that better because it’d distract me from my anxiety attacks.

  I can’t believe this is fucking happening. I can’t believe I let that happen.

  Not only did David break all my rules—except for playing nice—he broke them with me. He fucked his public relations consultant, who’s here to fix his image and reputation, not throw it in the fire and pour gasoline over it.

  For fuck’s sake, this is bad.

  And by 4 a.m., the press is already running with wild speculations.

  Headlines range from humiliating “Who’s the mystery woman in the coat closet? King David finds her very appetizing” to downright tacky “King David or King Cunnilingus, which would you prefer?”

  This is feeding right into the narrative I didn’t want. This is what I told him not to do—to show them his sword. He might not have shown them his, but now mine’s out for the taking.

  This is fucking humiliating. I need to come up with something and quick, or else my ass will be fired. And I’ll be on the first plane out of here.

  I lean my elbows on the desk and hold my head up, feeling utterly exhausted.

  I spread out the ridiculous number of pictures of the incident taken from all different angles. Some are pretty damning; my expression is a giveaway and so is his face. If only I wasn’t so damn loud.

  I’ll have to remember to keep it quiet next time.

  No, there will not be a next time. This shit will never happen again.

  Wait—there’s one that shows him kneeling on one knee, looking up at me. I have my hand on his shoulder, smiling albeit awkwardly towards the camera. I lift the picture up, and a light-bulb goes off in my head.

  It looks very familiar, like every one of my friends’ Instagram photos. It’s a fucking proposal.

  That’s it! He asked me to marry him! And according to how I look, I said yes!

  It’s a big fucking spin, but it can work. Everything about this position screams engagement. Not to mention, if they don’t believe that this is the proposal, at least he’s eating out his fiancée’s pussy and not some random slut.

  It’ll make him look like a very giving and supportive fiancée. Yeah, like I said, it’s a stretch, but a completely do-able one.

  Regardless of how they take it, David looks like the fucking good guy. He wasn’t partying, he wasn’t fucking another sleezy woman, and he was being very nice. Everything we need to fix about his image can begin with the reframing of this photo.

  Feeling fired up and damn good about my idea, I type up an official statement that clears up the rumors and announces King David’s engagement to the woman he was seen with at the gala last night, Ms. Vivienne Taylor.

  And I add a little side note to clear up why we were in the coat closet. Because, duh, he needed privacy to pop the question; he was too eager to wait, so that’s where we went.

  And send.

  I sit back and take a long deep breath. Now, that’s impressive. All the anxiety gradually evaporates, and I start to relax.

  “Vivienne!” I hear David’s voice roar through the hallway outside my office.

  Fuck. I guess I missed a step. But it’s too late now.

  He pushes open the door, and it slams against the wall. He’s fuming, and, for a second, I’m intimidated and so fucking turned on.

  “What the fuck is this?” He turns his phone to me, and I read my statement that’s pulled up on the screen.

  “We’re engaged. Can you not read?” I ask, curtly.

  “Clearly, I can read, Vivienne.” He says my name like he’s trying to cut me with a knife.

  The way he’s staring, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s envisioning that by now.

  “This...this is not right. You can’t fucking claim we’re
engaged. How in the hell does that make sense?” he seethes.

  “Look at the photo. You’re on one knee, bending down in front of me, and I’m smiling. It looks like you proposed to me.”

  “I shouldn’t be punished because of what I did last night. You were breaking the fucking rules with me. Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”

  I laugh sarcastically. He’s got to be kidding. Is his ego that big?

  “I’m not punishing you, per se. It’s just what must be done. This shit scandal would ruin you...and me, for that matter,” I explain.

  He starts to chime in, but I cut him off.

  “And this has nothing to do with whether I like or if I had fun with you last night. We fucked up. So, we have to fucking fix it.” I pound my finger onto the desk to emphasize my points.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be a professional relationship? Not a fucking marriage contract?”

  He’s throwing that in my face right now? Wow.

