Royals of Danovar: The Complete Series Read online

  Simon already had a raging hard-on by the time Penelope’s lips were on his. He’d been mentally practicing his speech all evening about how he trusted her and he could wait until she was ready to consummate, but thank all that was holy, he apparently wasn’t going to need it. Which was excellent, because he’d been thinking about that kiss all day.

  They’d been in a church in front of millions of people, and yet they might have been all alone in their bedroom for the way that kiss had made him feel. It had started out tender but gotten passionate way more quickly than he’d anticipated. The way her lips had parted for his, the way her waist had felt in his hands when she’d nearly tripped and he’d caught her—he couldn’t get enough of it.

  Pen ducked forward now and kissed him again, but jerked back upright before he could deepen it. “Ow,” she said, sounding surprised.

  He cleared his throat roughly. It better not be those damn clogs again. If a pair of stupid shoes kept him from making love to his wife tonight, he would crush them with his bare hands, hallowed tradition or no. “What’s wrong?”

  “My dress is too tight. All this fabric—I can’t bend over that far.”

  Unbidden, an image of her bending over in an even more delicious way came to mind. Fuck, he needed to bury himself in her right now or he would explode. “I can help with that,” he said. He got up, gently pulled her to her feet, and pulled the zipper at the back of her dress down. He took his time, savoring the sight of her soft flesh revealing itself, feeling like a kid opening the best Christmas present ever. He kissed a trail down her spine, following the track of the zipper.

  Pen made a little sound that went straight to his dick. “Leave the corset on,” she said breathily. “I love how hot it makes me look. And once it comes off, it’s never going back on.”

  He muffled a laugh. Tipsy Pen was a lot of fun. “Okay,” he said, tugging the dress off her shoulders and letting it drop to her feet. He watched hungrily as she stepped out of it and sat back on the couch in just her corset, panties, and stockings. At least two of those things had to go. He knelt in front of her and pulled the stockings off one by one. He kissed down her calves. When he nipped a little, she shuddered all over.

  “Oh, I like that, do it just a little harder,” she said. “You’re so good at this. I had no idea.”

  Unable to help but feel a little smug, he obeyed when he pulled off the other stocking, and she shivered again. And then there she was—only a corset and a pair of lacy white panties separating him from the place he most wanted to be, which was inside her. He ran a hand up her thigh and stroked her through the lace, relishing the feel of her slick folds through the thin fabric. He slipped one finger beneath it to touch her. She was wet and ready for him, and when his finger brushed her, she dropped her head back on the couch with a gasp.

  “Take your clothes off,” she managed. “I want to see you.”

  He stood up with a jerky motion. “Fuck,” he said with a rough laugh as he swept off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. Maybe taking his own clothes off would give him enough time to clear his head, get some distance. The way her gravity pulled at him—it was like he was a planet and she was his sun, and he couldn’t get close enough. Not until they finally, gloriously, collided.

  When he pulled off his shirt, Pen’s eyes widened. “Holy crap, are you Superman?” she asked. “Judging from those abs I’d say yes. Walking around in that Clark Kent getup of yours is a disservice to the human race, mister. How did I not know about the physique you’ve been hiding under there?”

  He snorted, but she frowned and shook her head, sitting up.

  “Hey, no, I’m serious,” she said, sounding surprised by that fact. “From now on, let’s be honest and not hide anything from each other, okay? Don’t keep things from me.” Her frown deepened, and Simon had the urge to smooth out the adorable little wrinkles it made on her forehead. “And I shouldn’t keep things from you, either.”

  “Okay,” he said easily. Honesty and openness were qualities he’d happily strive for in his marriage. He reached for his fly, readjusting himself—he was harder than he could remember ever being in his life—as he started to unzip.

  But her eyes were unfocused like she hadn’t even heard him. “To start, I should tell you my recent deepest darkest secret,” she said. “I’m thinking of this marriage and my reign as a test run.”

  His hands froze on his fly. “What?”

  “No one, not even me, has confidence I’ll succeed,” she said morosely.

  Unable to speak for a moment, Simon swallowed. “Oh,” was all he said aloud. Internally, though, he was horrified. This was his greatest fear—that he’d be displaced again on a royal whim, that he’d never have a real home that wouldn’t be taken from him. His hard-on dissipated as quickly as it had come on. “Pen,” he said slowly, “maybe we should wait on… this. You’re a bit tipsy, and maybe I’ve had enough tonight myself.” He’d only had two glasses of champagne, but he didn’t want her to feel like this was her fault. “Maybe we should leave the consummating for when everyone is sober.”

  She blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Yeah, I guess it would be nice to be able to remember it.”

  He re-zipped his fly and pulled his shirt back on, muttering something about taking a shower as he retreated to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but mentally go back over all that paperwork he’d just signed, remembering the lawyer’s parting words: The marriage will still need to be consummated before everything is binding.

  He wanted this to work out. He wanted a life with Pen, a life of meaning with an amazing woman at his side. But if this was all no more than a test run to her… maybe it would be best if the contract wasn’t binding just yet.

