One Night Only, page 18
And he was hers. Her smile made her cheeks ache. She had two new men in her life. A fully committed brother and a proper boyfriend who was in love with her...
‘Fun fact,’ he said. ‘Couples who play together, stay together.’
She picked up the inconveniently placed rock and tossed it to land at his feet.
He shot her a look that promised thrilling retribution.
She laughed, dropped her spade and went to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and tugging him down for a kiss. ‘You totally made that up.’
He laughed. ‘I did. But you’re not the only one with a clever fact up her sleeve, Doctor.’
She sobered. ‘Well, even if it is true, you’ll be practising law again soon—not much time for playing or fun.’
He scooped her from the ground and she wrapped her legs around his waist, grateful she’d worn the cut-off shorts he could never resist as she felt the prod of his erection between her legs.
‘There’s always time for fun.’ His lips brushed hers. ‘But to be certain, ever experienced living with the man you love?’
She gasped and shook her head, which spun with his question as if he’d twirled her around in a circle.
‘Good. Because I think we should move in together.’
Essie wriggled free, sliding down the length of his hard body. ‘Seriously?’
He nodded, wicked light glinting in his eyes.
‘But you live on the wrong side of London.’
He shook his head, holding her hips still and rubbing himself against her belly. ‘I’m moving. New legal practice. New apartment. New girlfriend...’
She couldn’t stop the grin that made her cheeks ache. He turned serious. ‘Will you live with me—somewhere we choose together?’ He cupped her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair.
She nodded, flying into his arms once more. After a kiss that turned heated enough she scoped the nearby woods for a potential spot to take things further, he placed her feet on the ground and wiped what was probably a smudge of dirt from her cheek.
Taking her hand, he tugged her towards the car. ‘Come on. Turns out I’m starving.’ He winked, promising more than a delicious three-course lunch.
‘But what about the trees? I want to see New York at Christmastime. I’ve never experienced ice skating in Central Park or the Rockefeller Christmas tree.’
‘I’ll hire someone to plant the damn things for us.’ He lengthened his stride, his steps more urgent now he’d made up his mind.
‘Are we driving back to London?’ She didn’t think she’d be able to wait that long with the persistent buzz between her legs.
Car sex...?
‘No—I’ve booked a room at the hotel. We’re going to celebrate moving in together. I’m going to lick champagne from every part of your body.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll survive that experience.’
‘You will. It will be fun.’
She nodded. It totally would.
* * * * *
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My Royal Sin
by Riley Pine
CHAPTER ONE
Benedict
MY KNEES ARE stiff against the cold flagstones. No surprise, seeing as I’ve been at prayer since before dawn. But my concentration breaks every time my gaze falls on the painting of the blonde angel, the one hanging above my head in the gilded frame. Instead of elevating my soul, she’s become my secret torment, her innocent image taking center stage in my wicked fantasies.
Imagine if she were flesh and blood instead of oil and canvas. Better still...imagine those pouty red lips sheathing my shaft, her hot tongue taking me to heaven while I pump her greedy mouth.
During these brief daydreams, I’m not Brother Benedict, a holier-than-thou man in a white collar and black cassock. I’m just plain Benedict—a free man able to give himself to all perverted desires, damn the consequences.
I suppress a shudder. Freedom is the one possession I’ve never had in my privileged upbringing as the second son to the King of Edenvale.
It isn’t only dangerous for me to lust, it’s pointless.
Rising, I crush my fist into my prie-dieu. With a heavy grunt, I lean my weight into my split knuckles, leaving a small tattoo of blood on the polished mahogany, penance for my debauchery.
At that very moment, the rising sun hits my prayer room’s stained glass window, and the pane glitters like so many jewels. I freeze, hypnotized as the multicolored shards cast reflections on my throbbing hand.
Hundreds of years ago, a long-forgotten artist had carefully selected each of these colors based on their symbolic meanings:
Red for courage and martyrdom.
Blue for heaven and the promise of eternal life.
Green for hope and victory over sin.
Gold for divinity.
White for purity.
I bow my head and retreat into the shadows, my stomach clenching like a fist, tight with guilt. I’m a seminarian and in one month’s time I’m going to take my final vows for Holy Orders.
