by Karina Halle
I stare at Orlando for a moment, not really sure what’s going on, my heart pounding heavily in my head, my body hot and flushed and on fire.
Did that actually happen?
Did he just go down on me while I was calling the royal doctor?
Did I just come harder than I’ve ever come in my life?
What kind of person is he turning me into?
This is getting ridiculous.
“You don’t have to worry about returning the favor,” he tells me, as he stands in front of me. I’m barely holding onto the desk and I know if I let go, I’ll fall, my knees feel that weak. He’s reduced me to jelly.
I glance down and can’t help but notice how turned on he is. Despite what he says, I know I’m going to have to do something about his massive erection, though I’m not even sure I could fit it all in my mouth. The new me might be up for the challenge, though.
“Stella?” I hear my aunt Maja’s voice echo from somewhere in the palace.
Shit.
She’s everywhere, all the time.
I clear my throat and smooth out my skirt, trying to look composed. “You might have to take care of your problem yourself,” I tell Orlando, giving him a sweet smile before walking out of the library.
Holy shit.
I can barely walk.
My legs feel boneless and my underwear is soaked.
And yet I can’t help the cheeky grin that I know is spreading across my face as I stagger away from the room. I might not be acting like myself lately but there’s a part of me that’s reveling in it. I feel naughty and I don’t think I’ve ever felt naughty in my whole entire life. I’ve always behaved, always done what was asked of me. At thirty-four, perhaps I’m finally rebelling.
I don’t hear Orlando behind me, which either means that he’s staying back as to not raise suspicion or he’s actually jacking off in the library since I wasn’t able to give him a hand. Damn. The thought of that is so hot I almost turn around and go back to look, but I know I have a job to do today.
And it’s a doozy.
I sigh as the reality comes back. Entertaining Orlando’s family. Maybe he was right, I do need him for stress release.
It can’t hurt.
Right?
I go and find Maja, who is pacing in the hall beneath the main staircase. She’s not worried that the Monégasques are staying longer than expected, but she’s annoyed and when she’s annoyed, she gets impatient and snippy. I know she wants this palace to go back to normal as soon as possible too. So we quickly make a plan for the day and then find the family, who are still finishing up breakfast, and get their input.
Penelope and Pierre want to do a photoshoot in front of the palace. I’m not sure where that came from, but apparently it’s already been arranged in the time that their son was going down on me in the library. I’m not even supposed to be in the photo, which is more than fine by me since I don’t want to get dressed up, and they made it clear that their children can do whatever they want (Matilde and Francis want to go shopping in Copenhagen, much like Orlando predicted).
Though I don’t know half the things I was saying on the phone to the doctor, I do know he’s coming by just after noon to give Orlando a check-up and administer some antibiotics if needed. I certainly don’t have this “doctor on call” service back at home but it sure is a nice thing to have here. I’m sure the last thing Aksel needs is for the news of Snarf Snarf’s “attack” getting out. This way it can all be kept a secret.
Speaking of secrets, I’m finding it harder and harder to be around Orlando after all of that. And by that, I mean orgasms. I’m fine when his family is around—I can just pretend he’s not there and they’re distracting enough—but when we’re more alone, well, it’s like he’s a black hole of sex. I keep getting drawn into his orbit and with his father and Penelope doing a photoshoot and his siblings out shopping, there isn’t much to stop me from jumping him.
Thank god for Dr. Bonakov. He’s the doctor for both the Swedish and Danish royal families and bounces around between us. When he gets arrives he takes one look at Orlando’s arm and dispenses antibiotics and some painkillers, which I’m sure Penelope will be swiping from him at some point.
“You need to get some rest,” Dr. Bonakov tells him, as we’re gathered in the sitting room, Orlando lying down on the couch. “You’re starting to get a fever but that should go down in time.” The doctor glances at me. “It might be best if you take him to his room, draw the shades. Make sure he drinks plenty of liquids . . . non-alcoholic. And keep people from pestering him.”
The way he says pestering makes me think that perhaps he’s dealt with Penelope before. I wouldn’t be surprised.
I thank the doctor for coming on such a short notice and then, after he leaves, glance down at Orlando who is staring up at me with a smirk on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“He thinks I have a fever,” he says. “He doesn’t know I’m just hot for princess.”
“Quoting Van Halen now . . .”
“It’s my own song. About you.”
Damn. Those painkillers kick in fast, don’t they?
I cautiously approach him and then reach down and lay my hand on his forehead. I think the doctor is right. He is warm to touch.
Orlando reaches up and grabs my wrist. I expect him to do something lewd with it, like put it on his crotch, but instead he gently pulls it to his mouth and kisses the back of my hand.
His tenderness catches me off guard, like the room starts to tilt.
Jeez, that feels . . . nice.
“Are you going to help me to bed?” he asks.
“You can’t do it yourself?”
“I already did once. Don’t want to do it alone again.”
Always with the innuendo. I help Orlando to his feet, and we head down the hall and up the stairs. At this point I don’t know where anyone is, so without the doctor here, there’s nothing keeping us apart, nothing to stop me from climbing him like a tree.
