Royal Order Read online

  Pen sighed. “Couldn’t we just fuck more instead?” she murmured.

  Now Simon did laugh. “I’d love nothing more,” he said, “but you do have a duty today, remember?”

  “The sacrifices I make for my kingdom,” she said, eyeing him as she stood and pulled her Spanx back on.

  10

  Penelope knew she was skirting the rules of queenly modesty with her new dress, but she couldn’t help but wear the one Simon had picked out for her. It turned out the stylist had known what she was doing after all, and the alterations—which the woman had done with amazing speed—had turned out beautifully. The outfit clung to her curves, adorning them in a layer of sheer lace atop the silky white fabric, and Pen had felt Simon’s eyes on her all evening as they made their rounds of the room. His attention felt like a physical weight, something draped around her shoulders, bolstering her confidence and making her feel wanted and beautiful.

  The event had gone splendidly. Simon had done his research, and he could now answer any question about school lunches and the benefits of expanded play time that the executives and members of the nobility threw his way. Pen had answered her fair share too, though she’d dodged the comments that called into question her continued involvement in her toy company. No one knew yet how invested she still was in her store, but she knew that the questions should serve as a warning bell. If she didn’t step away from her company soon, people might start to think she was pushing her playtime plan to line her own pockets with money she made off the sale of her toys. That wasn’t true at all, of course. It was just difficult to let go of something that had defined her for so long.

  She spotted Simon across the room, chatting up a lord by the bar. Maybe she should tell him about it, ask his advice. They had promised each other complete honesty, after all. And he always seemed to know the ins and outs of politics so much better than her—maybe he’d be able to figure out a solution. Though she hoped he wouldn’t be upset that she hadn’t told him sooner.

  He felt her eyes on him and glanced at her, his gaze intent as it swept over her figure. She happily eye-fucked him right back. He was wearing his military uniform again, but now that she knew what was under that starched suit, it felt like a tantalizing secret just between the two of them. Let everyone else see Clark Kent. She’d seen what he was hiding, and she knew who he really was.

  The party ended half an hour later, and it was torture to wait through all the goodbyes until they could retire to a sitting room. A big part of her wanted to jump him the second the door shut, but she stopped herself, wanting to be open with him about her toy store problem first. Before she could speak, though, a maid bustled in with some brandy for them. Pen waited silently while she set the drinks up, checked to see whether they needed anything else, and then strode back out the door.

  Then Simon locked it behind her, and all thoughts of the toy company fell straight out of Penelope’s mind.

  He turned, smiled at her, and flicked off the lights. The room plunged into darkness, lit only by the dim silvery light of the quarter moon out the third-floor windows. She inhaled, her blood singing. The conversation she needed to have with Simon could wait. It would be difficult, and right now she wanted just this: something easy, something that felt more right than anything else had her whole life.

  Deliciously blinded by the dark, she waited for her husband.

  The absence of light made her other senses feel heightened. She heard his footsteps brush against the plush carpet. When he touched her shoulders, goosebumps rose up on her arms. He undressed her slowly, lovingly, one article of clothing at a time, until she stood naked in the darkness. He ran his fingers across the span of her shoulders, down her back, over her ass, across her thighs. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  She felt for him, found his shirt, unbuttoned it and tossed it aside. She needed those abs under her fingers right now. She slipped her hands across him, felt the ridges of his muscles, the definition of his pecs, the way his biceps bunched when he picked her up. She reached between them, stroking him through his pants before she unzipped them and shoved them off. His boxers went next. Then his full length was hard and hot against her, and she was helpless to do anything but wrap her legs around his back and grind herself against him.

  He stepped back, turned, pressed her up against the wall. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time we met,” he said in a low voice, trailing kisses up her throat. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all night. You up against the wall. My cock inside you. I want you so bad, Pen.”

  “Yes. Do it,” she gasped. “I can’t wait any longer to be with you, Simon.” She was beyond ready to consummate—not just because she physically wanted him, but because of the way she felt when he was nearby, like he was a magnet for her, an anchor, her rock. She was still uncertain about this whole Queen thing, but where he was concerned, she no longer had any doubts whatsoever.

  He lifted her. She hooked her ankles behind his ass, anchoring herself as his cock hovered at her entrance. And then he was pushing inside her. One inch, two inches. The tension of it, the amazing pressure—it was so much, and not nearly enough. She wriggled and squirmed, trying to push herself down harder onto him, wanting him so much deeper inside her. “God, Simon, fuck me now,” she groaned, unable to take it for another second.

  Obligingly, he shoved her against the wall, holding her hips down with his hands, and thrust hard into her. She pushed off the wall, using it as leverage to meet him thrust for thrust, their bodies already slick with sweat as he drove her toward her climax. Then he reached between them and rubbed her clit, lifted her ass to just the right angle and squeezed it. His thrusts grew faster and more chaotic and she gasped and panted and moaned, both of them nearing oblivion, the moonlight gilding their skin in silver as they made love.

  “Yes,” she managed, barely able to think straight this close to her climax. “Yes, Simon, this is so good, so perfect.”

