Page 15 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
Eight
Zelda
T he sun is still rising, its light hazy and new as Benedict leads me from the house, his hand resting on the small of my back.
It was dark last night when Davina and I arrived, and I didn’t get a good view of the property where the party was held.
Now, my pace slows as I stare around, taking in the manicured lawn and a tastefully appointed set of stables arranged in the distance, a few horses grazing peacefully.
It’s everything a proper Stelland country estate should be, and practically screams old European money.
The long, painstakingly raked drive stops just before the marble front steps, and the only soul in sight is a tall, besuited man standing beside a black Bentley.
It’s not very different from the one that brought us here, but there’s something in the driver’s rod-straight back and expressionless face that suggests the man is no ordinary hired driver.
He doesn’t say a word as he opens the back door, only offering the man at my side a respectful nod and averting his gaze when I offer him a smile in thanks.
A fluttering sensation fills my chest as Ben takes my hand, helping me into the car with a long, searching look.
He closes the door behind me, and outside the car, I hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he walks to the other side—a perfect gentleman, but of course he would be.
The interior is dark and sumptuously appointed, with plush leather seats and a divider separating the front and back. The few seconds I have alone aren’t nearly enough to steady myself.
What am I doing?
“It’s about a forty-minute drive,” Ben informs me when he enters the car.
He’s dispensed with the button-up he wore last night and is dressed in only his trousers and a plain white undershirt, which stretches over his biceps and chest in a way that could only be described as panty-melting.
That, in combination with the tousled hair and the slight shadows beneath his eyes, makes the well-used muscles between my thighs go warm and loose.
The situation isn’t improved when the man in question reaches over the console separating our two seats to take my hand, lacing our fingers together as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Lifting them to his lips, he kisses the back of my hand and offers me a reassuring smile.
I’m sure lots of people have given me looks just like it, but the gesture seems to put me at ease in a way I can’t say it has from anyone else.
Probably because every single image I’ve ever seen of this man is severe and glowering.
Judging by that and what I saw last night when that man approached us in the parlor, and then later when I almost left, Ben isn’t the type to go out of his way to make people more comfortable.
Except, he has for me, and it’s a struggle to stop the implications of that from sending my overly romantic imagination into overdrive .
How did we get here? I came for no-strings-attached sex, and I’m leaving with the head of a constitutional monarchy, bound for a quiet weekend at his country home. It’s almost unbelievable how far I strayed from the original plan.
The divider separating the front and back seats must be noise proof, because there is no warning before the car begins to move, and I jump about a foot, my heart attempting to vault out of my chest in alarm.
“Sorry,” I tell Benedict in a hushed voice, smiling sheepishly when he raises an eyebrow.
“This isn’t exactly how I thought I would spend the weekend. ”
His smile widens as his thumb rubs back and forth over the side of my hand, sending warmth through my veins with each pass. “If it helps, my staff was quite in hysterics over the change of plans. It’s rather out of the ordinary for me.”
“You don’t play hooky?” I tease, gazing over at him. “Tell everyone you have the stomach flu and stay in bed to play video games?”
Ben’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “You think I play video games?”
I shrug. “You seem like the type.”
A disbelieving laugh follows this pronouncement. “You’re right. Not terribly often now that I’m older and, well”—he grimaces—“perhaps I should take it up again. What about you, Miss Flowers? How do you spend your time when you aren’t gracing the silver screen?”
Leaning my head back against the cool leather seat, I stare at his shadowy features, only somewhat aware of the scenery flashing by outside the window. “Why don’t you guess?”
Benedict frowns, considering me for a long moment. “Something outdoors. If I had to postulate.”
The air in the car suddenly feels much less substantial than it did a moment ago. “What makes you say that?”
“Just an impression,” he responds vaguely, effectively dismissing the topic as his fingers skim casually over my inner wrist.
I turn to stare at the dark screen of the little television mounted on the divider ahead of me, trying and failing to think clearly.
