Royals of Danovar: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  Pen fell asleep in Simon’s arms, and her last thought before sleep was that she might just be falling for her husband.

  11

  Simon hated being blindsided.

  He strode down the hall toward the royal apartments, focused like an arrow on his target, anger burning a hole in his gut. Earlier today he’d been at a meeting at a men’s club—which stank of cigars, but seemed to be necessary to the political elite in Escona—and had sat next to a member of the country’s old guard. The man apparently hadn’t held a position of power over others beyond forcing them to sit through his stories for years, and he’d taken great pleasure in cornering the new king and telling him all about how much Simon was like his father. Simon’s father was a great man, so Simon hadn’t minded the long-winded story—something about not killing all the deer in a residential part of Escona after an accident involving the man’s cousin—until the old guard had said that Simon and his father were both pushovers.

  Simon had been stunned into silence, which the storyteller had only taken as encouragement. He’d related the rest in one of those quiet tones that was sympathetic on the surface but oozed self-importance beneath that: he’d heard Penelope was very much in charge of and still earning money from her toy company—the man thought Simon had more ethics than to promote a national education initiative that would most likely heavily line his wife’s pockets.

  Simon had managed to graciously back out of the conversation at that point, but inside he was shocked and seething. He’d given up everything for Penelope and Escona, and he’d thought she’d done the same. Why had she misled him? Hadn’t they promised each other complete honesty? And now that they’d consummated, honorably backing out of the marriage—if he’d wanted to do that, which he didn’t, but still—wasn’t even an option anymore.

  He stormed (politely, because there were housekeepers in the hall and they’d done nothing to earn his wrath) toward the royal apartments and his wife, planning to give her a sizeable piece of his mind.

  But he found her ready for a fight too.

  When he pushed open the door to her writing room, she was sitting at her desk, scribbling out a letter with angry strokes of her pen. She glanced up when he entered and saw the emotion on his face. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Did the meeting not go how you wanted?” she asked cattily. “Bad day at the men’s club sauna?”

  “I wasn’t at the sauna, I was suffering through endless stories about the good old days. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

  She huffed, flinging her pen to the table. “I spent the whole day doing interviews with magazines to promote the education initiative, but somehow two thirds of the talk always ended up being centered on ‘what did you wear?’ Is that all anyone even cares about? I have more important legislation to pass than wearing white after Escona Day!”

  Simon had meant to lay into her about the toy company, but he hadn’t expected to find her so angry herself—and damn, she was hot when she was catty. He tried to focus. “Please. Try sitting three hours in a room that stinks of cigar smoke with old men who rattle on forever about the good old days. You’ll wish you were only being asked about your clothes.”

  She stood up, knocking the chair backwards as it scraped a complaint against the wood floors, and stalked toward him. “Don’t try to belittle my struggles. I’m the first young Queen in nearly two decades. I have to make them see me as more than a royal supermodel or I’ll never get anything done. You have nothing to complain about. Everyone already takes you seriously.”

  She stabbed a finger into his chest. He caught it. She pulled away, but he was either going to kiss her or yell at her some more, and he really didn’t like yelling at her. So he yanked her into him—she stumbled, caught off guard—and slanted his lips across hers in a punishing kiss. After a moment, she reciprocated, biting down a bit too hard on his lower lip. He muffled a curse and she pulled back, smirking up at him, eyes smoky with heat—from both anger and desire, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You think you can dish it out without taking any yourself? I have had a hell of a day, mister, and if you think—”

  He silenced her with another hard kiss. This time she scraped her fingernails across his back, then grasped his collar and yanked down hard, popping his buttons.

  “Fuck, that was my favorite shirt,” he said, staring down at his now-bare chest in consternation.

  “Too bad,” she snarked. “Take it off. The pants too.”

  Glaring, he obeyed, but tore her shirt open in retaliation. Half her chest was now exposed, her breasts heaving inside a lacy black bra. He stood back. “Your turn,” he said, his tone rough and demanding. “Take it off.”

  She swept the blouse and bra off, then stomped back toward him, skirt swishing around her legs. Before she could reach him, though, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. He snatched up a handful of her skirt, pulled it up, tugged her panties off and bent her over the desk. Then his own boxers were on the floor.

  He slid a finger inside her. She was wet and tight and he wanted her right now. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” he said roughly. His cock was already aching, rock-solid, a drop of pre-cum beading on the tip.

  She grabbed onto the corners of the desk. “Yeah? Prove it, tough guy.”

  He kicked her feet apart and drove himself into her. His fingers gripped her hips, and she wiggled her ass, lifting it higher as he set a punishing rhythm. That was good. Fuck, this was just what he needed, hard and fast and angry—but she pulled away after a moment, spinning around and pushing him to the floor, turning the tables as she took control of the lovemaking. She shoved him back on the carpet then lifted a leg over his hips. She paused then, teasing him cruelly, smirking as she rubbed her slick folds up and down his length without taking him back inside her. He reached down and grabbed her hips, trying to position her where he wanted her, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the carpet. Then, slowly, teasingly, she eased herself onto his cock. He groaned and thrust hard and she smiled, grinding in slow circles when he wanted to fuck her rough and quick.

