Royally Screwed (Royally 1)

“What do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?”

See what I mean? It’s like those Playboy centerfold interviews—“I like bubble baths, pillow fights, and long, naked walks on the beach.” No she doesn’t. But the point of the questions isn’t to inform, it’s to reinforce the fantasies of the blokes jerking off to her.

It’s the same way for me.

I grin, flashing a hint of dimple—women fall all over themselves for dimples.

“Well, most nights I like to read.”

I like to fuck.

Which is probably the answer my fans would rather hear. The Palace, however, would lose their ever-loving minds if I said that.

Anyway, where was I? That’s right—the fucking. I like it long, hard, and frequent. With my hands on a firm, round arse—pulling some lovely little piece back against me, hearing her sweet moans bouncing off the walls as she comes around my cock. These century-old rooms have fantastic acoustics.

While some men choose women because of their talent at keeping their legs open, I prefer the ones who are good at keeping their mouths shut. Discretion and an ironclad NDA keep most of the real stories out of the papers.

“I enjoy horseback riding, polo, an afternoon of clay pigeon shooting with the Queen.”

I enjoy rock climbing, driving as fast as I can without crashing, flying, good scotch, B-movies, and a scathingly passive-aggressive verbal exchange with the Queen.

It’s that last one that keeps the Old Bird on her toes—my wit is her fountain of youth. Plus it’s good practice for us both. Wessco is an active constitutional monarchy so unlike our ceremonial neighbors, the Queen is an equal ruling branch of government, along with Parliament. That essentially makes the royal family politicians. Top of the food chain, sure, but politicians all the same. And politics is a quick, dirty, brawling business. Every brawler knows that if you’re going to bring a knife to a fistfight, that knife had better be sharp.

I cross my arms over my chest, displaying the tan, bare forearms beneath the sleeves of my rolled-up pale-blue oxford. I’m told they have a rabid Twitter following—along with a few other parts of my body. I then tell the story of my first shoot. It’s a fandom favorite—I could recite it in my sleep—and it almost feels like I am. Teddy chuckles at the ending—when my brat of a little brother loaded the launcher with a cow patty instead of a pigeon.

Then he sobers, adjusting his glasses, signaling that the sad portion of our program will now begin.

“It will be thirteen years this May since the tragic plane crash that took the lives of the Prince and Princess of Pembrook.”

Called it.

I nod silently.

“Do you think of them often?”

The carved teak bracelet weighs heavily on my wrist. “I have many happy memories of my parents. But what’s most important to me is that they live on through the causes they championed, the charities they supported, the endowments that carry their name. That’s their legacy. By building up the foundations they advocated for, I’ll ensure they’ll always be remembered.”

Words, words, words, talk, talk, talk. I’m good at that. Saying a lot without really answering a thing.

I think of them every single day.

It’s not our way to be overly emotional—stiff upper lip, onward and upward, the King is dead—long live the King. But while to the world they were a pair of HRHs, to me and Henry they were just plain old Mum and Dad. They were good and fun and real. They hugged us often, and smacked us about when we deserved it—which was pretty often too. They were wise and kind and loved us fiercely—and that’s a rarity in my social circle.

I wonder what they’d have to say about everything and how different things would be if they’d lived.

Teddy’s talking again. I’m not listening, but I don’t have to—the last few words are all I need to hear. “…Lady Esmerelda last weekend?”

I’ve known Ezzy since our school days at Briar House. She’s a good egg—loud and rowdy. “Lady Esmerelda and I are old friends.”

“Just friends?”

She’s also a committed lesbian. A fact her family wants to keep out of the press. I’m her favorite beard. Our mutually beneficial dates are organized through the Palace secretary.

I smile charmingly. “I make it a rule not to kiss and tell.”

Teddy leans forward, catching a whiff of story. The story.

“So there is the possibility that something deeper could be developing between you? The country took so much joy in watching your parents’ courtship. The people are on tenterhooks waiting for you, ‘His Royal Hotness’ as they call you on social media, to find your own ladylove and settle down.”

I shrug. “Anything’s possible.”

Except for that. I won’t be settling down anytime soon. He can bet his Littlecock on it.

As soon as the hot beam of front lighting is extinguished and the red recording signal on the camera blips off, I stand up from my chair, removing the microphone clipped to my collar.

Teddy stands as well. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.”

He bows slightly at the neck—the proper protocol.

I nod. “Always a pleasure, Littlecock.”

That’s not what she said. Ever.

Bridget, my personal secretary—a stout, middle-aged, well-ordered woman, appears at my side with a bottle of water.

“Thank you.” I twist the cap. “Who’s next?”