It’s a struggle to keep my head on straight just being around him, but when his hands are on me, all bets are off.
Last night, I thought it was just a reaction to who he is, and the surprise of finding myself desired by one of the most prominent men in the world after my ego was so spectacularly shattered earlier.
Now, however, I suspect the cause to be something else entirely. Something much scarier than being a little starstruck, or—later—orgasm drunk.
“Any other theories you’d like to share with the class?” I tease lightly, sinking back into my seat. It’s terribly comfortable in here, and last night, we only managed a few hours of sleep in between rounds of sex. I’m still not tempted to close my eyes, though. No chance I’m missing any of this.
Ben snorts, and my core constricts as his eyes fall to my body, then return to my face. Our hands are still intertwined on the console between us, and I know I’m not imagining the tiny pause in the pattern his thumb has been tracing on my wrist. “Several. We can test them later, if you like.”
Yes, please.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly very dry. It’s been years since I had sex, and as neither of my previous partners was as well-endowed as the one before me, I’m feeling more than a little sore.
My vagina probably needs an ice pack, and yet the dummy can’t seem to help herself.
“You’re not too tired?” I question innocently, not taking my eyes off his face.
“Are you concerned about my stamina, Zelda?” The way he poses the question is innocent enough, but I can detect a dark promise in his voice.
A hysterical little giggle escapes my lips. “I’ve heard it’s a very common problem. For older men.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I know that I’m going to pay for that one.
Outside, the car speeds past stretches of wild countryside, while in here, Ben’s thumb skims an inch higher on my arm.
He is barely touching me, and my chest is already burning.
A weight is settling in my pelvis, and my lack of panties—which were likely left to decorate the duke’s terrace—has never been more apparent than it is now, as arousal begins to spread to my inner thighs.
When I get up, there will probably be a wet spot.
“You’re asking for it, darling.”
“Am I?”
Ben lets out a quiet, low rumble of laughter, which makes my pulse skitter under his touch and my legs press together more firmly. “Yes, you most certainly are. It’s quite alright, though. I believe I have just the way to assuage your concerns.”
That is definitely the most formal way I’ve been told I’m going to be fucked.
I haven’t even begun to formulate a response or do more than notice the sticky arousal leaking out of my body before the car slows unexpectedly, coming to a total stop in the middle of the country lane.
Ben frowns, leaning past me to see out my window.
“We aren’t there yet, are we?” I ask, looking around, too. My question is answered as soon as I get a better view of our surroundings. There is no house to speak of, just fields and a small, dense patch of trees just behind us. The only sound is the car’s engine idling quietly.
Before Ben can offer any insight, however, a speaker on the ceiling clicks on. “My apologies, Your Highness,” comes the voice of a man who could only be the driver. “There are sheep in the road.”
My mouth pops open as I lean closer to the window, struggling to make out the road in front of the car. Sure enough, several woolly bodies are in view, and I let out a delighted laugh as I look back at Ben. “Can we get out? To see?”
He stares back at me, clearly bemused by my enthusiasm, but agrees after a quick glance behind the car confirms there is no one in sight.
We get out onto the road, and my cheeks ache from how large my smile is.
There are at least a dozen sheep standing in the lane, apparently untroubled by the car that’s stopped only ten yards away from them, milling about with the occasional baa .
I don’t have to look far to find the cause. A gate to a nearby pasture is standing ajar, and its occupants have clearly capitalized on the accident to wander freely into oncoming traffic.
“Come on! Out of the road!” I call as I march over to the nearest of the animals, waving my arms to keep them from moving in the wrong direction. “You’re all very lucky you didn’t get run over.”
There are lots of louder, more disgruntled baas , and I beam at Ben when he appears beside me, frowning but still holding out his arms to help.
The herd is alarmed by our presence and trots away whenever we get too close. It’s a lot trickier than it looks, but the driver joins in soon—looking quite uncharmed by this development—and the three of us manage to get the reluctant herd back into their pasture without incident.