Page 19 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

With that, she leaves through the double doors. Her dress trails behind her, making her look like a ghostly apparition, and her bodyguard peels out from the shadows to follow her.

A chill has fallen over the room. Even the chandelier above me looks like it’s carrying icicles. Princess Iris breaks the mood with an elaborate stretch and a wide-mouthed yawn, as though physically shaking off the moment.

“Oh, ducky. Your mother means well.” She takes my mum’s chair to be closer to me. Her fingers rake through my hair, and she pulls at it lightly. “Your hair’s getting so long,” she muses. “It’s positively unmanageable. Have Angelia trim it down before tonight.”

“I like it long.”

She rolls her eyes. “And I like world peace and ponies.” She plucks my mum’s untouched scone from her plate and picks at it. “Even royals don’t get everything they want.”

11

Rory

I wake up in the top bunk of Free People Hostel.

Hostels get a bad rap, but I’ve grown to love them. There’s a sense of community here that you can’t find in a Four Seasons. Sure, I’ve learned the hard way to sleep with my valuables under my pillow, but for the most part, the people I’ve met at my hostels have been the best short-term travel companions a lonely traveler could ask for.

Free People has proven to be one of the best hostels I’ve stayed at. Free Wi-Fi, clean showers, and a short walking distance to some great pubs and cafés… it’s more than I’m used to. My co-ed dorm fits six, and the beds are in constant rotation, mostly with college-age students. I claimed top bunk after my last bunkmate moved on, and now I have a sweet, quiet girl, Nadia, underneath me. Nadia is still asleep, and so are a couple others, but the rest of the beds are empty, everyone eager to start a new day of sightseeing.

I savor a couple more moments underneath my cotton blanket, feeling as spoiled as a fluffy cat with a diamond-studded collar.

And then memories drift in of the opulent Buckingham Palace, the spotless furniture and the throw pillows lined with rabbit fur. It all feels like a dream. That couldn’t have possibly happened—not to me. But then I shift in bed, bending my knee, and feel a sudden pang between my legs. I’m sore there, a delicious, stretched sensation from the way the prince’s cock impaled me, again and again, and all at once I know: not a dream.

Last night was very, very real, and my body aches with the memory of Prince Roland.

Slowly, so as not to rustle my blanket, I slip my fingers underneath my panties to check the damage. The brush of my fingers sends a jolt of memory—Roland’s fingers playing my sex, his mouth on my breast, his hands on my hips. My nether lips are puffy, swollen, and I’m sopping wet all over again.

I can’t help myself. My fingers start moving of their own accord, drawing tiny circles underneath my needy nub. I came… how many times last night? Twice? Three times? I lost count, but my normally docile sex drive is suddenly insatiable. Roland isn’t the only one I’m fantasizing about, either. Ben slips into my daydream like a shadow. I remember the scratch of his teeth against my throat, and I shudder all over.

How did I let these two men turn me into such a horny mess? I bite my lip hard to swallow back a moan.

There’s a cough from the bunk across from me. Shit! I quickly cease all movement and hold my breath. I’m no longer the only one awake. My fingers are stilled, curled at my most sensitive parts, and my body is pulsing with the desire to finish what I started.

That’s not going to happen. There’s a lot more rustling in the bunks, a voice in a language I don’t speak, and a second person wakes up. Everyone’s getting up and I don’t want to get caught wet-handed. I discreetly slip my hand out from my panties, roll over in bed, and grab for my phone.

Distraction. That sounds good right now. My phone died at some point at the palace last night, but it’s recharged now, plugged into the wall outlet by my cot. I flick through to my emails and try to ignore the needy buzzing between my legs. I want to send Oscar an email and tell him all about last night. I can already see him rolling his eyes. I want to hear his dry, sardonic humor. I know how he’d react, too—the older brother, forever chastising me for my bad behavior, all the while doing a poor job of hiding his proud smile. You’re a train wreck, Rory, he’d tell me, lovingly. The thought is enough to make me start grinning.

As soon as I open my email, however, it refuses to let me send anything. I get a warning message explaining that I’ve used up all my cellular data for the month. How can that be? I’m usually so good at budgeting. I’ll have to call my provider and maybe work out of internet cafés for the time being.

I sigh, drop my phone, and get up. I have torn jeans folded at the edge of my bed so I don’t have to run around a bunch of strangers in my underwear, and I shimmy them on underneath my blanket.

Otter-Oscar sleeps beside me, and I pluck him out of bed before I lower myself down the stepladder and to the ground. Nora is still sleeping soundly, her face mushed against her computer, so I try to do everything quietly so as not to disturb her. I unlock my locker and pull out my clothes and toiletries. I take these to the communal bathroom, wash up, and get changed. I crack all my bones in the process—Prince Roland did a number on me. Muscles that I didn’t know existed are sore.

No. I can’t let my mind drift there again. I have a limited number of clean panties, and I don’t want to have to change out of another pair before the day has even begun.

Besides. It’s a bad idea to linger too long on the idea of the prince. I know what last night was—a hot fling. Even royalty need to get their rocks off every now and then. I get it, I do. In the words of the famous Roman orator: I came, I saw, and I came again. Prince Roland probably doesn’t even remember my name, but you know what?

I had sex with the future king of England.

And oh God—

So worth it!

But there was more to Roland than mind-blowingly good sex. He was kind, thoughtful, and generous in unexpected ways. Then there were his eyes. Sometimes violet with desire, sometimes crystal blue, and other times as cloudy and gray as the London sky. Even surrounded by the gilded palace, with literally the world at his feet, there was something sad lingering in the prince’s eyes. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

But things don’t make a person happy. With nothing to my name but a backpack and a stuffed animal, I know that as well as anyone. There’s a quiet, nagging part of me that wants to make the prince happy. I want to hug him or send him a toy otter of his own, even though I know both thoughts are impossibly silly.

There’s free coffee in the rec room. I’m low on money, so I make two to-go cups before slinging by bag over my shoulders and heading out. Brekson—the guy behind the counter with tattoos and huge ear gauges—gives me a nod on my way out. I set one of the cups of coffee in front of him.

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