  “David, I’m not actually going to marry you. Well, in a lovingly sort of way. This is a publicity stunt, something to cover our asses, so we don’t get rammed by the press, your people, and my fucking bosses.”

  “So, wait—we’re not getting married?” His body drops a little, and he furrows his brows in confusion.

  “Let me lay this out for you. We’re engaged. It’s not an actual engagement, but to everyone else, it is. There’s even a chance—no, a big chance—that we will get married. But it’s all fake. I don’t love you, you don’t love me. We can figure out the logistics later regarding our relationship. But for now, we’re happily engaged.”

  “I’m still confused,” he admits and falls back into the chair across from me. “Are we or are we not engaged?”

  I sigh, holding my annoyance in. I don’t want to make him upset again, though I know he’s like a ticking time bomb, and any word related to monogamy, commitment, or sober might make him explode. So, I tread lightly.

  “We’re engaged. And you’ll need to play along to make this charade work. I can’t express this enough, but with your cooperation in this sham of an engagement, your image will be mended, and my career will be saved. Plus, it makes sense as to why you’re cleaning up your act. You’re spoken for.”

  “Fuck. This is bullshit. I don’t want to play pretend. I never wanted to do that,” He reacts too quickly.

  “Well, love, you better learn how to because this is happening. It’s too late to back out now.”

  He gets up and leans over the desk, inches away from my face.

  I hold myself still, not wanting to cower under his intense presence. But I’m also slightly attracted to how big he looks. It’s all very confusing.

  “This better fucking work...” He glares at me, then turns around, leaving my head spinning.

  My thoughts exactly. This better fucking work.

  Chapter 11

  David

  “Uhh!” I grunt, punching the standing bag in front of me.

  “Harder!” my trainer, Mark, yells at me. Once a lieutenant, always a lieutenant.

  Perspiration begins to trickle down my skin, and I take another swing, harder this time. I do a combination of front jabs, hooks, and uppercuts, with a side kick, and I get swifter with each movement.

  It feels good, and I want nothing more than to release some fucking tension. And as my muscles begin to ache, I can feel it gradually dissolve.

  I still can’t believe we’re fucking engaged.

  For fuck’s sake, I’ve barely had a relationship before. And now this. It’s ridiculous how she thinks she can just come in here, all brazen and sexy as fuck, and completely uproot my life—changing me from the Debaucherous playboy to a shackled-up twat.

  Her argument is compelling, though, I’ll give her that. I suppose, given that I was on my knees last night, she can reframe it as a proposal, but still.

  How in the hell do you go from savoring a pussy one minute to being engaged the next?

  Has that ever happened to you, loves? Because I can safely say it’s a first for me.

  I hit the bag of sand repeatedly with my fists, imagining what it would be like to be engaged to Vivienne.

  There’s a part of me that knows I’d never get sick of having those long, toned legs wrapped around my head...or ass. Every time I see Vivienne, I want to fuck her senseless, make her beg for me again and again.

  I love the way she fucking says my name.

  I admit, loves, if there was one woman I had to be engaged to, Vivienne is definitely the ideal broad. She’s fucking gorgeous and knows how to handle my shit—it’s impressive. And that’s something that I can’t say about just anyone...

  But I don’t do engagements or commitments. Being King is commitment enough.

  “Go get some water,” Mark instructs.

  I get one last jab in and walk over to the bench to grab my water bottle. I quickly check my phone to see if I have any missed calls or emails. Kingship is a twenty-four-hour job; never know when shit’s about to hit the fan. Like, say, when you randomly get fucking engaged.

  Shit. Scott texted me. I haven’t heard from him in a while.

  Here’s the thing: Scott, unlike Charles, knows how to get me in some trouble. He’s always up for a good time, which usually ends with my face down—or my cock—in some desperate woman’s pussy.

  So, clearly, Vivienne would not approve of this guy.

  Damn it. She’s already in my fucking head.

  It’s a video, so I open it quickly before heading back to Mark.

  The lighting is terrible, but I get random glimpses of tits bouncing up and down.