  8

  Penelope’s first official duty as Queen was to preside over a royal press conference. It hadn’t even started yet, and she was already twitchy, shifting in her seat—a comfy couch, not nearly as stiff and intimidating as she imagined the throne would be—and twisting at her bracelets. At least Simon was with her, though. The new King was solid as a rock at her side, completely focused on the assistant who’d been assigned to prep them. Pen tried to draw strength from his fortitude rather than focusing on how she’d be greeting her people for the first time ever in a few minutes.

  The assistant flipped a page on her clipboard. “There are a few more issues you’ll need to be prepped for that are less about the actual… well, issues—and more about the public perception of you two since your wedding yesterday. First up is Simon’s lips.”

  Pen blinked. The public was interested in her husband’s lips? She gave him a sideways glance. To be fair, they were pretty damn excellent lips. She could still remember the feel of them on hers last night, how they’d been soft and yet so deliciously demanding, full and biteable. Not that she’d had the chance to bite them. Yet.

  “What about my lips?” Simon asked, sounding adorably befuddled. He’d put on his reading glasses to look over the list the assistant had given him, making him look more like Clark Kent than ever.

  “They have a Twitter account,” the assistant answered dryly. “TheKingsKisser. Apparently the females of the world are obsessed.”

  Delighted and suddenly feeling more than a little mischievous, Pen whipped out her phone before the assistant could continue. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling when she found the account. The profile picture was a close-up of Simon’s puckered lips, which could only have been taken during a speech but was made to look like he’d been caught in the act of a bad-boy pout. “Twenty thousand followers already!” she crowed, scrolling through the pictures on the timeline. They’d caught his lips from every angle, in every light. This was too good.

  “Let me see,” Simon urged, but she ducked away before he could grab the phone from her hands. The assistant looked on, straight-faced while she waited for them to regain propriety, but with a twinkle in her eye.

  “‘They’re so kissable I’m going to die,’” Pen quoted a reply t
o one of the pictures. “Ha! Apparently there’s a downside to having the best lips in the kingdom. You’re killing your subjects, Simon.”

  He made another grab for the phone, and she dodged again. She tried to think of more downsides. “Ooh, and you know what, it must be hard for you to eat too. Those luscious lips have to get in the way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bitten them clean off by now.”

  He crossed his arms and huffed, stern-faced, but he was trying hard to contain a smile, which as far as she was concerned felt like a challenge.

  Feigning thoughtfulness, she tapped a finger on her own lips. “Hmm, I bet they could think of a better handle though. Maybe RoyalSmoochers? Deathbylips? StrictIsSexy?”

  One side of that delicious mouth curled up in a tiny half-grin. Victory! And now she was feeling better too—much readier to face her people for the first time ever, with this man at her side.

  The assistant cleared her throat and shuffled her papers, regaining control of the pre-conference meeting. “They may also ask about some upcoming political issues,” she went on as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “The House of Lords has been seeing a bit of drama lately, so I hope you’re both up to date on that. Then there have also been some grumblings about Your Majesty marrying someone from outside the country. It would be a good idea to focus on the way this union strengthens Escona’s bonds with our allies and starts off your reign with more stability. Lastly, there’s the issue of Penelope’s looks.”

  Simon glanced up from his papers. “Her looks?”

  Penelope’s stomach twisted. The assistant’s tone was faintly apologetic, which could only mean bad news. “What about my looks?”

  “Well, the focus groups really liked how you’re more ‘traditional looking,’ with those beautiful dark eyes and hair. However, they wish you wouldn’t wear… um, ‘tablecloths,’ is the way several members of the groups phrased it.”

  Penelope felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. All her newfound confidence dissipated like mist on the wind. She loved her Bohemian dresses. They felt like her, part of her identity. Her team had tried to convince her to wear some stiff-looking high-necked monstrosity this morning and had traded looks when she’d chosen a dress she’d felt more comfortable in. Now she understood what those looks had meant. “Oh,” she managed.

  “Also,” the assistant went on, her tone still apologetic, “the Castle’s PR department isn’t convinced that your lipstick shades are the best suited for a Queen. Your makeup artist will have some alternative suggestions for you tomorrow.”

  Because, of course, it was already too late to change for today. Pen would have to face the press for the first time ever knowing that many of them thought she looked like some sort of style-deprived tramp. She shrunk in her seat. “Right. Okay.”

  “I don’t think—” Simon started, his voice official and a touch cold, but he was interrupted when the door connecting to the throne room opened.

  “We’re ready,” said a man in a suit, motioning them out.

  The assistant nodded and turned back to the King and Queen. “Show time!” she said, her voice back to cheerful as if the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. “You’re gonna do great, Your Majesty,” she assured Penelope. “Most of the people see you as a very romantic figure, a people’s queen, someone with a good head on her shoulders. You’re already off to a good start. Keep things under control and soon the press will be eating out of your hand.”

  Pen took a deep breath and stood, steeling herself. Simon touched her arm, lending her his support. “Okay,” she said. “Showtime.”