  “Yeah,” she moaned, throwing her head back. Her dark hair tumbled in waves over her bare shoulders as her frilly skirt pooled around her. He needed it off, he wanted to see. He gathered himself and flipped them over until she was beneath him, glaring and panting. He smiled in victory and pulled out just long enough to yank her skirt off, then plunged into her hilt-deep. He took her again and again, marking her as his with each hard thrust, and she locked her ankles around his back and dug her fingernails into his shoulders to make her own mark.

  “Fuck, yes,” she gasped. “Make me come, Simon.”

  “Always ordering people around,” he growled, and took a nipple in his mouth, delaying both their climaxes as he forced himself to hold still instead of continuing to drive himself into her the way he wanted.

  She reached down and grasped his balls, massaging them with one hand, and he cursed at how good it felt. When he managed to resist the impulse to thrust, she pouted and moved her hand between them and rubbed at her clit, writhing and whimpering as she pleasured herself.

  “Damn it all to hell, that’s my job,” he muttered, and shoved her fingers away so he could tweak her clit himself. He plunged into her again, filling her until he was balls-deep. She arched against him, changing the angle, taking him even deeper as she gasped his name. “Come for me,” he ordered, and she did. Her muscles shuddered around his cock, wet and tight and heavenly as she shouted. His thrusts grew more chaotic as he worked toward his own climax and then he was pumping into her and crying out his own release.

  Then they slumped, anger and passion equally spent, and spiraled slowly back to Earth. “Hell,” she managed after a few minutes, “I should be angry more often.”

  He chuckled and rolled off her, going to clean up and returning a moment later with two robes. He offered her one. “You definitely should,” he agreed, “if it leads to more of that.” He sat on t
he ground next to her, feeling boneless and sated.

  She tried to finger-comb her sexy snarled hair, but gave up after a few futile tries. “You never actually told me,” she said. “What were you angry about, exactly? Beyond having to listen to some old guy’s story.”

  He sighed. He wasn’t angry anymore, but he still wished she’d told him what she was doing. “He said you were still making profits from your toy company. I thought you’d given that up, Penelope.”

  “I actually meant to talk to you about that last night, but then you distracted me. You’re so damn good at distracting me,” she grumbled, then made a wry face. “I know I should have relinquished control of it sooner, but it’s hard to let go, you know? It’s my safety net as well as feeling like part of my identity. I just wish there was a way to keep doing the parts of it I love without anyone calling foul play.”

  “What parts do you love, exactly?”

  “Designing the toys. Knowing I’m bettering some child’s life with what I’m doing.”

  He tilted his head, considering the problem. “We could probably find a way for you to do that without having any influence in the company or material gain. That way you could keep doing what you love without anyone minding. Maybe you could finish the treehouse designs, use that as a test run.”

  Penelope practically glowed. “Yes! That’s perfect. I was thinking along those same lines. What if all the proceeds helped build and find housing for needy families and children?” She turned shy, peering at him from under her eyelashes. “Maybe… you could help me finish the treehouse?”

  He grinned and pulled her into his lap, kissing her thoroughly. “I’d love nothing more,” he told her.

  12

  Penelope sat at the bar in a blonde wig and a straightforward outfit so unlike her it was a costume, and all she could think about was how amazing her husband looked. They were at a rugby bar, having realized how desperately they needed a day of normalcy after their big blowout the day before. The strain of ruling was getting to both of them. Sure, they’d made up in a pretty spectacular fashion after the spat, but a break would do them good. Plainclothes security was sprinkled throughout the bar and the King and Queen both wore disguises so they could pretend for a day that they were a normal couple. A few people had given Penelope sideways glances, probably thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but not a single person had looked twice at Simon.

  And she could see why. In a t-shirt, jeans, and baseball cap, he looked completely unlike the stiff Strict Simon she was used to seeing. By now she was certain the man had a serious addiction to button-downs. That was a true shame, though, because in street clothes he was revealed for what he really was: a dressed down, muscle-bound hunk.

  Their team scored, and Simon jumped off his seat, shouting and pumping his fist in the air. His intensity was new too, but, she thought, not part of his disguise. Over the last hour or so she’d discovered her mild-mannered King apparently turned into the Hulk when sports were involved. The guys next to them had noticed too, giving him glares every time Simon shouted in victory and yelling their own happy whoops when he was cursing at the screen. They must be cheering for the opposite team. And they were getting progressively drunker, judging from the steady stream of beer delivered to their table and the sloppy sneers they sent Pen and Simon’s way. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t even that late in the afternoon yet.

  “No! Fuck, that was a completely illegal kick,” Simon shouted, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. It made Pen’s heart happy to see him cheering the Esconian team, even though there was a Danovian match on the screen over the bar.

  “Ugh, seriously?” yelled a man at the table next to theirs. “That kick was totally legal!”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon shot back, eyes still on the screen.