Except the fact that he’s drugged, I remind myself as we walk down the upstairs hall to his bedroom. And he’s an injured man. And he’s The Royal Rogue and you’re Princess Stella and nothing good can come out of this.
I tell my brain to shut up.
“Here we are,” I tell him, attempting to linger in the doorway, but before I can he wraps his arm around my waist and yanks me inside, simultaneously shutting the door behind him.
Then his lips are on mine, both hands grabbing the sides of my face and holding me as his mouth draws me into a long, passionate kiss. I feel it in the form of lightning strikes and birthday sparklers, rushing all the way down from my lips to my toes.
Jesus.
He’s an incredible kisser. I don’t know if it’s the medication spurring him with extra desire or that I feel more comfortable with him or what it is, but the way our mouths and lips and tongue move together is like living poetry.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he whispers against my lips, his hands going back into my hair and making a mess of it.
“I think you already did that.”
“Different lips,” he says with a salacious grin. “Both hungry just the same.”
“The doctor said you need rest.”
“The doctor thinks I have a fever,” he says, sucking my lip into my mouth. “Do I have a fever? Put your hands on me and see.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. He’s wearing a light grey button up shirt that makes his eyes seem even icier and I’m quick to unbutton it as he starts to shrug it off.
The shirt is thrown to the floor and I’m left with my first good look at his body. Yeah, when I did some internet spying last night I stumbled upon some images of him when he was younger and into pro surfing, so I’ve seen him shirtless before.
But that was on a screen and when he was young. This is so, so different.
He’s still lean and tanned from the Mediterranean sun, but he’s got muscle popping absolutely everyw
here, I don’t even know where to look or how to take him in. His rock-hard rounded shoulders, firm, expansive chest, ripped six-pack and sharp V hip dips. His arms. Oh god, his arms. I’d felt their power before, know what his hands can do, know the feel of his forearms but now, in front of me, I see their real strength, the veins and the thick ridges of muscles and how much brute force they hold.
“Your face is worth every hour in the gym,” he says.
“How are you even real?” I ask in awe, tentatively running my hands down his shoulders.
“I’ll tell you it gets harder to maintain as I get older,” he admits.
“You’re doing a good job,” I say breathlessly. I sound like some dumbass who has never seen a real man before but, in some ways, it’s like it’s true. I’ve never seen a man like this. It’s not even my fault, this body would make any woman question herself.
My fingers coast down over his chest, reveling in the feel of his taut muscles, pausing at a tattoo on one pec.
“What does this mean?” I ask, peering at the tattoo. It’s cursive, written in French.
He glances down. “Tu me manques.” He gives me a quick smile. “It’s French for ‘I miss you’ but the English translation doesn’t capture the depth of it. What it really means is that you are missing from me.”
“That’s . . . beautiful,” I say softly. “Who is missing from you?”
His smile morphs into something bittersweet and thoughtful. “My mother.”
Oh. His mother, Princess Selene, who died from breast cancer when he was a boy. I feel bad for even asking.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. I look to the floor.
“Hey,” he says, placing his finger beneath my chin and raising my face up until he’s looking into my eyes. “Don’t be sorry at all. I wanted to honor her and while there is no real way to explain the void she’s left in my life, this is the best I can do. We all do our best, don’t we?”
I feel like there’s extra meaning in those words but I just nod.
“Now,” he says. “Let’s get back on track. I don’t think my examination is over yet.”
I laugh and bring my hands down to his pants and start to undo them.
Definitely not over.
Prince Orlando and his crazy fucking family end up staying at Amalienborg Palace for two more nights.
Two nights of dealing with Penelope’s drunk ramblings and outlandish ideas (such as inviting Danish male models over and having our own private fashion show, which, thankfully, Matilde nipped in the bud), as well as Pierre’s horrible hunting stories and dad jokes.
Two nights of Matilde and Francis getting drunk in the streets of Copenhagen.
Two nights of Orlando screwing me senseless.
After we had sex in his room, causing his actual fever to spike briefly, we pretty much didn’t stop the entire time. You name the room, we had sex in it. You name the position, we did it. You name the dirty things he said, well, the man definitely doesn’t need a dictionary.
With all the filthy coupling, I wasn’t sure what I was going to feel when the day finally came that they pushed on their way.
Relieved, yes. I mean, even with all the sex, having guests in the house—especially when it’s not your house—was stressful. I got used to having them around but because they were all so predictable, I could never quite let my guard down.
Plus, Maja and the staff were never quite relaxed either. Always on the go, always cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone was happy. They’re used to getting a break when Aksel goes on vacation, but this time was different.
Yet, when it was time to actually say goodbye to everyone, I felt bereft.
Perhaps not at the moment they left but the hours after.
Orlando and I shook hands and that was it. He gave me a wink and then he was on his way. It’s like he was already a stranger to me, no more different than the cocky man who first entered the palace.
We didn’t even exchange phone numbers or emails or anything. While we were fucking and the few tender moments after, there was no talk of the future. Or the past. It’s like we only existed in the moment. Just a snippet of time. And that was all.
And I was okay with that. I still am. I knew what I was getting into.
