“You’re still fired,” Mrs. Holloway stiffly reminds me when I hand in my apron.

“I didn’t presume to believe otherwise,” I reply. “I planned to leave in the morning after the guests depart.” I give her a brief bow and turn to leave.

“Ms. Lloyd,” she calls out.

I stop. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The lady you served wearing the ice-blue gown and the sapphire necklace. Do you remember her?”

An image of an older woman with golden dyed hair caught up in a tight chignon at the back of her head pops into my mind. “Yes.”

“What country was she from?”

I rub my lips together and think. She was blonde and fairly tall. Her skin was pale and she reminded me a bit of the Disney ice princess. “Norway?”

“America, but she has an Italian husband. What was her title?”

An American with an Italian husband? Do Americans even have titles? I don’t think so. This must be a trick question. “Americans don’t have titles,” I answer, a bit confused at why Mrs. Holloway is asking me these questions and even more baffled that I’m standing here answering them.

“Her husband is an Italian count. She’s Contessa Franco. How about the gentleman with the loud green tie and the hideous, ill-fitting suit?”

That man was hard to forget. Tall and thin with spidery fingers, many of the staff shied away from him. He was nice, though, thanking me each time I brought a tray of food his way. Most of the guests don’t even acknowledge the staff. But I didn’t know his name.

“What’s the point of this?” I ask.

“To show how ill-suited you are for King Thomas. We all know you’ve been schtupping him for years, but you’ll always be a palace maid. There are no godmothers who will turn the mice into footmen. There’s no secret lineage that will transform you into marriageable material. You’re the bastard daughter of a maid. Even if King Thomas doesn’t marry Lady Callista, you’ll still be a girl with no lineage and no money who earns a living cleaning toilets.”

“That’s enough, Mrs. Holloway.” Zoya shoulders the older woman aside. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your room,” my friend says.

I order each one of my feet to move, and while they are slow to respond with the blood so cold in my veins, I eventually make it to the hallway leading from the kitchen to the staff quarters. Louis pops up, startling both Zoya and me.

He gives us an apologetic smile. “Miss Penelope, I’m sorry for delaying you, but you’ll need to do one more task before you go retire for the evening.”

“She’s really tir—” Zoya starts to say.

I shrug her helpful arm aside and straighten. Holloway’s words struck directly to my heart, but it wasn’t the tone that killed me, it was that the words she’d said were true. I’m not marriageable material—not for Prince Thomas or King Thomas. Leaving the palace is painful, but necessary, so I’m going to depart with dignity.

“What is it, Louis?”

“You need to deliver a dessert tray to the king’s chambers. Two scoops of vanilla ice cream, a pot of honey and a bowl of whipped cream.” He pins a steely glare on Zoya. “I trust you can have that ready in a minute. Mrs. Holloway, I need to see you to discuss tomorrow’s menus. There are a few changes.”

Zoya practically skips back to the kitchen, not bothering to hide her smile when Mrs. Holloway passes by on her way to meet with Louis.

“Ice cream. Honey. Whipped cream?” My friend laughs under her breath. “I can’t imagine what he wants this for.”

I try to keep the pink off my cheeks. “He has a sweet tooth,” I reply.

“He’s sweet for something all right,” she snickers.

I spoon the homemade whipped cream into a bowl and grab a honey pot so I don’t have to endure more of Zoya’s innuendos. She slaps me on the butt and reminds me to shower after we have our dessert.

The door to Louis’s study is open, and as I walk by, Mrs. Holloway makes a disapproving sound in the back of her throat. This time her barb doesn’t bother me. Who cares what she thinks. After tonight, I’ll be gone.

But for now, I’m going to love him with everything I’ve got in me. I have a lifetime of memories to create.

“Hey, I thought our bedroom was a no judgment zone,” he teases.

My back hits the mattress.

“I’m judging you very harshly right now,” I inform my love. “You haven’t kissed me yet.”

His eyes spark. “And you haven’t kissed me.”

