Page 3 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I drum my hands against the bar. Finally, Ben laughs. “Somehow, I think Prince Roland will survive without ever hearing Monkey Hurricane.”

I’m grinning broadly. “You should do that more.”

“What?”

“Smile.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Your smile really turns me on.”

Ben scoffs and tilts away from me. Still, I catch glimpse of the small upward turn of his lips.

This is all wrong.

I know that. Adventurer’s code, rule number two: never go home with the hot, rugged stranger from the bar.

But the rule book should’ve had an asterisk for Ben Tolle.

With his strong grip on my arms, his warm, hard body against mine, and lips butterflying along my throat, I should be saying no, but my mind is swirling with yes, yes, yes.

I groan under the pale yellow streetlight as Ben pins me to the wall and vanquishes my self-control with his lips. It started out innocent enough; he asked me to keep him company while he “burned a fag” (yes, I was momentarily mortified and offended until I realize he was talking about a cigarette). It didn’t take long, however, before his half-burned cigarette met the pavement and he cornered me into the shadows of the alley behind the pub. He kisses me, his tongue moving in purposeful swipes against mine, and nibbles my bottom lip. I’m a victim of my own lust-addled body, and desire flickers through my veins with every touch.

“Do I turn you on now, Rory?” he asks, his voice like a tiger’s purr in my ear.

“Yes,” I breathe.

Those dark eyes settle on mine. “Show me.”

I’m hypnotized by his intense gaze. He tugs my jeans and pops the button out of its slit before his hand dives boldly under the zipper. I don’t stop him, not even when he pushes my panties aside and his fingers find my sex. I’m sopping wet, and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from moaning.

A cocky grin cuts over his mouth. “You are worked up. Spread your legs, love.”

Love. The word is like honey, and it makes me shiver. I part my legs as far as my jeans will allow. He strums me like a guitar, his fingers curling and caressing as he makes me slick with my own arousal. I gasp when he zeroes in on my clit and flicks the bundle of nerves repeatedly, sending shock waves of pleasure through my blood. My thighs clasp around his wrist, and I grip the back of his neck for support. He boldly slips a finger inside of me, thumb still working my button. I’m writhing, rutting against his hand, and I hook my arms around his tall shoulders and pant against his chest.

It’s wrong to let a palace bodyguard grope me in public—I’m aware of that. The pub is bustling behind us, and at any moment, someone could step outside and see us tangled up together. But I’m completely swept up by this rugged bodyguard who dominates me so effortlessly.

I’m not normally this kind of girl. I know I wear combat boots and overdo it on the eyeliner, but I dream about a Prince Charming who opens doors and stands when I enter a room and whispers in my ear that he’d take down the stars in the sky for me. Ben is not that man. Ben is rough, calloused, and when my hips pivot against his hand, I can’t be sure if that’s his gun or his cock I feel pressing into me, because it’s huge and hard as steel.

His free hand takes a handful of my hair and captures my aching lips in a messy kiss. I feel deliciously dirty, and I love every second of this.

“We need to go somewhere private,” he informs me.

He removes his finger from inside of me and buttons my pants. He needs more than this—so do I. My sex feels achingly empty and buzzing with lust.

“My place… isn’t far from here,” I pant. “If you don’t mind a little voyeurism.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, it’s a hostel.”

“A hostel.”

I nod. He looks like he’s just bitten into a piece of tinfoil.

“We’re not shagging in a fucking hostel.” He latches his fingers around my wrist like a handcuff and tugs. “Come.”

I stumble after him like a dog on a short leash, walking twice as fast to match his long strides. “Where are we going, exactly?”

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