My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty

CHAPTER FOUR

Benedict

THE LAST RAYS of the sun blaze across the western horizon as I pad across the palace grounds, ignoring the royal pond with the swan-shaped pleasure boats, the marble fountains filled with ancient Greek and Roman statuary, and the lush hedges clipped into geometric shapes.

Earlier, X filled me in on Ruby’s disastrous visit to Belladonna Square, and I’m still pissed. She was judged on an excursion meant to bring her innocent pleasure.

Acid gnaws at my core from my hypocrisy. After all, she’s an escort on my payroll, which makes no part of our relationship innocent even if my motives are pure.

The first star appears as I enter the maze. Left. Left. Straight. Right. My footsteps are unerring, the result of a childhood spent chasing Nikolai through these twists and turns, and later both of us running from our youngest brother, Damien, who hurled himself forward, always intent on keeping up, even if it resulted in trip after trip to the infirmary for broken bones.

Damien.

Reckless. Impatient. Unstoppable. A force of nature. Nikolai and I had loved him, perhaps getting him into more trouble than befitting a much younger brother, but always getting him out of it again.

His birth ended our mother’s life, yet no one could look upon our youngest brother’s face and fail to see the arrogant, brutal features of my father, the king. My Damien may be many things, but no one would ever call him a bastard.

Unlike me...

These days, however, we see him only in paparazzi photos. After he bedded our stepsister—also Nikolai’s first betrothed—he was banished from Edenvale. His portraits were removed from the halls. The press has a field day with his wild exploits. His fistfights in high-end nightclubs. His drinking binges. His tumultuous romantic affairs. His devotion to fast cars and racing.

My frown deepens as a shadow ahead takes shape, merging into the form of a man.

“Your Highness.” X dips his head in his curt version of a bow. No obsequious gestures for him.

“Jesus.” I am startled into taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Where did you materialize from, thin air?”

A smug smile serves as his response. “Miss Ruby anticipates your arrival. You will find Monique has treated her well. And I will see to it that the saleswoman who mistreated your guest is aware of the commission she lost.”

The cobblestone gardener’s cottage rises behind his broad shoulder, a scene from a storybook come to life, a dwelling that would look at home in one of Grimm’s very own fairy tales. Every light is ablaze inside the small round windows. My Adam’s apple bobs. What will I confront inside? Scraps of lace? Strategically placed silk? Leather?

It takes all my self-control to walk with a steady, measured pace. A young but capable-looking guard stands watch at his post. I recognize him as Gideon from the front gate watchtower, the one with the large strawberry birthmark on one cheek. Good. I’d ordered X to make sure Ruby remains protected during her sojourn, mostly from curious interlopers as our grounds are well fortified. Gideon’s inquiring gaze veers in my direction as I rap on the door.

It swings open in an instant. An older woman, raven hair styled in an intricate chignon, sweeps into a curtsy. Monique Mantissa. “Miss Ruby is ready for your inspection.” She sidles past me and out into the maze with a throaty giggle. “I believe that you will be most pleased with her selections.”

“Allow me to entertain you while the prince makes his examination?” X’s voice betrays no hint of innuendo, and yet the fashion designer’s breathless sigh is audible as the door snicks shut.

My eyes adjust to the light. The air is rich with perfume: roses, jasmine and lilac penetrate my senses. A floorboard squeaks in the next room. I step forward, steeling myself for sin incarnate.

A fire roars in the hearth, the same color as her shimmering golden silk and lustrous hair. Out of all the possible sights, I never imagined to discover Ruby dressed in a formal gown, looking every ounce as regal as any queen in Europe.

She truly is a jewel.

Ruby

Heat warms my cheeks as the prince drinks me in with his eyes.

“It’s too much,” I say. “I told them it was too much. I’m not meant to wear—”

“That gown was made for you and you alone,” he says, no hint of irony in his tone. No condescension or judgment. I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.

“Is there no pretense with you, Your Highness?” His dark brows furrow, the reaction endearing. “You say what you mean, mean what you say. You don’t let any of the bullshit get in the way.” I gasp and cover my mouth. “My apologies, Father.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. Ruby, this is your home for the next month. I want you to feel safe to be yourself here.”

No big deal. Just be myself and find some painting for the Madam. I try to tell myself this isn’t a betrayal of my new benefactor but rather a step closer to saving Jasper. It’s not as if I’m going to do anything to the portrait. I just have to let the Madam know it’s here and where it is. What happens then is beyond me.

I give the prince a once-over—my whole preposterous situation rolling out before me—and then burst out laughing. And there he goes again with the crinkled brow, completely disarming me and making me forget, at least for now, how I ended up here in the first place.

Damn this man for looking so beautiful when he’s befuddled.

“It would already be a tall order to ask me to be myself while residing among royalty. But I’m meant to spend the majority of my time here with not only a prince but one who—though not yet a man of the cloth—dresses like he’s forever on a pulpit about to give a sermon.”