“Why don’t we kiss each other then?”

He pretends to consider it for a second before saying enthusiastically, “Great idea!” His lips find mine and it’s heaven. I love kissing him, love the slip and slide of our lips and tongues together, the wetness and the heat and even teeth as we nibble and suck, and I force back the thought that this is one of the last times we’ll kiss.

“The ice cream’s melting,” I manage to murmur between deep, drugging kisses.

“Is it?” he says absently, lips blazing a path down my neck. “What a shame to let it go to waste then.”

He had managed to get my uniform unbuttoned while we were kissing and now my lace-clad breasts are exposed, my nipples nearly poking through the lace. He pushes down the thin cups and growls at the sight of my hard, elongated nipples demanding his attention. Instead of immediately latching on, however, he reaches over to the dessert bowls on the side table. My pussy creams as I realize his intent.

“Hmmm, since I missed out on dessert, I think I’m in the mood for a sundae.” He flashes me a naughty grin and I squirm, need thrumming through my body directly to my pussy.

Thom scoops some ice cream on a spoon and carefully drops a dollop on the tip of my breast. I gasp at the icy sensation, which only gets me hotter and wetter. Using his finger he then smears some whipped cream on top of the melting ice cream and then drizzles honey on my nipple, which has flushed a deep pink from the cold.

“Oh how pretty,” he croons, “and with a big red cherry on top, too. I can’t wait to taste it.”

He bends and latches on my nipple and sucks forcefully, drawing as much of my breast into his mouth as he can. I arch and nearly scream with the pleasure, my hands clawing at his sheets. I push my breast into his face even more, and the pendant between my breasts sways lightly against his face. His tongue swirls around the flesh in his mouth, lapping away the cream and honey and I am so ready to come already.

“Thom!” I cry, nearly sobbing. He pulls and pulls with his mouth, taking long drags and scraping the tip lightly with his teeth before letting my nipple pop out and then sucking it back in. He’s driving me absolutely crazy with lust. I’m barely aware of him unbuttoning my pants until he thrusts one hand down my panties, rubbing through my slick folds, grazing my clit. One rough rub and I’m coming hard, pleasure exploding through my body.

My thighs clamp tight on his hand, trapping him, but that doesn’t stop him. His fingers slide down until he finds my drenched slit and he thrusts two fingers up high, curling them slightly before he pumps them, extending my pleasure. I whine as aftershocks roll through me. He continues to suck hard at my breast as I ride his hand, my pussy clenching his fingers with every rocking motion.

His fingers stay deep inside me as he finally lets my breast slide out of his mouth. I watched, dazed, as his hand fumbles with the spoon and I realize he’s going to repeat this torture on my other breast.

“Remember to leave some for me,” I manage to slur.

“Not until I eat my fill,” Thom says, his eyes dark with lust. My mouth goes dry at the implications, and my internal muscles tighten and clench in reaction. Thom slowly withdraws his fingers from my slick flesh, and holding my gaze, he sucks my wetness off his hand. He groans and says, “God, you taste so good. I can’t wait to lick honey and cream out of your cunt.”

I’m already completely wrecked, but if this is my last night with him, I never want it to end. “Just you wait,” I purr, licking my lips lasciviously. “Turnabout is fair play.”

My body is sore in places I didn’t know it could be sore and my muscles feel as heavy as lead. I’m actually surprised my dick hasn’t fallen off. I lost count of the orgasms we wrung out of each other, and the ice cream has long since melted, not that there was much left. We pretty much ate all the dessert off of each other and fucked in every position possible, including my favorite, reverse cowgirl.

I should be sleeping like the dead after the night Pen and I have had. And I think I was, which is why I’m not sure what woke me up. I lie still for a moment, wanting to feel Pen’s warm body as she cuddles into me, but after several seconds it doesn’t happen so I move towards her, stretching an arm out. I touch nothing but cold sheets and an empty place next to me. My eyes fly open and I turn my head—there’s nothing but darkness.

Pen is gone.