But sex can fuck with your feelings. The intimacy of the body sometimes confuses the intimacy of the heart. Sex can make you see things that weren’t there before, feel things that should remain in the bedroom. I started to feel something for Orlando in a way I couldn’t really explain.
Not to mention the loneliness that settled in.
I like being alone. Other than Anya, I don’t really need anyone. My company is enough, and I almost think it’s romantic that it’s just me and my daughter against the world.
That said, when you go from being alone to being social and surrounded by people and then back to being alone, a sadness and a loss creeps in like you wouldn’t expect. It doesn’t happen right away, it takes a few hours. After you’ve relished the peace and quiet. That’s when you start to miss the company. It’s like they’ve distracted you from yourself for a good while, made you forget about the bad bits about life.
I actually started to miss them.
Most of all, I missed Orlando.
Obviously the sex was fantastic. I think I came more with him than I ever did with my ex during our entire marriage. But I missed his presence too. He was surprising. I thought of him one way and he always proved me wrong. We had good dialogue, we had chemistry. I liked just talking to him about anything, even if the sex sometimes took precedent.
Now he’s gone off to Stockholm and Oslo and I have no idea when I’ll see him again.
Or if I will at all.
“They’re coming back.”
Maja’s words make me jolt in my chair, nearly spilling my glass of red wine.
“What?” I ask, craning my neck to look at her as she comes into the living room, looking agitated. “Aksel?”
He’s supposed to be back in four days, and at this point it couldn’t happen any sooner.
“No,” she says pointedly. “The Monégasque royals. They’re coming back.”
“What? Why?” Orlando is coming back? I hate how giddy I feel. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I nearly spill the glass of wine again. It’s already five p.m., which, according to Jimmy Buffet and men with red Mount Gay hats, is an acceptable time to drink, but in hindsight I thought I was just doing this tonight and going to bed. “But, but . . . what will we eat?”
“I’ve already alerted the cooks. They’re going to do fish, I think. They can handle it. But you better get changed.”
I swear there’s a bit of a twinkle in her eye, which is very unlike her.
I look down at my outfit, which is just black leggings and a long denim shirt. Good for lazing around inside all day, not so good for entertaining. With one gulp I finish the wine, pour another glass for courage and then take it upstairs to change.
They’ve been gone for four days and I honestly didn’t expect to see them again on their way down but what I’ve learned from that family is to expect the unexpected.
I haven’t brought a lot of clothes here and I don’t fit into Aurora’s stuff (not that I would try anything without her permission anyway), so I put on the same dress I wore the first night. This time though, I wear my hair down and put on a touch more makeup. My reflection shocks me but I don’t hate what I see.
“You look lovely, Stella,” my aunt tells me, as I hurry down the stairs to join her.
“I wore this last week,” I remind her, tugging down at the dress.
“But you look different in it somehow,” she says, looking me over. “Must be the hair.”
Her words seem to hold a lot of weight in them.
Does she suspect something happened between Orlando and I?
It doesn’t really matter, though. There’s no time to think about it.
The both of us head to the sitting room to wait for
them when Henrik suddenly storms out of the kitchen toward us.
“I’m not sure we have enough fish,” he says, looking worried. “They just pulled up and there’s an extra guest.”
An extra guest?
I glance at Maja who looks just as confused. “Who is the extra guest?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure but she looks familiar.”
She?
Maja glances at me. “Well, this could be interesting.”
But I don’t think it’s interesting at all. In fact, I have a bad feeling about this.
A really bad feeling.
“The mystery guest can have my fish,” I tell him.
He looks like he’s about to protest but then the air fills with the sound of Penelope’s high-pitched chatter. There’s no proper entrance, no introduction this time. They’re just suddenly here.
I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves about seeing Orlando again, plus the mystery guest. Maja pats my shoulder affectionately.
And then they appear from around the corner, dressed in their Sunday best.
Penelope and Pierre.
Matilde and Francis.
Orlando and…
Zoya.
Zoya the Destroya, the Russian tennis player.
Zoya Ivanov, the six-foot-tall, honey-haired, super tanned supermodel.
That woman.
Standing in front of me, wearing a neon yellow dress that I swear I saw J-Lo wear to the Met Gala last year.
And she’s holding Orlando’s hand.
Holding.
His.
Hand.
I blink. I smile. My smile shakes but I manage to keep it up.
Oh my god, oh my god.
“So lovely of you all to pay us another visit,” I tell them, after I manage to tear my eyes away from Zoya and her spellbinding beauty. I can’t even look at Orlando.
Penelope says something in return and laughs but I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything except the whoosh of the blood in my head, and I don’t feel anything except the tightness of my smile, like it’s being held in a vice, and the skin of my palm where my nails are digging in.
I should have known.
Oh, I fucking should have known.
Before I met Orlando, one of the things I knew about him was that he had been The Royal Rogue, the hard-partying, surfing, drinking, playboy prince. He had been all of those things, famously, until he met Zoya Ivanov. They started dating and even though reports had them on and off from time to time, they had been together for at least four years. The last I had heard were rumors they were off again and I wasn’t paying that much attention. In fact, I didn’t even think about it until after we had sex in the bathroom.