Royally Screwed(62)
Henry glares at his brother, stubborn and unyielding. “Well, at least I did something.”
Nicholas snorts. “Yes. You made it worse. Congratulations.”
Taking my hand, he turns on his heel, telling James, “Olivia and I will ride alone in the first car. He can follow behind in the car with Bridget.”
No one hesitates to follow the command.
And that is our welcome to Wessco.
In the limo, Nicholas pours himself a drink from the cool blue-lit minibar in the center console. He’s all tense muscles and scowly jaw. I rub his shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
He scrapes out a sigh. “I will be. Sorry about that, love.” He plays with my hair. “This isn’t how I wanted to bring you home.”
“Pfft.” I wave my hand. “I grew up in New York, Nicholas. Protestors and crazy people on every corner. That was nothing—don’t worry about me.”
I want to bring the playfulness back into those eyes, that delicious, devious smirk to his beautiful lips. I think about sliding down to the floor between his knees and giving him a blow job. But, to be honest, with the driver in front and his brother and so many staff members following behind us, I just don’t have the guts to follow through.
Instead, I squeeze up close to him, letting my boobs press against his arm. He kisses my forehead, breathing me in. And that seems to make him feel better.
About an hour later, we pull onto the road that leads to the palace. Nicholas tells me to look out the window to see—and I’m gob-smacked.
I’ve never used that word before: gob. Gob-smacked.
There was never a reason—but, holy shit, there’s a reason now. I’ve seen pictures of the castle but seeing now is…unreal. The massive stone building is lit from the bottom up—practically a hundred beams of light illuminate the façade. More windows than I can count dot the front, framed by a giant black-and-gold-trimmed iron gate. I can’t see clearly from here, but there seem to be intricate etchings, statues and carvings built into the stone. There’s a lighted fountain in the center, shooting half as high as the castle itself. A tall, stately flagpole holds the waving burgundy and white Wessco flag. And flowers! Thousands, maybe millions, of flowers surround the front and the sides, bursting with color even in the night.
“It’s a castle!”
Yeah, not the most astute thing I’ve ever said.
Nicholas just chuckles. So I grab his arm, shaking. “I don’t think you understand—you live in a freaking castle!”
“Technically, it’s a palace. Castles were built for defense, palaces more for the monarch to hold court in appropriate grandeur.”
And Jesus, I want to stick my tongue down his throat.
“Have I told you how hot it is when you roll out the royal facts?”
His eyes light up. “No, but it’s good to know. I know things that will keep you perpetually wet and quivering.”
As sexy as that response is, I just have to look back at the palace as we get closer. “It has a moat, Nicholas!”
“Yes. Generally palaces don’t—but my great-great-great-great-grandfather had it dug because he ‘liked the look of it.’ I went swimming in it once when I was eleven. Got strep throat—lesson learned. But there is a lake in the back, so skinny-dipping is definitely on the agenda.”
“How many rooms does it have?”
“Five hundred eighty-seven, not including the staff bedrooms.” He leans up and licks the shell of my ear, making the wet and quivering plan come to fruition. His next words almost make me come on the spot. “And I want to fuck you in every one of them by the end of the summer.”
“That’s ambitious,” I tease, nuzzling him. “Do you plan on stopping to feed me?”
His hand skims down my back, cradling my ass. “You’ll be well taken care of, I promise.”
I promise. You know what that is? Yep—Famous. Last. Words.
MY GRANDMOTHER IS A NIGHT OWL. She requires only three to four hours of sleep. It’s a common trait in leaders, captains of industry, top-notch executives—and psychopaths.
So, although it’s past the dinner hour, I know she’ll want to receive us the moment we step through the palace door. And I’m not wrong. Her personal butler, Alastair, ushers us into the gold receiving room in her private quarters. We gather there—me, Olivia, Henry, Fergus, and Bridget—and we wait.
No matter how long I’m away, a month or a year, the Queen never changes. She looks exactly the same. It’s a comforting and frightening thought that strikes me when she appears in the doorway—gray hair perfectly coifed, demure pink lipstick, a light green skirt and jacket with a diamond and emerald broach pinned to the lapel.