Royally Screwed (Royally 1)

He kisses the back of my hand, the way he did that first morning—and it tingles all over again. After riding the roller coaster and eating hot dogs, we walk back to the bike to get the blanket I stowed there, and head toward the amphitheater.

“Kodaline is playing,” I tell him. Nicholas has a bunch of their songs on his phone’s playlist.

He stops walking and his face goes almost blank, but his eyes are the brightest green. Then in one move, he pulls me up against him and kisses me breathless.

He presses his forehead against mine. “This is absolutely the best thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you, Olivia.”

I smile—and I know it’s radiant. Because that’s how I feel. Right now—in his arms. Lit from the inside, like a luminous shooting star that won’t ever dim.

Inside, as we stand on line for drinks, “Everything I Do” by Bryan Adams pours from the speakers. “I love this song,” I tell him. “It was my prom song—but I didn’t get to go.”

“Why not?” he asks.

I shrug. “I didn’t have time or a dress.”

“Didn’t your boyfriend…Jack…want to show you off?”

“He wasn’t that into dances.”

Nicholas makes a disgusted sound. “Definitely a ruddy tool.”

After that, I notice that he keeps his head down, his chin tucked—trying to conceal his face.

I lift his chin. “This hiding-in-plain-sight thing only works if you don’t act like you’re trying to hide something.”

He grins a little self-consciously—and the dimples show up. Mmm.

“Most of the people here would never think that you’d be here—and the few that do are probably too chill to make a big deal about it. New Yorkers are cool about celebrity stuff.”

He looks at me like I’m nuts. “Not the ones I’ve seen.”

I shrug. “They’re probably from Jersey.”

Nicholas laughs—a deep chuckle that makes me close my eyes in the hopes of hearing it even better.

But then, a voice comes from behind us—kind of gravelly, probably a smoker, definitely from Staten Island. “Oh my gawd, do you know who you look like?”

Nicholas’s hand goes rigid in my mine, but I squeeze it because…I got this.

“Prince Nicholas, right?” I tell the aviator-glasses-wearing blond, letting my New York accent come through.

“Totally! You know, I heard he’s in town—” she points to Nicholas “—and you could so be him!”

“I know! I keep telling him we should move to Vegas—he could get work as an impersonator—but he doesn’t listen to me.” I jiggle Nicholas’s hand. “Do the accent, baby.”

With a soft look in his eyes, he speaks in his normal voice.

“I don’t have an accent…baby.”

I laugh loudly and the woman behind us goes crazy.

“Oh my gaaaawd, that’s nuts!”

“Right?” I sigh. “If I’m lucky, I’ll find out he’s some long lost relative.”

A register to the right opens up and I step toward it, telling the woman, “Take it easy.”

“Have a good one,” she says back.

Nicholas throws his strong arm around my shoulder and I lean in, pressing my nose against his shirt, smelling that awesome deliciousness that is him. Then I look up at him.

“See, told you.”

He kisses my lips, nibbling in that way that makes me moan.

“You’re a bloody genius.”

“I have my moments.”

After we get our drinks—two beers each in red Solo cups—we walk on the grass until we find the perfect spot.

“Now what?” my I-think-he-could-be-my-boyfriend asks.

“Have you ever drunk cheap beer, listened to good music and made out on a blanket, surrounded by a couple hundred people in a field, under the warm sun all afternoon?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

I lift one cup. “Today you will.”

Olivia and I stumble through the revolving door into the lobby of the Plaza holding hands, stealing quick kisses, giggling like two randy teenagers ditching class for a quickie in the broom closet. Lying with her on the blanket throughout the afternoon, kissing her long and slow, without a care who was watching—because no one was—has made me desperate for her.

And hard. Christ, so hard.

So if heads turn our way or camera phones come out, I don’t give a single shit. All I care about is my cock pressing against the confines of my jeans, thick and hot and aching.

Anticipation. Has there ever been a sweeter word? I’ve never had to wait—not really—not for this. I had no idea the buildup, hours of sizzling, teasing delayed gratification, could be such a heady aphrodisiac. My blood rushes and Olivia’s eyes sparkle—with lust and playfulness and hunger. We make it into the lift and the moment the doors slide closed behind us, I pick her up into my arms, press her against the wall and ravage her mouth—tasting deeper than I was able to before. She moans around my tongue as I grind against her, relishing the pressure that won’t bring any relief. But it’s fine—thrilling even—because I know soon she’ll be naked and spread out on my bed and I’ll be able to drive into her tightness again and again, until we’re both worn out.

Or we break the damn bed—whichever comes first.

As the lift rises, I lean back and look down, watching my denim-clad crotch thrust deliberately against her heated center. My cock slides exquisitely right there—against her soft, sweet flesh concealed beneath the thin fabric of her black cotton leggings. But I can feel it.