  “Fuck,” he groaned. “Yes, it is. So perfect. Come for me, my love.”

  One more thrust, one more tweak of her clit, and she was coming hard around him. She yelled, caught in the throes of a pleasure greater than any she’d experienced in a long time. A moment longer and he tensed against her too, shouting as he pumped into her.

  And then it was done. They’d consummated. Penelope had bound herself to Simon for good, and nothing could feel more right.

  Still inside her, her carried her to the bed and laid down with her. Sated and shaken by the intensity of their lovemaking, they stayed connected for a long time, stroking each other and kissing and murmuring.

  Pen fell asleep in Simon’s arms, and her last thought before sleep was that she might just be falling for her husband.

  11

  Simon hated being blindsided.

  He strode down the hall toward the royal apartments, focused like an arrow on his target, anger burning a hole in his gut. Earlier today he’d been at a meeting at a men’s club—which stank of cigars, but seemed to be necessary to the political elite in Escona—and had sat next to a member of the country’s old guard. The man apparently hadn’t held a position of power over others beyond forcing them to sit through his stories for years, and he’d taken great pleasure in cornering the new king and telling him all about how much Simon was like his father. Simon’s father was a great man, so Simon hadn’t minded the long-winded story—something about not killing all the deer in a residential part of Escona after an accident involving the man’s cousin—until the old guard had said that Simon and his father were both pushovers.

  Simon had been stunned into silence, which the storyteller had only taken as encouragement. He’d related the rest in one of those quiet tones that was sympathetic on the surface but oozed self-importance beneath that: he’d heard Penelope was very much in charge of and still earning money from her toy company—the man thought Simon had more ethics than to promote a national education initiative that would most likely heavily line his wife’s pockets.


  Simon had managed to graciously back out of the conversation at that point, but inside he was shocked and seething. He’d given up everything for Penelope and Escona, and he’d thought she’d done the same. Why had she misled him? Hadn’t they promised each other complete honesty? And now that they’d consummated, honorably backing out of the marriage—if he’d wanted to do that, which he didn’t, but still—wasn’t even an option anymore.

  He stormed (politely, because there were housekeepers in the hall and they’d done nothing to earn his wrath) toward the royal apartments and his wife, planning to give her a sizeable piece of his mind.

  But he found her ready for a fight too.

  When he pushed open the door to her writing room, she was sitting at her desk, scribbling out a letter with angry strokes of her pen. She glanced up when he entered and saw the emotion on his face. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Did the meeting not go how you wanted?” she asked cattily. “Bad day at the men’s club sauna?”

  “I wasn’t at the sauna, I was suffering through endless stories about the good old days. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

  She huffed, flinging her pen to the table. “I spent the whole day doing interviews with magazines to promote the education initiative, but somehow two thirds of the talk always ended up being centered on ‘what did you wear?’ Is that all anyone even cares about? I have more important legislation to pass than wearing white after Escona Day!”

  Simon had meant to lay into her about the toy company, but he hadn’t expected to find her so angry herself—and damn, she was hot when she was catty. He tried to focus. “Please. Try sitting three hours in a room that stinks of cigar smoke with old men who rattle on forever about the good old days. You’ll wish you were only being asked about your clothes.”

  She stood up, knocking the chair backwards as it scraped a complaint against the wood floors, and stalked toward him. “Don’t try to belittle my struggles. I’m the first young Queen in nearly two decades. I have to make them see me as more than a royal supermodel or I’ll never get anything done. You have nothing to complain about. Everyone already takes you seriously.”

  She stabbed a finger into his chest. He caught it. She pulled away, but he was either going to kiss her or yell at her some more, and he really didn’t like yelling at her. So he yanked her into him—she stumbled, caught off guard—and slanted his lips across hers in a punishing kiss. After a moment, she reciprocated, biting down a bit too hard on his lower lip. He muffled a curse and she pulled back, smirking up at him, eyes smoky with heat—from both anger and desire, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You think you can dish it out without taking any yourself? I have had a hell of a day, mister, and if you think—”

  He silenced her with another hard kiss. This time she scraped her fingernails across his back, then grasped his collar and yanked down hard, popping his buttons.

  “Fuck, that was my favorite shirt,” he said, staring down at his now-bare chest in consternation.

  “Too bad,” she snarked. “Take it off. The pants too.”

  Glaring, he obeyed, but tore her shirt open in retaliation. Half her chest was now exposed, her breasts heaving inside a lacy black bra. He stood back. “Your turn,” he said, his tone rough and demanding. “Take it off.”

  She swept the blouse and bra off, then stomped back toward him, skirt swishing around her legs. Before she could reach him, though, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. He snatched up a handful of her skirt, pulled it up, tugged her panties off and bent her over the desk. Then his own boxers were on the floor.

  He slid a finger inside her. She was wet and tight and he wanted her right now. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” he said roughly. His cock was already aching, rock-solid, a drop of pre-cum beading on the tip.

  She grabbed onto the corners of the desk. “Yeah? Prove it, tough guy.”

