Page 15 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Roland calls it my “lair.”

It’s not a lair. Lair suggests vampire, mad scientist, or psycho killer.

I’m none of those things.

I’m an ex-military royal guard with a minor interest in tech. We don’t have lairs. We have state-of-the-art security systems and surveillance equipment to monitor the goings-on of Buckingham Palace. Tucked away in the back of the antiquated palace, through the kitchen, the imitation ice-cooler door, and down a curve of stone steps, sits a twenty-first-century, electric nightmare of wires and screens. The room is small, barely ten square meters, most of which are occupied by the sizable flat-screen monitors that checker the far wall and splay out on either side. There’s nothing else but an L-shaped desk, two swivel chairs, and a bare bulb that hums noisily over my head. It used to bother me, that hum, but it’s white noise to me now. The cold blue light of the monitors bounces off the backs of my hands as I survey the palace.

We’ve got cameras everywhere. Nearly everywhere anyway. The members of the royal family are allowed privacy in their own bedrooms, but that’s about it. Hallways are mostly empty this time of night, save the guards at their stations. Queen Selena is asleep in her room. Her sister, Princess Iris, is helping herself to a nightcap in the queen’s private cellar. The head of the household is playing cards with his cooks around a round table in the kitchen.

My eyes are glued to the yellow sitting room.

It starts out innocently enough, Rory and Roland sipping tea across from each other. Then she’s in his lap, and they’re fiddling around with something on her phone.

They kiss for two, maybe three minutes. She gets naked and so does he. I watch as Rory gets on her knees for him.

And it’s…

Hot.

There. I said it. They’re bloody hot together.

She’s poised on the floor, the soles of her feet peeking out from under her round arse. Her head bobs up and down in his lap, her long hair curtaining over his legs. The prince sits back and cups the back of her head. The image isn’t very well-defined, their edges fuzzy, but even with the hazy quality, I can still see the way his lips form a circle in a silent moan.

My cock has been restless all night, but that sight sends my blood surging south. I can’t look away. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I can hear my heart pounding. It’s not the only thing pounding. I’m throbbing and my erection rubs painfully against my zipper. I cup myself, but the warm friction of my palm only makes me need it more.

Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a wank in here. Probably not the last. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.

You’re a coward. A deviant. A wanker.

Just go in there, push her deeper onto his cock, and claim his mouth with yours—

Fuck it. I can’t wait anymore. I pop the button of my jeans, slip my hand under my briefs, and pull out my cock. I can’t stop the groan that pours out of me. The friction of my palm provides a morsel of sweet relief, and I’m desperate enough to take it. My erection is brick hard, my corpulent head blushing and leaking. My slick cock slides through my fingers.

My eyes are glued to the monitor. After a while, Rory gets off the floor and straddles him. They flow together in exquisite rhythm. I should be there. Right behind her. I want to kiss her throat. Pull her hair. Ease myself into her tight, round behind. I want to shag her at a pace that drives the prince crazy. I want to hear him moan under both of us.

Filthy fantasies rage through my skull. I’m jerking madly now. My balls boil, my toes curl in my dress shoes, and I can’t contain my deep-throated moan as cum rockets from my cock. I shoot one load into my hand, then another, and it dribbles between my fingers and drips down my shirt.

I refocus my blurred vision. I’ve finished and so have they. They’re curled up on the seat together like kittens, bathing each other with their lips and tongues.

Me? I’m the wanker in the surveillance closet who can’t keep his fly shut. Relieved, but not satisfied. My thudding heart slows to normalcy. The immediate urge has subsided, but there’s a deep, angry ache that vibrates through my whole being.

The sharp, painful pining for him.

How bloody pathetic.

I tuck my cock away. I have a blazer tossed over the back of the chair, so I put it on and pinch the button of my blazer shut to hide my mess. I can feel the wet spot on my shirt cling to my abdomen. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’m accustomed to having a steel bolted lock on my impulses. Something about this ginger American has lit a match under my powder keg of carefully contained desires.

The metal door to the outside churns and squeaks open. My spine goes stiff, and I quickly pretend to be deep into my work.

“Should’ve known I’d find you here.” There’s the chipper voice of Tanner Worely, Buckingham’s head of security. He’s about thirty years my senior, his hair powder white, but he’s got the eyes of a hawk and the cunning of a fox. He leans over my shoulder to look at the video feeds, and I jab my soiled hand underneath my thigh, discreetly trying to wipe my cum off on my trousers. I’m a bloody wreck.

“I see the prince has a guest,” he states, his tone flat and unaffected as his eyes land on the sitting room. “What do we know about her?”

“I’ve done a full background check,” I state quickly. “Rory March. An American from Michigan. Here on travel. Civilian. Clean record.”

Tanner makes a low humming noise before he sits down on the chair across from me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t meet his gaze. I know he’ll see straight through me.

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