Chapter 6

Gwen

“Let go of my hand,” I hiss in his ear as he pulls me through the crowd, shaking hands with well-wishers along the way.

Good lord. It’s like being at the flamingo exhibit in the royal zoo. The women in feather-topped hats are the flamingos, and Edward and I?

We’re their patient handlers, trying to give them hope and joy, even though we have tricked them all into being here with our lies.

Edward releases my hand as instructed, but then he puts his arm around me and pulls me close. He kisses me on the cheek. He even pats me on the ass.

“Is that better, love?”

He may be sexy, but he’s not a very good listener.

I’m not sure how else to express my disapproval of this fake public engagement. A few months ago, I had my scowl and frown lines preemptively Botoxed away so that I would never be caught with resting bitch face.

Now, I can’t even glare at the fucker properly.

Being a princess is hard sometimes.

So, when politeness fails, I know I’ll have to use force. I reach around Edward’s back, slip my hand in his pocket, and poke him in the balls. Hard.

I try not to think about what else I might do with the bulge in his pants, no matter how impressive it is. That would be counterproductive.

No matter how much I want to get my hands around that big, thick royal cock.

When he doesn’t yelp in pain and immediately release me from his rakish grip, I know I’m not getting rid of him any time soon.

“Princess!” Edward purrs in faux shock. “You do like it rough.”

Instead of letting me go, he slides his hand up my waist and rests his fingertips just under my breast.

So, let me explain what’s happening here. Technically, he’s not groping me. He’s just waiting for gravity to do its job so that it will look like an accident when my breast ends up in his waiting hand.

Incidentally, that is also how our fine nation ended up with a few of the islands off our central coast. Breasts, islands—it’s all about the grabbing, either way.

And I can’t even wiggle away from him because…well…because honestly, it feels really good. Panty-dropping good. It’s making my knees wobble.

“Fuck,” I swear so softly under my breath, not even the keen-eared old biddies trying to listen in can catch it.

But Edward does.

You bet your ass that Edward hears it all.

As far as Edward is concerned, I’ve already moaned my consent in his kingly ear and am now one step away from a proper swoon.

That’s a sticking point for me, to be frank.

Princesses. Do. Not. Swoon.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got you,” Edward reassures me, holding me upright. He nuzzles his face behind my ear and teases my lobe with his tongue.

“Edward,” I moan with a mixture of irritation and pleasure. But mostly pleasure.

“Don’t say my name like it’s a curse word,” he teases me. “I’m still your king. I’m even more king-like now that we’re engaged.”

“We’re not engaged,” I say through clenched teeth. I smile for the reporter next to me, who takes several pictures of us with his camera before someone else knocks him out of the way. “Just because you say something doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Nonsense. I’m the king—and this kingdom operates on my slightest fucking whim,” Edward argues, his smile equally bright. “Look around you, Princess. Everyone is thrilled for us.”

He waves at the spectators, who are still taking pictures of us and bouncing with excitement.

Sure, everyone is happy for us now. But when the pictures are posted online alongside our other engagement photos, our fans are going to crucify us. I might as well start drafting my official public apology now.

After this, I’m going to have to give up my crown and change my name. And my hair color. Maybe even get a nose job.

Or I could just hop on a spaceship, colonize Mars, crown myself queen, and legalize jaywalking.

I can do this, you know. I have the connections.

But what will King Edward do? Unlike me, he has earthly responsibilities: giving speeches. Conducting official government business. Appearing at tennis matches. Hosting charity tea parties.

Spreading his clotted cream all over my hot, hot scones.

Stop it, Gwen. Not the time.

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Edward finally says. But he’s adjusting my shawl—which has started to slip off my shoulders—in order to make his subjects believe he’s talking about my choice of outwear instead of my choice of fiancés.

He’s right. I’m being ridiculous. I don’t want to marry the Marquis de Roach any more than Edward wants to marry Ignora whatsherface.

As for the commoners who will be reading all about us in the tabloids, what do they care? The name de Roach sounds more like an infestation than a title, anyway. They’ll shudder every time it shows up in a headline.

I’d be doing them a favor. A favor, I say!

So, really, the only people who will be affected by this are our betrothed. And they don’t even like us. I’m pretty sure of this.