  He kicked her feet apart and drove himself into her. His fingers gripped her hips, and she wiggled her ass, lifting it higher as he set a punishing rhythm. That was good. Fuck, this was just what he needed, hard and fast and angry—but she pulled away after a moment, spinning around and pushing him to the floor, turning the tables as she took control of the lovemaking. She shoved him back on the carpet then lifted a leg over his hips. She paused then, teasing him cruelly, smirking as she rubbed her slick folds up and down his length without taking him back inside her. He reached down and grabbed her hips, trying to position her where he wanted her, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the carpet. Then, slowly, teasingly, she eased herself onto his cock. He groaned and thrust hard and she smiled, grinding in slow circles when he wanted to fuck her rough and quick.

  “Yeah,” she moaned, throwing her head back. Her dark hair tumbled in waves over her bare shoulders as her frilly skirt pooled around her. He needed it off, he wanted to see. He gathered himself and flipped them over until she was beneath him, glaring and panting. He smiled in victory and pulled out just long enough to yank her skirt off, then plunged into her hilt-deep. He took her again and again, marking her as his with each hard thrust, and she locked her ankles around his back and dug her fingernails into his shoulders to make her own mark.

  “Fuck, yes,” she gasped. “Make me come, Simon.”

  “Always ordering people around,” he growled, and took a nipple in his mouth, delaying both their climaxes as he forced himself to hold still instead of continuing to drive himself into her the way he wanted.

  She reached down and grasped his balls, massaging them with one hand, and he cursed at how good it felt. When he managed to resist the impulse to thrust, she pouted and moved her hand between them and rubbed at her clit, writhing and whimpering as she pleasured herself.

  “Damn it all to hell, that’s my job,” he muttered, and shoved her fingers away so he could tweak her clit himself. He plunged into her again, filling her until he was balls-deep. She arched against him, changing the angle, taking him even deeper as she gasped his name. “Come for me,” he ordered, and she did. Her muscles shuddered around his cock, wet and tight and heavenly as she shouted. His thrusts grew more chaotic as he worked toward his own climax and then he was pumping into her and crying out his own release.

  Then they slumped, anger and passion equally spent, and spiraled slowly back to Earth. “Hell,” she managed after a few minutes, “I should be angry more often.”

  He chuckled and rolled off her, going to clean up and returning a moment later with two robes. He offered her one. “You definitely should,” he agreed, “if it leads to more of that.” He sat on the ground next to her, feeling boneless and sated.

  She tried to finger-comb her sexy snarled hair, but gave up after a few futile tries. “You never actually told me,” she said. “What were you angry about, exactly? Beyond having to listen to some old guy’s story.”

  He sighed. He wasn’t angry anymore, but he still wished she’d told him what she was doing. “He said you were still making profits from your toy company. I thought you’d given that up, Penelope.”

  “I actually meant to talk to you about that last night, but then you distracted me. You’re so damn good at distracting me,” she grumbled, then made a wry face. “I know I should have relinquished control of it sooner, but it’s hard to let go, you know? It’s my safety net as well as feeling like part of my identity. I just wish there was a way to keep doing the parts of it I love without anyone calling foul play.”

  “What parts do you love, exactly?”

  “Designing the toys. Knowing I’m bettering some child’s life with what I’m doing.”

  He tilted his head, considering the problem. “We could probably find a way for you to do that without having any influence in the company or material gain. That way you could keep doing what you love without anyone minding. Maybe you could finish the treehouse designs, use that as a test run.”

  Penelope practically glowed. “Yes! That’s perfect. I was thinking along those same
lines. What if all the proceeds helped build and find housing for needy families and children?” She turned shy, peering at him from under her eyelashes. “Maybe… you could help me finish the treehouse?”

  He grinned and pulled her into his lap, kissing her thoroughly. “I’d love nothing more,” he told her.

  12

  Penelope sat at the bar in a blonde wig and a straightforward outfit so unlike her it was a costume, and all she could think about was how amazing her husband looked. They were at a rugby bar, having realized how desperately they needed a day of normalcy after their big blowout the day before. The strain of ruling was getting to both of them. Sure, they’d made up in a pretty spectacular fashion after the spat, but a break would do them good. Plainclothes security was sprinkled throughout the bar and the King and Queen both wore disguises so they could pretend for a day that they were a normal couple. A few people had given Penelope sideways glances, probably thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but not a single person had looked twice at Simon.

  And she could see why. In a t-shirt, jeans, and baseball cap, he looked completely unlike the stiff Strict Simon she was used to seeing. By now she was certain the man had a serious addiction to button-downs. That was a true shame, though, because in street clothes he was revealed for what he really was: a dressed down, muscle-bound hunk.

  Their team scored, and Simon jumped off his seat, shouting and pumping his fist in the air. His intensity was new too, but, she thought, not part of his disguise. Over the last hour or so she’d discovered her mild-mannered King apparently turned into the Hulk when sports were involved. The guys next to them had noticed too, giving him glares every time Simon shouted in victory and yelling their own happy whoops when he was cursing at the screen. They must be cheering for the opposite team. And they were getting progressively drunker, judging from the steady stream of beer delivered to their table and the sloppy sneers they sent Pen and Simon’s way. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t even that late in the afternoon yet.