Page 4 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“The palace, of course.”

2

Ben

Buckingham Palace is hauntingly beautiful at night.

The neoclassical columns and half-lidded windows are underlit with spotlights. The Victoria Memorial shines the brightest, however, the golden angel reaching up toward the night sky, her wingtips outstretched.

A tall black gate separates us from the palace. Rory stops and stares, her mouth hanging open. I shift her bag over my shoulder (it weighs nearly as much as her) and tighten my grip on her arm to pull her away.

“This way.”

“But I thought you said—?” She points longingly at the palace, like a child whose parents won’t let her inside the candy store.

“We’re going through an underground entrance,” I explain.

“Oh!” She lights up. “Like a secret passageway?”

“Exactly like that.”

Rory is adorable. Painfully cute. I want to bruise that smile with my kiss and consume her light. But I hold back. After all…

She’s not mine. Not truly.

She belongs to him. To us.

This game of ours started four years ago. Prince Roland—twenty then, precocious, and a lady’s man—had already had a taste of love in the palace. And still, his hunger wasn’t satisfied.

“I think I’m going crazy,” he’d told me one night. We’d been playing darts down in the rec room, a stone-encased underground space with a dartboard, pool table, and assortment of what the queen called “boy toys.” Even with a belly of wine in him, the prince landed a bull’s-eye. Every time. He’d mastered every game in the palace. He’d read every book in the library. Twice. And he’d fucked every viable maid, waitress, and pastry chef.

“If I have to hear yes, Your Highness one more time, I’m going to snap,” Roland complained, chucking darts at the board. Bull’s-eye, bull’s-eye, bull’s-eye.

The thought came to me so suddenly I wonder if it hadn’t been sitting quietly in the back of my mind for a long time. “I may have a solution,” I’d told him.

So the game was born. Roland couldn’t leave the palace—he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his mother. So I went instead. That night, I went to the pub and scooped up some pretty, pliable, sweet-tasting woman. I seduced her and snuck her back into the palace. I was fully aware that the action could cost me my job. If the queen caught me, she’d put my head on a pike. But for Roland, I would do anything.

We took her that night. Together. She squirmed and moaned underneath us. And then there was Roland. The prince with violet-vibrant eyes. I’d watched as he cradled the woman to him, cupped her face, and purred sweet nothings in her ear before he impaled her on his stiff staff. She was lust-stupid, her eyes half-lidded and lazy when I eased my own cock into her mouth. And how she whimpered, trembled, and begged for more and more…

At the end of the night, the three of us were blissfully spent, and Roland and I were hooked. Since then, I’ve continued sneaking women back into the palace. Sometimes we go months, neither of us mentioning it, before Roland clasps me on the shoulder and announces, “Ben, darts tonight. You and me.”

Darts. That’s our code. I used to live for those words. Now… I’ve become weary of the game. As much as it ignites my blood, it encourages an inch I can’t scratch. I need more. It’s Roland’s fault. His magnetic eyes. His perfect body. His boyish, loud laugh.

It’s his fault I feel… like this. Like my very blood is buzzing every time he’s near me. And when we share a woman… he’s so close and still so infuriatingly far. I’ve been thinking that maybe I want to end our dart game. I fear that one day I’ll snap like a rubber band pulled too taut and let something slip in the middle of shagging some tourist.

But I can’t tell him that. I can’t let him know about the demons battering around in my chest. After all, how do you tell the man that you’re supposed to protect that a simple touch on the shoulder from him sends your thoughts skittering in a million different directions?

So I keep silent. And pine. And do his bidding. And hate myself for it.

When Roland proposed playing our “game” tonight, I felt my heart drop and my cock stir. I should have just told him then. I should have told him that I like—

No, that I love—

No. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

I haven’t mentioned to Rory that the prince will be joining us yet. I’ve usually brought it up by now. Group sex tends to be something of a hard limit for most women. But my tongue is stubbornly dormant as I press forward.

We walk beside the Thames to get to the palace. The black water sloshes below us and sends a quiet shiver through me. The river is dark and eerie this time of night.

---