  “Tell the King how much you want his cock!” Scott says, pointing the camera up at the waving nipples.

  “Ahhh, yeah...I want King David’s cock in my mouth, my cunt...” the woman moans out, pulling at her nipples and platinum blonde hair.

  From what I can make out, she looks attractive, but it’s very clear to me that she’s fucking Scott. Yeah, that’s another thing we always do—tag team women. I guess you can call Scott my Eskimo brother.

  With her still in motion, he says, “Call me.”

  God fucking damn it. I close the video and throw my phone down on the bench. If I didn’t just get engaged—no, fake engaged—I would cut this session short and run to that busty blonde.

  Even if she did nothing for me, it’s the precedent that matters. I can’t just go now. If I did, especially off somewhere with Scott, Vivienne would have my balls on a platter for breakfast.

  I return to Mark, and we do another combination. All the stress and tension I worked out before has now amplified ten-fold. I’m more riled up than when I found out I was a fiancé.

  This is so fucking frustrating. But I need stop being such a damn pussy and suck it up.

  I’m the fucking King. And I need to get my affairs in order, play the part, and get this shit done. I’ll need to just approach this like any other business deal or trade agreement.

  Play nice and wait until the shit blows over, and then I can do whatever the fuck I want.

  “One, two, three...” I grunt out while bench pressing two-hundred-fifty. Now, this is how you get those marble-like muscles I mentioned.

  All it takes is a little dedication and hard work, and you can get yourself looking like a fucking Greek sculpture.

  And that’s what I have to keep reminding myself of. I just need to give this arrangement some time, perfect it, and make it believable—though it’s still fake—and then I can be the King everyone wants me to be. And, hell, I guess the King I want to be to.

  Soon, if it all goes according to Vivienne’s plan, everyone will be marveling at my actual sculpture someday.

  I wonder what it’ll look like and if they’ll be able to get accurate dimensions. A twelve-inch cock might be hard to perfect.

  “Same time tomorrow?” Mark asks, distracting me, and I finish up my work out with some stretches.

  “Yeah, please. I’ll need this work out more than you k
now.” I laugh somberly.

  It’s so fucking true, it almost hurts when I realize it.

  Toweling off, I grab my stuff to leave. Looking briefly at my phone, I see four text messages all from Vivienne back to back.

  There’s a press conference tomorrow morning to formally announce the engagement.

  We will be interviewed, so prepare your answers. There’s a list of possible questions on your desk. Look them over.

  Look presentable.

  And don’t fuck this up.

  God, this woman is relentless and fucking exhausting. This better work.

  But here goes nothing—I am now Vivienne Taylor’s fucking doting fiancé.

  Chapter 12

  Vivienne

  “Good morning, love.” David’s voice wraps around me, and when my eyes greet him, I salivate—he looks delicious.

  Standing in my office is the Sexiest Man Alive; the headlines are true. His blue suit perfectly drapes over him, hugging and accentuating his bulkier parts. The color brings out the darker hues in his eyes, and I see a hint of desire flickering in them.

  I’m instantly wet.

  “I’m impressed. You clean up nicely, Majesty,” I tease while walking over to him.

  “As a doting fiancé should,” he winks at me and straightens his tie, but then I redo it for him.

  “You ready? Or do we need to go over some ground rules?”

  I know, I sound like a fucking teacher. But you can never be too careful. Especially if you’re dealing with a man who’s known for breaking the rules.

  “Yes, love. I’m more than ready.” He lingers on my pet name. A tingle of excitement rushes through me, landing at my cunt.

  Every. Fucking. Time.

  How does he do it? But then I look at him again, and the answer comes to me like a shock of electricity. Yep, that’s how.

  He smirks at me, and his hands brush my arm, traveling down to my hand. He intertwines his fingers with mine and tugs me forward.

  “Shall we do this?” He says, inches away from my lips.

  I force myself not to pout mine and kiss him. “Yes, let’s go.”

  Hand in hand, David and I walk through the manor towards a posh sitting area. We look like the picture-perfect, ever-so-in-love couple.