Page 8 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Ben

I’m good with knots.

Half hitch. Square knot. Clove hitch.

I grew up on the East End by the Limehouse Basin. You learned knots quickly on those docks. You learned a lot quickly in Limehouse.

Bowline. That’s the one I used on Rory’s wrists. It’s a reliable knot. Used to hitch yachts to the dock. Won’t slip. The knot I use to tie the wrap around her head is simpler. Easy. It takes me less than a second to complete it, and then I stand back to admire my work.

Here, like this, she’s a picture.

I want her. Badly. I’ve been half-hard since the bar, but now that I have her naked pussy drooling on Prince Roland’s bed, I could cut glass with my dick. My monster is throbbing in my pants, begging to be let out.

But I can’t. Not yet.

She has to be presentable for her prince.

She’s smiling—this innocent, adorable little smile that nearly makes me come undone on the spot. “Well, you’ve got me where you want me. What are you going to do to me?”

So much, I think.

I don’t say it, however. Instead, I put my shirt back on. “Stay here.”

“What?” Her smile drops when I walk toward the door. “Are you leaving me?”

“Only for a second. Stay.”

“Wait—!”

I don’t. I exit and close the door behind me. She’ll be fine.

I adjust my pants around my hips and walk down the hall. I move to the door of my room and knock. No response. I press open the door—nothing. The room is empty.

My jaw tightens. Of course it is. He can’t sit still to save his life.

Then I hear it. The trickling sounds of piano keys. Not any song—Concerto no. 4. I hate classical music. I know that one.

It’s the prince’s favorite.

I follow the sound into the sitting room. It’s a wide-open room with filigree walls and pale love seats. A cage full of twittering yellow canaries hangs over the grand piano. The piano itself is bone white. Prince Roland’s body is curled over the bench. His long fingers move dexterously over the ivory keys. His blond hair frames his face like a lion’s mane.

I linger in the doorway. Silent. He looks nearly peaceful when he’s like this. Focused. I cross my arms. I give him a moment.

“Highness.”

His eyes lock with mine. Violet. Vibrant.

I shudder. I hate myself for it.

“She’s ready,” I inform him.

A boyish grin cuts across his mouth. For a moment, the pain is gone and there’s nothing but bright youth in his expression, like a boy at Christmastime.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He throws his limber legs over the bench. He looks at me and knits his eyebrows, and I feel my shoulders tense. He’s always been able to read me like a book. Then that smile returns; this time, it’s a knowing one. “You had a taste of her, didn’t you?”

I nod. Barely. “Yes.”

“Verdict?” Prince Roland closes the distance between us. “Soft and sweet or spicy, like ginger?”

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