Masked Prince (Fated Royals 2)

There was a silence, the likes of which can only happen in a full cathedral—complete, sudden, and total. The priests bowed their heads; the squeak of the pews made me turn to look behind me. Coming down the aisle before us was the royal master of jewels. And on a green velvet cushion he carried a crown.

My crown.

I looked up at Randal, astonished.

“You mean…today? Now?” As if my wedding day hadn’t been overwhelmingly joyful enough. We had barely discussed my coronation. I had been too unclear on the rules to mention it, too unsure about how to ask. No matter what gowns or jewels I wore, I felt I’d always be a simple girl a heart. Affairs of kings and queens were far beyond me. But he was always a step ahead of me. He always knew the way.

“Yeah. Now, beautiful,” he said, with a very un-kingly grab of my ass, hidden from prying eyes by the voluminous folds of my wedding dress, and doubly shielded by their lowered heads and downcast eyes.

“You are my wife,” he growled softly into my ear, “and it’s about fucking time you become my Queen as well.”

After a day of feasting and celebrating, we were finally alone in our own private quarters. He’d prepared for this. There were candles lit and fresh fruit on the bedside table, along with a bottle of wine and a glass pitcher of water. The things we did together, the way we were in private, was hard and hungry work.

As soon as he shut the door behind us, the ferocity in his eyes told me what I’d been hoping since the moment he placed my crown on me. I might be Queen out there in the world, but here, in private, with just the two of us, I was still his possession. To use and have as he desired. I pulled a grape from the bunch by the bed and slid it into my mouth, sucking on my finger as I watched him.

We were alone, utterly alone. That had been another thing I worried about—if this huge change in status would mean that we were surrounded by servants all the time. But apparently not. Thankfully not.

He locked the deadbolts on the door without breaking my gaze, and then took two long strides into me. He was dark now, serious. Intense. He undid his sword belt and I unfastened the row of clips that secured his chain mail. Through all of it, I didn’t say a word. Speak when spoken to.

With each movement, each glance from him, I felt myself getting wetter and wetter. My heart pounded with anticipation and need.

I took off his mail and hung it on a hook, then turned to him. I lowered my eyes and knelt before him.

He growled when I went to my knees. With one huge finger he tipped my chin up, so I was looking at him. He looked savagely hungry. Dangerously full of desire.

Thank you, Lord, for this danger.

Randal dragged the pad of my thumb down my lip and pressed his fingers into the angle of my jawbone. I loved when he did that—letting me feel all his power in one tiny gesture. He traced my face with his eyes, and I saw the bulge between his legs grow to the point of straining his pants.

“That pussy better be ready for me, my Queen,” he said, and slid his finger under the diamond choker that I wore around my throat.

Chapter 21

Randal

“Everything off, except this choker,” I told her. I backed away from her, dropping my pants as I did. My dick was rock-solid, a smudge of precum already wetting the tip.

Seeing my precum pissed me off. And it reminded me of the simplest of the simple fucking truths: I was as cunt-whipped as any man had ever been in the history of the world.

No matter how big and strong I was, no matter how many motherfuckers knelt at my feet, she sat on the prize. Her pussy had the power. Always had and always fucking would. I’d chew through stone walls to eat her out. I’d destroy kingdoms to put my cock inside her.

Sitting down on the bed, keeping my legs spread wide so my throbbing balls had plenty of room to hang, I took my cock in my hand and stroked it as I watched her unfasten the row of hooks that went down the corset of her wedding dress. As her breasts came free, I saw an angry curved red line where her dress had been cutting into her. I liked that a whole fucking lot—the idea of her hurting a little in a place that only I’d ever see. I gripped my cock harder, trapping blood in the shaft as I stroked.

“Jacking off while the queen strips for me,” I said, gripping myself tighter. “Fuck, it’s good to be the king.”