This is my duty. My life has been scripted for this moment since birth. I can’t afford for my resolve to weaken.
I stride from my private prayer room to pace my austere apartment on the top level of a medieval watchtower that rises from beside the royal chapel at the edge of the palace grounds. From this vantage, I can see all the way to the river and to the north, the extensive manicured gardens of the castle, where my father, the King of Edenvale, resides along with my older brother, Prince Nikolai, and his new bride, Princess Kate.
A choking bitterness rises in my throat. I do not covet my beautiful new sister-in-law, but I do...covet.
Maybe it’s pathetic to be turned on by a painted angel. But what can you expect from a twenty-seven-year-old virgin and almost-priest?
These days it feels like the Devil tests me at every corner, filling my waking hours with carnal urges. I am no saint, just another sinner.
And what’s one more sin, to release the pressure in my thickened cock?
I make my way to my bathroom and flick on the shower, setting the dial to an arctic cold, and strip, maintaining eye contact with my reflection. My dark hair and arrogant nose reveal me as a member of the royal Lorentz family. My body is hard, but there is no pleasure to be derived from these cut muscles. They are products of long workouts designed to cleanse my mind.
The trouble is that nothing is working.
I step into the frigid spray and close my hand around my rigid shaft.
“Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, beginning to stroke.
My actions are practiced. A firm squeeze at the root, twist at the head, grinding my palm against the crown. It doesn’t take long until the bathroom fades and a fantasy takes shape. Today I’m grinding my cock between the soft orbs of a perfect ass, not penetrating the perfect rose-tinted pucker, but humping the silken crease. My imaginary lover offers a moan, pushing back her hips, urging me to quit toying and grant her release.
I slide my hand to her slick delicate folds and let out an agonized groan.
She tosses her thick mane of golden hair and regards me coyly over one shoulder. But her angelic eyes gleam a deep crimson red, alight with hellfire. Her wings extend and aren’t white feathers, but ebony leather, and when she speaks, it is to promise to plague my soul for eternity.
My fantasies always end the same way. Troubled, to say the least.
My hand flies from my cock, and I fall to my knees, bracing myself on the tile. The shower spray pummels my slumped shoulders, but no baptism is on offer. Neither is physical relief.
In thirty days, I will stand before the high altar in the Shrine of St. Germain and fulfill the long tradition of my family entering the priesthood. My elder brother, Prince Nikolai, is the true heir of our people, and his recent nuptials mean—the Lord willing—that children won’t be far behind.
For the good of the kingdom, I must step aside from the path to succession and consecrate my life to the cloth, as have all the second sons of our line. Once it becomes clear our seed isn’t needed to propagate future kings and queens, we spares are quietly removed in order to prevent any family infighting.
And I am to do so with a smile on my face.
If I ever chafed at fate or held dreams to fall in love, to raise children, to have a life dictated by my own choices, those days are finished.
If I pray hard enough, if I purify myself enough, if I try harder...I will be the perfect priest.
Failure is not an option.
Our family has suffered enough in the years since our mother’s unexpected death and it’s a worthy fate, one that has the power to achieve so much good.
I need to suck it up.
Life could be a lot worse.
Rising, I flick off the water and towel myself off, my actions rough with self-loathing and disappointment. The harder I try to resist my urges, the more these lustful fantasies grow: orgies, BDSM, decadent and forbidden acts, signs that a burning desire smolders beneath my repression. I hate being a fraud, but I can overcome it.
Fire needs oxygen to blaze, and I refuse to entertain this behavior for a second longer.
Exiting into my bed chamber, I move with purpose back to my prayer room—and the gift from my elder brother—my golden angel. On the opposite wall of the gilded frame is a cedar chest, and inside is a black satin bag. I open the drawstring and remove the knotted leather whip. The towel slung around my hips drops, and I don’t allow a moment’s pause before grabbing the handle and bringing the cord between my shoulder blades with a biting blow.
Bright stars of pain explode behind my eyes. I recite the Lord’s Prayer while continuing my self-flagellation, increasing the force of my swing as my gaze locks onto the angel’s sorrowful eyes. She knows all, everything from my doubts to my hidden resentments about being the second son born into a mapped-out future. But I hope that she also sees my determination to bear the weight of family expectation.