  “Maybe it’s time to get out of here,” Pen murmured to him. This date was supposed to be fun and relaxing, but if they stayed much longer she was afraid they’d get into a bar fight. Security would step in and stop things before they escalated too far, of course, but the last thing she wanted was for their private escape to be plastered all over the news. She’d made the news enough lately, and if she wanted her country to take her seriously, she needed the next time they saw her face on TV to be for something positive, not a brawl.

  “Yeah dude, listen to your sweetheart, time for you to fuck off and let some real rugby fans enjoy the game,” chuckled a man from the other table, overhearing.

  Simon tore his eyes away from the TV and stared the man down. “Who are you to define a real fan? People can like whatever the hell they like. I don’t have to prove myself to you.”

  She cleared her throat, trying to signal him, but he stubbornly refused to look at her.

  The other man took a sloppy swig of his beer and stood up. “I say you do,” he argued.

  Apparently Simon’s adrenaline was pumping as much as if he’d been playing in the game himself, because he stood up too. “Yeah? Come over here and make me.”

  Two more guys stood up. Pen tugged at Simon’s arm, eyes wide, but he refused to budge. “I swear to God,” she hissed, “if you ruin our date I will make you pay. My chances at normalcy are few and far between now, and I need this one to go well.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging her off. Damn it, why did he have to get all intense now? It was sexy as hell, but the worst timing ever. She glanced around the room, picking out the members of castle security. They were watching carefully, but no one wanted to blow the King and Queen’s cover, so they’d only interfere if absolutely necessary. Which, according to Pen’s best guess, would be in about fifteen seconds when Drunk Dude-Bro Number 1 and his two goons reached their table.

  “Simon,” she hissed again.

  “Listen to your little lady,” mocked Dude-Bro. “Although she’s way too pretty for you. Are you sure you don’t want to get a drink with me, baby doll?”

  The people around them stopped pretending to watch rugby and turned their full attention to the swiftly escalating altercation. Pen stepped forward, disgusted, and started to tell him off—but Simon moved in front of her, pushing the other guy back firmly. That was all the encouragement Dude-Bro needed, and he pulled back his arm to throw the first punch.

  Simon easily dodged the fist, picked Pen up around the waist, and carried her out of the bar without a backward glance.

  Stunned, she didn’t move until they were already out the door. Through the windows she could see the plainclothes security members wading into the dude-bros along with a bartender, de-escalating the would-be melee into sullen cursing. Pen struggled in Simon’s grip. “Put me down,” she ordered irately, but her feet didn’t touch the ground for another block and a half. “Listen here, you,” she said, poking a finger in his chest when he finally obeyed. “First of all, you should enjoy dates with me, not spend them yelling at a TV screen and starting bar fights. Second, don’t get so angry over rugby. It’s a game, for crying out loud. And third—do not carry me places unless I ask you to lift me off the ground.”

  His eyes softened and went molten. His gaze slid down her form and back up. “What are the chances of that happening sometime soon? Because I have to admit, I kind of liked it when your feet were off the ground a few nights ago.”

  She crossed her arms. “Don’t you dare get turned on right now,” she said as frostily as she could manage. “I’m trying to tell you off.”

  He bit back a smile and swept a deep, aristocratic bow. “Apologies, My Queen. I promise to not pick you up again. Unless you ask me to.”

  She nodded firmly. He waited. She lasted about ten seconds before she gave in with a huff, leaning in close so the people winding around them wouldn’t hear. “What exactly do you want me to ask you to do?” she asked in a low voice, intrigued despite herself.

  He smiled and put his mouth to her ear, telling her exactly what he wanted her to ask him to do to her, and she nearly wrapped herself around him right there in the m
iddle of a public sidewalk.

  “I think I could manage to put in a request for all of that,” she managed.

  “Good,” he said, his husky voice sliding deep into all her senses, intoxicating her.

  Their ride, a black limo, pulled up to the curb. He gallantly opened the door and waved them in. When they got back to their rooms she spent a good portion of the rest of the afternoon with her feet quite pleasantly off the ground while he made love to her with all of the intensity he’d had in the bar. She’d never been happier to be proven wrong about what she wanted.

  13

  The next day, Simon asked Penelope to stick around the castle and work on the treehouse prototype with him. Since the sports bar date had been a bust, they were still in need of some R&R, plus successfully finishing these designs might lend Pen more confidence in her ability to follow through. He still hadn’t quite been able to get her words about her rule being a “test run” out of his head.

  “No, the rafters should be aligned north to south,” Pen was insisting a few hours into the project, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “East to west,” he said stubbornly, “or the roof won’t sit right.”

  They were at the far end of the castle grounds, its turrets stabbing into the sky above a row of tall hedges a few hundred yards away. Curious guards had been checking in on them all morning, but so far no one had tried to stop them. Simon was glad. This project had given him the chance to see what an excellent building team he and Pen made—she was creative at problem-solving, and he was good at keeping them realistic and on track.

  Except when she was being stubborn. Like now. “East to west,” he said again, standing his ground.

  She threw her hands up with a huff. “Fine! We’ll do it your way, and when it all collapses like a Jenga tower, we’ll know who’s to blame.”