As the Marquis de Roach is fond of telling me, “I’m asking for your hand in marriage, not your whole body.” Oh, and my personal favorite: “I don’t need you to make a baby. That’s what fertility clinics are for.”

He’s about as stimulating as a cup of lukewarm tea, and not even half as enjoyable to look at.

“What do you want me to say to you right now?” I ask Edward. “Everyone is watching us.”

He looks at the throng of admirers in front of us and shrugs. “Why can’t you just pledge your loyalty to me and tell me to live a long, happy life like everyone else?”

“Because I can’t make any promises about your lifespan once the Marquis de Roach finds out about this. He’s not known for his sunny disposition and even temper.”

“The Marquis de Roach can go fuck himself,” Edward says bluntly, but for the sake of the crowd, he says it into my ear like he’s whispering sweet nothings. “He’ll have plenty of time for it now that you’re warming my bed instead of his.”

If I’m honest with myself, Edward’s utter dismissal of my dreaded engagement really does sound like music to my ears.

“What about your fiancée?” I reply, but I’m nibbling on his ear in a way that will soon make him forget all about his queen-to-be. “She’s already had her head measured for her crown fitting.”

“Who, Ignora? Just ignore ’er. Everyone else does.”

Ignora does have an unfortunate name. But that’s no excuse to steal her fiancé and her crown without her knowledge or permission.

Then again, did anyone who didn’t have something riding on all this even congratulate either one of us on our respective engagements? My brother sent me a sympathy card.

Standing side by side with the man who is not my real fiancé, I look at the smiling faces all around us and realize that, to the blissfully uninformed, we must look like a happy couple.

Not exactly the most common thing in our world, believe it or not.

King Edward is young, handsome, charming, and—as far as I or anyone else can tell—completely smitten with me.

And I’m so smitten with him, I probably look like I’m about to have an orgasm-induced heart attack and collapse on the floor.

If Edward doesn’t stop running his fingers all over my erogenous zones, I just might do it, too.

For the sake of my country, y’know. People can say what they want about us, but I know we’ll be more fun to watch than a forced marriage between two tepid royals who, by the way, are delusional if they think they’re only second cousins.

Really, by taking as much of Edward’s royal dick as I can fit in my mouth, I have the people’s best interest at heart, you see.

This is exciting. Even if I don’t want to admit it, I like being the center of attention like this.

In front of us, a sweet old grandmother dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. Two teenage girls are looking at Edward and sighing, probably dreaming of their own weddings. Even the royal dogs are wagging their tails in approval.

I’ve never cared much about being a princess, and yet being with Edward makes me feel like I could be—and should be—a queen.

His arm around me is strong, reassuring. No other man has had this kind of effect on me, certainly not the Marquis de Roach.

“Can we really do this?” I ask Edward. “We’re engaged to other people.”

“I can do whatever I want. I’m the king. And what I want to do right now, Princess, is you.”

He reaches behind me and slides his hand up my skirt to claim me as his own, making me gasp.

I have to say, I like a king who rules with a firm hand.

By now, the deep-red blush of embarrassment that I’ve tried to conceal under several layers of foundation and powder has probably spread all across my cheeks, which are hurting from smiling.

I haven’t smiled like this in a long time, now that I think about it.

There’s no point in trying to hide it now. Though Edward’s hand is safely concealed beneath my skirt, my feelings are on display for the world to see: desire, guilt, hope, more guilt, and maybe even love.

I can’t imagine the Marquis de Roach touching me like this when we’re alone, much less in public with everyone watching us. He’s marrying me because he wants the title, the arm candy, and he feels like it’s the proper thing to do. He doesn’t have the courage to try to make me love him or to try to call it off.

And he’s certainly not dumb enough to try and touch my ass the way that Edward is caressing it just now.

The Marquis isn’t the smartest man I’ve ever met—Edward has him beat in that regard, too—but he’s smart enough to know that grabbing my ass is a good way to lose his entire offending arm.

Edward, though. Edward has courage in spades.

He’s such a sensual, complicated man. He’s willing to risk losing something he already has for something he wants even more. He cares about other people’s welfare, not their expectations. He’s not playing by the rules—he’s writing them.

And he’s just told all these people what my heart has been trying to tell me all day: King Edward, not the Marquis de Roach, is the perfect fiancé.

He’s just not mine.

But when you’re as powerful as King Edward is…

I’m sure that’s just another rule he has to fix.