After ten blows, my stomach churns and hot blood runs down my skin. Good. Now I shall fast until sundown. The gnawing hunger should dull any unwelcome thoughts.
I’m fastening my white collar when a bell rings, a sign someone has entered the chapel.
A quick glance in the hall mirror provides confirmation that I appear every inch the picture of a serene priest eager to tend to my flock.
No hint of the devil within.
Ruby
I straighten my Cleopatra-style wig and dip my head to make sure the girls are in place, assessing the cleavage and how my breasts threaten to spill over the top of my corset. I take my chances that my client is a breast man, because, really, what man isn’t? Clients tend to pay more when they salivate upon introduction. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ve heard some girls say they’ve taken home an evening’s worth of pay from a man’s ogling alone. But ogling won’t be enough for this job. My instructions require far more than that, and though it’s my first night of employ, I am required to give my client whatever he desires. And if he desires nothing, I must tempt him to want more. There is no work in this kingdom for an artist from a disgraced family, so I have to take what I can get. The Madam at The Jewel Box sought me out, and I couldn’t refuse her offer, not when it meant I could provide not only for myself but also my brother’s wife and child.
“They asked for Pearl, but I believe an ingenue will appeal so much more to our dear, inexperienced prince,” the Madam had said before I left. “And you’re the freshest of my pretty little blossoms. The flower not yet picked. Pearl’s not desperate like you are. Plus, that damned bodyguard X would recognize her in an instant. I’ve been looking for a way inside the palace—and other buildings on the grounds—which means you get to be my little lookout.”
“I don’t understand,” I told her. “You want me to spy for you? Why?”
I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek.
“And here I thought you’d been trained,” she’d crooned. “Question me, and there will be consequences. Disobey me, and—consequences. All I need you to do is tell me if he owns a painting of an angel—until recently, one I was led to believe had been destroyed when your father passed—and report where the painting is.” She smiled her mirthless smile, and I fought back tears at the mention of Papa—at the fear of being struck again. “Darling, you not only get to seduce a celibate prince, but you get to find me something very valuable. Succeed in gathering the prince’s attention—and finding what I seek—and you’ll be a jewel as prized as your name. Succeed, and you and your remaining family will want for nothing as long as you remain in my employ.”
I swallow the threat of my own conscience trying to weigh in. What do I care about a stupid painting or what she wants with it? I have the chance to save my brother, Jasper. That’s all that matters.
So I repeat her words over and over again to center myself in the moment—to remind myself of what I must do.
I nearly break an ankle climbing the chapel stairs in these boots, four-inch stilettos that cuff just below my short skirt. After almost two months of my apprenticeship, I’m used to the shoes and clothes, but my attire was not built for more than seduction.
There’s also the small fact that I’m on the Edenvale Palace grounds—making my way to an apartment in the lonely-looking, ivy-covered tower next to the chapel. My phone rings, and instead of silencing it as I pull it from my pocket, I accidentally answer it.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“Shit,” I whisper-shout as I scramble back down the steps. “Camille, I’m here. Just...give me a second...” I race outside and around the corner, through the first door I see, not wanting my client to catch me conducting any sort of personal business when I am supposed to be...working. Complaints equal a reduction in my take, and some, I’ve heard, suffer worse.
I freeze, though, when I realize where I am—in the Royal Edenvale Church itself.
“Is everything okay?” I whisper into the phone, and I hear my brother’s wife sniffle before she speaks.
“You’re...you’re working. Aren’t you?” Her voice breaks on that word, working, and I can hear her anguish, her guilt.
“Yes,” I answer, trying to soothe her with the one word. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. But something is wrong with you. Tell me what it is.”
She sniffles again. “I took Lola to visit her father today. It was the first time I brought her with me, the first time she would see Jasper in two months, and when the guards told him we were there, he refused to see us.”
I suck in a breath, both at Camille’s pain but also for my brother, Jasper. Because I’m at the Edenvale Palace, completely out of my depth, about to seduce a man I’ve never met—a prince, no less. I understand his shame.
“He loves Lola. You know that. And he loves you. But prison is no place for a child. And you can understand him not wanting her to see him like that. Can’t you?”
