Page 14 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Softly, his lips meet mine. I gasp against them. They’re so warm, so soft, and I can’t help but melt into his kiss. I part my lips, and his tongue takes the invitation and licks the inside of my mouth, tasting every inch of me.

I need him. I need this. I’m too desperate to be delicate. Straddling him, I rip at his shirt, pulling the buttons away to reveal his strong chest underneath. My hands slip over his skin. He’s burning up, feverish with passion. He pushes my shirt up over my breasts. I yank it off the rest of the way, and as I do, his lips connect with my swollen globe, his tongue swirling over the nipple.

I shudder under his hands. This is incredibly wrong. I came here with a different man, was moments away from an unsuspecting gang bang, and I’m shirtless in the middle of Buckingham Palace. I’m certain I’ve violated at least a couple dozen America-UK accords. But all I can think about is being violated by him. His touches and kisses are a painful mixture of delicate and hungry. I feel as though I’m a lamb caught in a wolf’s gentle jaws. I sink into the heat of his contradictions, savoring every brush of his fingertips.

He unpins the button and zipper of my jeans. I step back, momentarily standing so I can take them off. The second I start to shimmy out of them, he says, “Wait.”

I stop. He leans forward in his chair, and his long fingers take the hem of my pants. “Allow me.”

I stand as still as I can as Roland inches my waistband down my hips. Every new inch of bare skin, he marks with a kiss, like a mountain climber leaving posts in the snow to remember where he’s been. My breath hitches when he kisses the downy patch of ginger hair there. My eyes lock on his sea-blues as he extends his tongue and laps at my slit.

The noise that leaves my mouth is barely human—I sound more like a newborn kitten as I push my hips forward, aching.

The prince unbuckles his pants, and as he licks me, he takes his cock out. I see his arm moving, stroking himself, and that sends flames of desire through me. I sift my fingers through his hair and give it a small tongue. “Wait,” I plead.

“What are you doing?”

I get on my knees in front of him and grin. “Bowing to my prince.”

It’s almost unfair, really, for a royal to be this blessed. He has everything he could ever desire, and he’s well endowed. With a beautiful, beautiful cock. How’s a woman supposed to recover from a man like this? It occurs to me that I may never, but that doesn’t stop me from replacing his hand with my own and taking the swollen head of his organ in my mouth. He sighs with relief and sinks back into his chair. His hand cups the back of my head and I feel his thumb pet the nape of my neck as he murmurs, “Good girl.”

Another mewled noise from me. Where are these noises coming from? I can’t seem to help it, just like I can’t help the fact that I’m positively dripping by now. He’s too much to fit in my mouth, and I keep a hand at the base of him while I swallow down as much of it as I can. I’m enjoying this, way more than I normally do. He’s hot and salty in my mouth, and I love feeling his rigid length as I run my tongue over his velvety skin.

I keep my eyes on him; I want to drink in every reaction. His eyes go lidded, violet-hazy, and his breath picks up. I begin to stroke the hilt of him to where it meets my lips as I suck him forcefully. His nails dig into the back of my head and the arm of his chair. He moans and throbs in my mouth. It’s incredible to see the prince lose control. I’m getting so wet watching him, tasting him, and I swear I can feel it drip down my thighs and onto the priceless carpet underneath me.

I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except this Adonis of a man throbbing in my mouth. “Ah… Rory,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, urgent. “You’re going to make me cum.”

I whimper, needing it, and suck him harder. I flutter my tongue over his manhood, encouraging him to let go. When he comes, it’s quiet—his grip gets incredibly tight in my hair, and I can see his jaw tense as he nearly grinds his teeth to keep himself from calling out. We are, after all, in the middle of the palace, the twin doors open, really asking for trouble, but Christ on a cracker if it isn’t hot to watch him sweat through it. He inhales a sharp gasp and floods my mouth. I swallow him down, greedy for it, and continue to suck on him, coaxing. I taste him a little more with every pulse of his cock.

I drop him from my mouth, sit back on my haunches, and lick my lips.

The monster isn’t satisfied. Not completely. His cock is fiercely red now, the veins bulging, and it bobs a little, as though hunting for the warmth of my mouth. The prince is lust-hazy, a sheen of sweat making his chest gleam, but the way he looks at me is completely feral.

God bless the queen and her son’s unwavering stamina.

“Come here,” he commands, and I can’t oblige quickly enough.

I jump into his lap and crush those full lips against mine. Our kisses aren’t sweet and delicate anymore—they’re animal, messy, and desperate. I taste like him, he tastes like me, and good God why wasn’t this in the tourist handbook, why didn’t anyone tell me the prince of England was this kinky? Every orgasm, every wet dream, every fantasy—they all feel wasted up until now. I would’ve saved them all for him.

He reaches between us only to guide his manhood inside of me. He’s huge and I brace myself for it, but I’ve never been wetter and he slides inside easily. He fills me, completely, and I gasp when he pistons his hips upward, until he’s fully sheathed. I’m straddling him, gripping his chest, his shoulders, and his lips devour my throat and any bare skin they can reach. My mouth falls open, and I want to tell him to slow down, I want to savor this, but my body has other plans. I’m rutting against him like an animal, riding him ferociously. My nails dig into him; he grips handfuls of my skin. Every thrust of him hits a place inside of me that I feel hasn’t existed until now, was maybe saved just for him, because it sends bursts of pleasure through me. We move as one, sliding and riding and gripping and faster and faster until—

My orgasm explodes! I shout and pure white euphoria burns behind my eyelids and sparkles through my blood. I hear his name in my ears, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m the one repeating it, over and over, Roland, Roland, Roland, each utterance in time with the pulses of my body.

He groans between his teeth, jerks his hips upward, and spills over inside of me for a second time. My body is thirsty for his seed, and it clings and clutches at him, coaxing every last drop.

Finally, we’re spent. Our bodies are slick with sweat, heat emanating from our skin, and it’s all I can do to pant against him.

“Bloody Americans,” he says as catches his breath. It’s said reverently, in awe, and I can’t help but laugh.

“If you thought that was good,” I tell him, “wait until you taste our cornbread.”

He cups my face and lifts it. My head feels heavy, exhausted, and his strong touch is nourishing. “I don’t want to taste anything but you,” he says, his voice low and heated, those eyes crystal blue once more. “Ever again.”

I melt into his kiss, and finally, we take our time savoring each other.

9

Ben

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