Royally Screwed (Royally 1)

Another reason I’m feeling pleasant about attending is Olivia’s reaction to my uniform. I enter her room through the bookcase and her eyes slide all over me—the black and white shirt hugging my biceps, the impressive bulge prominently displayed in my snug pants.

Without a word, Olivia turns, calf-length, summer-pink skirt flaring out. And she locks the door. It snaps into place with a resounding click and I know without a doubt I’m about to get lucky.

She saunters up to me and lowers to her knees, laughing as she pulls my shirt from the pants and yanks at the belt buckle. The riding boots present a problem, so she just leaves them on, working me over with those skillful, glorious lips and tongue, making me come so hard in her mouth I see stars. Possibly the light of God.

Yes, lucky indeed.

Spectators and press are all over the fields and stands—not only am I playing, but the Queen is here to watch. The silky skin peeking out from Olivia’s white crop top makes it hard, but I force myself to maintain a platonic distance from her as we walk toward where she’ll be sitting with Franny. Simon’s playing too. En route to the stands, Olivia laughs, flashing her phone my way to show a text from Marty—a reply to a photo of one of the horses she sent. “Like looking in a mirror,” it says with a red circle drawn around the horse’s cock.

Once she’s settled, I snap on my helmet. And then I slip my father’s teak bracelet off my wrist, handing it her. “Keep this safe for me, will you?”

She’s surprised at first, then her cheeks pinken beautifully. “I’ll guard it with my life.” And she slips it on her own wrist.

“Have a good game,” Olivia says. Then, quieter, “I really want to kiss you right now, for luck. But I know I can’t, so I’ll just tell you instead.”

I wink. “I got my good-luck kiss in your room. If it had been any better, I would’ve gone blind.”

I walk away toward the stables with the sound of her laughter ringing behind me.

Though black clouds gather and the air is heavy with the threat of rain, we’re able to make it through two games. My team wins both, which puts me in a good mood. Sweaty and smudged with dirt, I lead my pony to the stables. I brush her down myself, in her stall, cooing about what a pretty girl she is—because human or beast, every female enjoys a compliment.

Once that’s done, I step out of the stall onto the main walk and come face-to-face with Hannibal Lancaster. Inside, I groan. We went to school together—he’s not a cannibalistic killer like his namesake, but he is a sleazy, disgusting prick. His parents, on the other hand—his family—are good people. And powerful allies to the Crown.

Just goes to show that even a bushel of good apples can produce a bad seed.

They’re completely unaware of Hannibal’s dickishness, which forces the rest of us—me—to put up with him from time to time and not punch his face in.

He bows, then asks, “How are you, Pembrook?”

“I’m well, Lancaster. Good match.”

He snorts. “Our number four was a useless fucker. I’m going to make sure he never plays at our club again.”

And I’m ready to get the hell away from him. But it’s not that easy.

“I wanted to ask you about the souvenir you brought home from the States.”

“Souvenir?” I ask.

“The girl. She’s exquisite.”

Twats like Lancaster can have anything they want. Anything. Which is why, when they find something that’s hard to get—or that belongs to someone else—it makes them want it even more. They go after it relentlessly.

I learned a very long time ago that the world is full of fuckers who want what I have, just because it’s mine. And that the most effective way to keep their dirty hands off of it is to pretend I don’t care, that I don’t really want it that badly—that maybe it doesn’t even belong to me at all.

It’s twisted, I know, but it’s the way of the world. This world.

“She is.” I smirk. “But that shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve always had exquisite taste.”

“But I am surprised. You don’t typically bring your slags home to meet Grandmother.”

I eye the polo mallet in the corner—and picture crushing his balls with it.

“Don’t think too deeply about it, Lancaster; you’ll hurt yourself. I’ve just discovered the convenience of having ready-to-go pussy in-house. And she’s American—they gush all over themselves about the royal thing.” I shrug, and my stomach clenches tight and sick. If I don’t get away from him soon, I’m going to vomit.

Lancaster laughs. “I want to try American pussy. Let me have a go at her. You don’t mind, do you?”

Or fucking kill him.

My fists clench hard at my sides and I swing around. What comes out of my mouth isn’t at all what I’m thinking.

“’Course I don’t, but not until after I’m finished. Do you understand, Hannibal? If I catch you within sniffing distance of her before then, I’ll nail you to the wall by your cock.”

Maybe I say a little of what I’m thinking.

“Christ, you don’t have to get medieval about it.” He holds up his hands. “I know you don’t like to share. Let me know when you’re sick of the cunt. I’ll keep hands-off until then.”

I’m already walking away. “Give my regards to your parents.”

“I always do, Nicholas,” he calls after me.