  The throne room was a disconcerting mixture of traditional and cutting-edge modern. The thrones were high-backed cherrywood chairs inset with jewels and draped in Esconian purple, but they looked out over Hollywood-grade stage lights, teleprompters, and rows and rows of journalist seating. Pen sat straight in her throne, hardly daring to let her spine touch its back, self-conscious in her tablecloth dress. She felt a bit like a little girl borrowing her mother’s clothes and pretending she was royalty. What right did she have to be here, in this centuries-old chair, in front of all these people who called her “Your Majesty” and “Your Royal Highness”? Especially while wearing her tablecloth dress and slut lipstick. She had to make an effort to keep her shoulders square instead of shrinking into herself the way she wanted to.

  “The King and Queen will now take questions,” said someone from the PR department, and chose one of the journalists to ask the first one.

  “Your Majesty, could you tell us what your first undertaking as Queen will be?” the woman asked.

  Pen blew out a breath in relief. This, she could handle. “Absolutely,” she said, making sure to project her voice the way she’d been told. The little mic hidden in her neckline would pick up her words regardless, but a queen mustn’t mutter, or so the PR people kept reminding her. “The first thing I want to do is work on some legislation to add more required play time back into the Esconian school system. Research shows that the move to a stronger focus on academics, especially in primary school, has actually had a negative impact on children’s self-esteem, creativity, and social skills.” She cited more research like a pro, the passion coming through in her voice as she spoke. This was why she’d taken the throne, why she was willing to let herself be judged by so many people—to help the children of her country.

  The next question was for Simon. “Your Highness, what do you think about the perceived gap between the quality of Escona’s school lunches versus that of the surrounding nations?”

  Caught off guard—this wasn’t a topic he’d be as familiar with as Pen—he drummed his fingers against his knee as he tried to formulate an answer. Without thinking, she reached out to cover his hand with hers, steadying him. She addressed the journalist in his place, redirecting the question toward a subject Simon would be able to answer more confidently. “I believe His Highness is focused on the root problem of bringing the Royal Treasury up to date and closing the gap with the national deficit. After all, a lack of funding for the schools is the reason their lunches aren’t as good as they should be.”

  Simon shot her a quick look of gratitude and curled his fingers around hers for a moment before she pulled her hand back. He cleared his throat and clarified his ideas for his pet project of renovating the treasury system, and then it was on to the next question.

  The press conference lasted another half-hour, and while Pen stammered a few times and went completely blank once, the PR person in charge was good at redirecting problem questions and giving the queen time to gather herself. It wasn’t nearly the disaster she’d thought it might be, and when it was over she retreated to the adjacent prep room feeling like she might eventually get the hang of this.

  Until the PR person leaned over to address her in a low voice. “Your Majesty, it would be best to avoid the handholding and those covert looks between you and King Simon. I recommend toning those down to fall in line with the modesty expectations of the Castle.”

  Pen raised an eyebrow, amused. She wasn’t supposed to hold hands with her husband in public? What a load of bullshit. Earlier she’d been a “romantic figure” and the PR department liked that, but apparently she couldn’t look too romantic with her husband or it was deemed immodest. It wasn’t like she’d been dry humping him on national television or anything, for crying out loud.

  But Simon was nodding along, his expression serious enough for the both of them. “Of course, we’ll work on that,” he said.

  Pen sighed but didn’t say anything. Of course Strict Simon would think they’d need to keep to Victorian standards of chastity in public even though they were technically on their honeymoon.

  But as he guided her from the prep room, she couldn’t help but notice his hand drifted a little too low on her back for propriety. She shot him another ‘covert look,’ thinking about all the things she wanted to do to him, and the things she wanted him to do to her, once they were finally alone again. He didn’t return t
he look, but his eyes did that almost-smiling thing again, and it gave her hope that maybe he hadn’t been as serious about the whole modesty thing as he’d seemed.

  9

  When Simon walked back into the bedroom the next morning, Penelope was still in bed. “I’m too starving to move,” she groaned from beneath her pile of pillows and blankets.

  He smiled fondly. She was kind of adorable, hiding under her blankets like a kid who didn’t want to go to school. Although being too hungry to get up and obtain food seemed a little backwards to him. Still, he graciously held out the remainder of his post-workout smoothie. “You can have the rest of this,” he said. “It’s got kiwi, celery, apples, and far too much peanut butter to be healthy. It’s kind of my weakness.”

  Pen’s head popped out from under the covers. She eyed him—he was shirtless, having just returned from his early-morning workout, where he’d worked up a refreshing sweat—but apparently her hunger won out over her lust, because she merely accepted the smoothie and sucked it down with alacrity.

  They’d shared a bed for two nights now, but hadn’t consummated. He could’ve blamed the bed, which was so enormous that the entire royal family could sleep there and still practically need a postal system to communicate, but to be honest he remained a little gun-shy about completely committing after she’d admitted her uncertainties. Of course, judging from early signs, she was going to be just as magnificent a ruler as he’d known she would be. All she needed was more confidence in herself. And he hoped she gained it soon, because waiting to make their union official was going to be the death of him. He could hardly stand to look at her—especially now, with her lying in bed, eyes half-lidded and hair mussed from sleep, in a thin nightgown he could almost see her nipples through—without wanting to lay her back down, spread her legs, and drive her to the brink of pleasure until she was begging him to let her come.