I’m still giggling when he does something so out of character that it stops my laughter and catches my breath all at once.

He smiles.

The whole kingdom—and the entire world for that matter—has been known to swoon for the king’s firstborn, Prince Nikolai. They loved him when he was a tabloid playboy, and now that he’s proved himself worthy of ruling Edenvale, as well as worthy of his future queen, the public swoons for him even more, myself included. Nikolai Lorentz is a beautiful man who will do great things. But before me stands the man who has always lived in his shadow—who keeps himself there by hiding behind a collar before it is truly his.

And he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

“You’re wrong, Ruby. This,” he says, pointing to the white collar, “is my pretense.” He unfastens it and pulls it free.

I smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle in the buttery-soft silk of my gown. “When you take your final vows—” something twists in my gut at the thought “—do you have to wear it all the time?”

Again he grins, though this time the expression is laced with a wistfulness I don’t understand.

“No,” he says. “Giving my life to the church is my duty. But presiding over the church is also my livelihood. When I’m not performing clerical duties, I’m free to dress as I please.” He glances at his attire and then shrugs. “I guess this is easier.”

Then he unbuttons his black shirt and removes it. I gasp until I realize that beneath it he wears a white cotton T.

“There,” he says, hanging the garment over a high-back leather chair that faces the fire. “No more pretense.” He then strolls to a tall oak cabinet against the wall. With wide eyes, I watch the sculpted muscles in his arms flex as he retrieves a decanter of red wine and two crystal goblets. The prince nods toward a small game table, ignoring the clothes strewn about the sofa.

“You can...drink?” I ask, and he laughs, a rich, deep sound that sends an unexpected shiver through me, goose bumps dotting my flesh.

He sets the items on the table and pulls out my chair for me.

“There are many things I can still do once I am a priest,” he says. “But, of course—some I cannot.”

His eyes darken before they dip to the table as he seats himself across from me. When he looks up again, he forces a smile, but I know the spell is broken, and it’s time to get to work. I reach behind and start to lower my zipper.

“Stop,” he says. “Not yet.”

Because he is my prince and also my employer, I obey.

He pours two goblets of wine and hands one to me.

“Ruby.” His voice is gentle. “I’m sorry for what happened in the Square this morning. That was unacceptable.”

I press my lips together and shrug. “I didn’t belong there,” I say matter-of-factly.

He sips his wine and shakes his head. “You belong wherever it is that you want to be.”

My throat tightens, and because I don’t know how to respond, I take a long, slow swallow of the expensive crimson liquid, as well.

“I hope you did enjoy your private shopping spree of sorts, though.”

I grin and stand, offering an exaggerated curtsy in my favorite of all the pieces Monique Mantissa herself gave to me.

“I felt like a princess,” I say. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He clears his throat. “Benedict. Please, call me Benedict.”

Sure. He’s just a guy in my borrowed home, a guy in a great-fitting T-shirt that hugs an always hidden muscular frame, yet he’s not hiding it from me. Still, he is more than just Benedict. I can pretend many things, but I cannot ignore his lineage—or my own.

“This gown is beautiful,” I tell him. “But for what you’ve hired me to do, well...” I reach for my zipper again and pull to where it stops just below my hips. I stand, and the dress falls to the floor, revealing what I’ve been hiding.

No bra. No panties.

“No more pretense,” I tell him, and though he stares at me with ravenous eyes, this feels nothing like the ogling, the leering of what I expect from a client. At twenty-two years old, I am not without experience when it comes to men, but that does not mean I ever thought this would be easy. But the prince is nothing like I expected.

I am comfortable—safe beneath his gaze. Whatever happens next, I trust the man before me.

After laying the gown neatly atop the pile of other Mantissa samples, I take my seat across from him, sip from my goblet and note the varying drawers in the small table. I open one up and pull from it a deck of cards. My teeth skim across my bottom lip. Then I smile and raise a brow.

“So, Benedict.” I draw out his name, getting a feel for it on my tongue. “Would you like to play a game?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Benedict

RUBY CUTS THE card deck as my features settle into a bemused poker face.

“Truth or dare, my prince?” Her teasing tone intoxicates. Her nipples are the color of raspberries, a ripe red that ignites my appetite.

I’ve barely taken a sip of the vintage in my hand, yet the room feels like it does a slow spin. I dig my heels into the wool rug and fight back the growing sense of vertigo.

“You know this game?” Her mouth quirks. “Or were you too busy playing polo and competing in fencing tournaments as a child?”

“I preferred the contact sports, boxing and mixed martial arts.” I set down my goblet and meet her surprised gaze. “And I choose truth.”

Her brows furrow in concentration. “Hmm.” She props two cards together, then adds a third and fourth. It takes a moment to realize what she is doing—building a house of cards.

Higher and higher her flimsy walls rise until she pauses, twirling a Queen of Hearts between her fingers. “Have you ever seen a naked woman in the flesh?”

