Page 99 of Coronation
“With you? Of course I am.” Another slow, teasing roll of his hips, and my panties are so slick they glide easily over my pussy. It seems clear I’m making the transition between the constantly exhausted and ill first trimester, to the famed, spectacularly horny second trimester. This conflicting, jam-packed schedule thing is going to need to end soon, or I may actually lose my mind.
My resolution to stick to the agenda is dissolving the longer we stay in this closet, and when Ben finally kisses me, hot and slow, I decide schedules are totally overrated. Unfortunately, the maid in charge of this area of the palace is more committed to her job than we are, because only seconds after I’ve decided to use my next breath to beg for Ben’s cock, the door is yanked open.
Both of us look around, still intertwined against the wall of cleaning supplies, to stare back at the obviously shocked woman in the doorway. “Sorry,” I squeak, my face burning as the word has the poor maid turning away, closing the door again in a rushed stream of her own apologies.
The moment she’s gone, I groan. “Lesson learned. No moreactivitiesoutside our rooms.”
“Yes, I think that’s for the best,” Ben agrees, clearly disgruntled as he reaches down to adjust his erection. “Has the press office decided when we’ll announce the baby?”
“Next month? I think they’re looking for some plausible deniability on the timeline,” I report with a laugh, thrown off by the abrupt change of subject. “Why?”
Ben opens the closet door and looks both ways to make sure we’re alone, before taking my hand again, resuming ourpath. “I was thinking it’s a pity we can’t use the pregnancy as an excuse to leave the ball early tonight.”
“Do you know what makes an even better excuse than me being pregnant?”
“What’s that?”
I smile. “Having a baby. You’ll have your very own adorable get-out-of-social-obligations free card in just a few short months.”
He seems to consider this for a moment. “You know, just this morning I truly believed I couldn’t possibly be any more excited.”
My answering laughter carries after us down the long, sunlit corridor.
As I learned during one of my many “bringing the American interloper up to speed” meetings over the last few days, every country with a monarch as its head of state has its own unique customs and ceremony surrounding the crowning of a new leader.
Stelland, which I’ve come to know as a nation of pragmatic, hard-working people, makes rather less of a thing of it than is done elsewhere. There are no horse-drawn golden carriages or resplendent fur-trimmed capes. On the contrary, every step of the ceremony seems to have been designed to emphasize the new king or queen as a servant of the people, rather than a god amongst men.
The ceremony begins at the gates of Ashwell Palace and takes us through the streets of Wyngate, finally ending at Saint Clement Cathedral. Outside the window of the side room where Ben and I have been stationed to wait, I can see that the road has been blocked off, and hundreds of onlookers line the partitions on either side, waving the blue, black, and whiteflag of Stelland, or holding flowers in their arms. The press are there too, with an—or so I’m told—unusually good showing of American news outlets.
I’ve played lots of roles and worn lots of costumes, but the very simple white dress that was selected for me to wear for the coronation feels more meaningful than all of them.
At my side, Ben is dressed plainly as well, in a white linen shirt and trousers that have been rolled twice to avoid being muddied on the ground. Neither of us is wearing any jewelry, apart from our wedding bands—Ben had patently refused to have them removed—and even my hair and makeup are superbly understated and humble.
Our feet are bare.
“Three minutes, Your Highnesses,” announces one of the event coordinators as she pokes her head into the room, her eyes finding the king and me standing together by the window, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Thank you,” I tell her, and the woman leaves us alone.
Ben presses his lips to my temple. “I must admit, I didn’t marry you so I would have company for this, but I’m very grateful for it.”
It’s moments like these that make me appreciate how far this man has come since we met, and the lengths he went to for me to feel safe again. Maybe I should have been more apprehensive, marrying someone I’d only known for a few months, but I wasn’t. Not after everything we went through to get to this place, and my husband proving again and again that he wouldn’t allow anything to get between us. Even himself.
My heart is so full, as, for about the fifteenth time today alone, Ben’s hand moves to my stomach. “I think I’m starting to feel a bump,” I confess, smoothing my dress flat. There is definitelysomethingthere, a subtle swell that will surely not stay stable for long. We got the results of my first roundof genetic testing back only yesterday, and all signs point toward a healthy son or daughter joining us in March.
“I love you,” Ben murmurs, kissing me again. “Very much.”
“I love you too.” I glance toward the window again, experiencing another not-so-small prickle of nervousness. “This is insane, though. A week ago, I was still trying to work up the nerve to tell you about the baby, and now I’m walking barefoot through the streets of Wyngate while the whole world is watching. All so I can kneel in front of an old man and have him put a crown on my head.”
Ben chuckles, allowing his hand to fall back to his side. “Well, when you put it like that, it does sound rather mad.”
From outside on the street, we hear a muffled cheer. Presumably, the guards have opened the gates, signifying the beginning of the ceremony, and the unnecessary reminder that it’s very nearly time sends up another eruption of nervous butterflies in my stomach.
The man beside me doesn’t seem worried, though. With each passing minute, I’ve sensed a calm, stoic resolve settling over him as he prepares to formally step into the role he never wanted but was thrust upon him anyway.
The crown was his worst fear. Many others would have turned tail and run as fast as they could, but Benedict Ashwell did no such thing. Even when the weight of it threatened to bury him alive, and he was convinced he could never be the king his brother was,he stayed. He stayed, quietly working so hard, and then he met me.
He met me, and now he doesn’t need to do it alone, because I will spend the rest of my life making sure this country sees and loves my husband for exactly who he is.
