Page 50 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“Oh?” Roland’s interest is clearly piqued.

“I need new trousers.”

Roland scoffs. “You look great. They’re just bloody trousers.”

It’s the closest thing to an apology these two will get. I almost roll my eyes. Men are so stubborn. But then Roland continues.

“I’m the outdated prat,” Roland says and holds out a hand. “Pocketknife.”

Ben gives him a strange look. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a switchblade, and hands it to me. I drop it into Roland’s waiting palm.

“Cheers.” Roland flips the blade out with his thumbnail. Then he presses the blade against his knee. I almost tear it away from him, but he doesn’t dig in deep enough to reach skin. He’s ripped a shallow slash in the fabric, revealing his leg underneath. The cut is too clean, and the split threads don’t fray, so he saws a large, gaping hole into his pants. Then he puts the blade back, hands it off to me, and shows off his bared knee. “There,” he announces. “Now I’m part of the club.”

I swallow back a lump in my throat. I’m touched by Roland’s gesture of solidarity. He probably has hundreds of pants to choose from—heck, he probably has Amazon Royal Prime and can get the exact same pair of pants that day. But the fact that he even thought to tear up his clothes to stand with us instead of towering over us… well. I can’t remember the last time I had a man who was willing to go to the ends of the earth to make me comfortable.

Ben’s touched, too. I can see the small flicker of emotion cross his face, like a spot of sunshine of a cloudy day. Ben shows his own brand of gratitude, however, when he says simply, “If we’re ripping clothes, why stop there?”

Roland’s teeth glint when he smiles. “What’d you have in mind?”

Ben slides off the chair. He stalks over in front of us and holds up his hand. “My knife.”

Roland hands the pocketknife back to Ben. He flicks it open, grabs Roland by the front of his shirt, and hovers the blade over the collar.

“How much did this shirt cost?” Ben asks.

“Six hundred pounds,” Roland replies.

Ben makes a noise that’s not quite a laugh, as though astounded by the sheer lavishness of Roland’s lifestyle. “You have no concept of money, do you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Now Roland has that fire in his eyes, that look that goes straight between my thighs. “Rip it.”

Ben uses the pocketknife to saw through Roland’s neckline, but the pocketknife is pretty dull. He doesn’t get far before he drops it on the chaise, grabs either side of Roland’s shirt, and rips. The fabric tears like paper under his grip, satin fluttering on either side of Roland, revealing his sleek, muscle-hard chest and stomach.

Holy hell. My clit is pounding a drumbeat against my panties. The boys are turned on, too. I can tell. The intensity in Ben’s dark eyes, the noticeable rise and fall of Roland’s chest. I’ve started to read their signs well enough to sense when there’s a shift in the air. It buzzes around us like an electric static that everyone can feel.

“This isn’t going to cut easily,” Ben hooks a finger over the hem of Roland’s pants, plucking it like a guitar string.

“Right.” Roland fumbles to get his belt off and then his pants. Now, he’s in nothing but a ripped shirt and his briefs. I’m happy to report that it’s a damn good look on him. My fingers twitch with the sudden urge to feel his skin.

“I want a turn,” I say and hold up my palm.

“Be my guest.”

I put the knife between my teeth to adjust my position and straddle Roland. Pocketknife in hand now, I tell him, “Stripping the prince of England. How many women get to say they’ve done that?”

“Just be careful where you aim that thing,” he says, pointing at the blade. “These are royal goods.”

I can see the headlines now: “Kinky American Cuts Off Prince’s Cock.” That’s not happening. I snort a laugh and say, “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Furthermore,” Roland continues, “I won’t be the only half-dressed one.”

With that, he hooks his fingers under the hem of my shirt. “May I?” He’s the prince of England, he can have anything he wants, and yet with me, he asks for consent. Honestly, it’s a turn-on. Buzzing, I nod and lift my arms. He pulls my shirt over my head, and it flutters in a pile of fabric beside us. I then adjust to shove my pants off and toss them to the side.

“Much better,” Roland states, his eyes feasting on my chest. “Continue.”

I bite my lip, lift the elasticity of his briefs, and make a nick in the waistband. The fabric frays and splits under the edge of my blade. It’s not as clean of a cut as Ben’s; my line is jagged and zigzags all the way down. It occurs to me then that he really is incredibly trusting of me to allow me this close to his junk with the switchblade. When I glance up at his dazzling blues, there’s nothing but his boyish humor and warmth.

“Don’t get distracted now,” he says. There’s a second pair of hands on me—Ben’s strong, calloused grip—and those rough fingers delicately roll my bra straps down my arms. I shudder when his soft lips hit my bared shoulder.

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