“No.” My voice is cool as a glacier. I refuse to play the role of a clumsy, naive schoolboy. This imperious mask is second nature, my default setting since I was a boy. How many years have I worn it? Probably since the time that I informed my private tutor that someday I intended to do great things, lead the Edenvale armies, explore distant jungles, fulfill any number of mad ambitions a young, imaginative boy might nurture.

Except Father had been listening from the doorway to our palace classroom. That night he had me escorted to the monastery that borders our palace ground, and there, in the nave of St. Germain, backdropped by the mournful sound of Gregorian chants, the head monk informed me that my path in life was chosen. He spoke of the honor I would bring our kingdom by serving as the spiritual advisor to the king himself.

He made it clear in no uncertain terms that this was the role of the second son, and that if I were to stray or reject the family tradition, it would break my father’s heart.

Those were the words that he used.

Break. My father’s. Heart.

I knew our mother’s death during Damien’s birth must have cracked that organ into a million pieces. There was no chance that I’d be the one to deliver the death blow.

And so ever since, I’ve walked the straight and narrow without complaint. I have striven to do what is right, what is expected.

Until now.

“You are serious?” Ruby’s eyes widen curiously. “Never?” Her legs part and she runs her fingers up her smooth inner thighs. My heart threatens to break through the bars of my rib cage. “Are you saying that you’re an innocent, my sweet prince?”

A pause. “A virgin in the flesh.” Not the mind.

Ruby’s pussy is bare, utterly devoid of hair—soft, pink and fucking perfect. The second coming could begin outside the windows, and my gaze would stay fixed on her slick skin, the dew sheening the slit between her lips.

“Want to touch?” She flicks the tip of her finger over her mound.

“You know that I cannot.” My voice is hoarse.

“But do you want to?” A sliver of curiosity enters her tone, as if she is actually interested in what I want. As if she is doing more than going through the motions of her profession. She is talented, indeed, to make me believe such illusions.

“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“How?” she pushes. “How would you touch me if you gave in to the temptation?”

I try to maintain my composure with a measured breath, telling myself that voicing what I want is no more than putting words to a thought. It is not the act.

“So light at first,” I say, “that you almost wouldn’t know I was making contact, like a brushstroke and your body was a canvas. A butterfly wing against summer’s first rose.”

Her eyes widen, as if I’ve struck a hidden nerve, but then she relaxes into that coy smile again. “You wouldn’t want to claim me?” There is a challenge lurking there. “Graffiti your name? Mark your territory with greedy thrusts?”

I shake my head. “I’d rather bring you pleasure.”

She freezes, staring at me as if transfixed. “But why?”

“Because if it is good for you, it would be good for me,” I say simply. “My pleasure must hinge on yours.” I don’t know why, but instinctively I understand that it’s the way that I am wired.

A shudder runs through her as she lowers her lashes. “Mmmmm. My prince, you do say all the right things. For a man not experienced in the ways of the flesh, you certainly are getting me all worked up with just your words. Look how wet I am. It feels so good.” She rolls her hand with wanton abandon, dips her fingers deeper inside until they circle an engorged, rosy bud. “So wickedly good.” She pauses, arching a brow. “Dare me to offer you a taste?” She drags her hand free, shows me her glistening fingers.

Saints take my immortal soul. I burn as if with a fever.

But I sense she is hiding, that she’s back to showmanship.

I wonder if she’d enjoy being stripped of her defenses?

I clear my throat. “You take a taste. Describe your flavor.”

“Sir?” She pauses, hesitant, a flush heating her own cheeks.

I’ve caught her off guard. A flare of pleasure rushes through my veins. I get up from the small game table and saunter to the fireplace, resting my elbow on the mantel. “You heard me.”

She obeys, and my own pleasure grows sharper than I’d imagined it could.

Ever so slowly, she raises her fingers to her mouth, full lips parting as she sucks on the tips with a deliberate lick.

Hunger flares in me. The tenor of the room shifts. Her coy, artful smile is lost, replaced by a look of shock. Of wonder. Her pupils grow wide, and a flush spreads in the delicate skin between her breasts.

“Describe it.”

Her breath hitches at the dominating timbre of my voice. Her gaze turns thoughtful. Inward. And I know she is going to give me the truth.

“Sweet,” she begins slowly, “almost like wildflower honey.” Her voice is a shy whisper. “But slightly spicy with a salty tang.”

My tongue presses against my teeth. It’s absurd how natural this feels—me, fully clothed and standing, towering over a naked woman pleasuring herself at my command. It’s like opening up a door and walking into a part of myself that’s always been here, waiting for me to find the way. “Keep going,” I grind out. “Tell me your darkest fantasy.”

“You’ve already had a turn,” she says with a fake pout. “I did the dare.” Her hands are already sliding back as if of their own accord, spreading her most secret part, revealing every inch of the tantalizing landscape to my view. She is so wet I can hear it, the sucking slide of her fingers. Perhaps she has done this five hundred times to five hundred different men, but tonight, in this moment, she is mine.

And if her soaking wet pussy is any indication, she loves every second.