Page 17 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
Nine
Benedict
W hen my brother was at the helm, one of his chief priorities was modernizing the monarchy.
Gone were the days of fussy, opulent parties.
Instead, his boys attended football camp amongst the children of tradesmen, and his wife was very often seen wearing the same clothing more than once.
All of this might seem common sense to the everyday citizen, but Arthur’s changes were wildly proactive for an institution that has thrived on changing as little as possible for centuries.
One of his other big moves was to dispose of several of the properties belonging to our family, many of which were scattered across the country, costing a fortune in upkeep and rarely put to any use.
Some, like Fernmoor House, hadn’t been used in decades.
Which is why I was surprised to see the place had survived Arthur’s purge and was still listed amongst The Crown’s assets when I became the bitter, reluctant captain of the proverbial ship.
“It was last used by my grandfather, as far as I’m aware,” I tell Zelda as we stand side by side on the dirt drive, looking up at the old stone manor house. “He hosted hunting weekends here. Supposedly. God only knows what the real purpose was.”
It’s clear the place underwent something of a hasty preparation for our arrival. Soil along the edge of the great stone slab steps is churned, as if weeds were recently yanked free, and even the huge brass knocker on the door smells faintly of polish.
The last-minute nature of our stay here undoubtedly required quite a lot of scrambling by the property managers to get it ready, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Especially not as I grip the great iron door handle and glance over my shoulder at the beautiful woman behind me, whose cheeks are still flushed from our activities in the backseat.
Zelda’s eyes meet mine, and I feel my cock, which has been aching for relief, throb. “You’ve never been here?” she asks with a playful smile, and even without her saying so, I’m confident that I know what sentiment is swirling around her pretty little head.
Chuckling in agreement at how preposterous this is, I turn my attention back to the door. “Once or twice? Maybe?”
Actually, I know for a fact that I haven’t.
The place only occurred to me as the horrible prospect of leaving her and returning to my usual, miserable existence began to set in, and I seized upon it like a drowning man.
It was well worth it. I can’t recall the last time I was so relaxed, or so excited for what the next few days will bring.
The old door opens with a bit of a shove, and we step into a cavernous, wood-paneled entryway.
“It likely needs some updates,” I muse as I close the door behind us with an echoing thud, watching as Zelda moves further into the space, pausing only when she’s standing directly beneath the great, iron chandelier. My heart is in my throat as she turns slowly on the spot, taking it all in.
How strange for entire, beautiful houses like this one to sit unused for decades.
It is indeed less grand than The Crown’s other properties, but even cold and unused, this place has an unassuming atmosphere which makes it more of a family home than a showpiece.
There are a few aged oil paintings on the walls and not much else.
On the far side of the room, an enormous stone hearth stands dark, logs stacked neatly inside, ready to be called to duty.
Unable to tolerate any distance between us, I stroll forward, holding Zelda’s gaze with my own.
She comes willingly into my embrace, her slim arms twining around the back of my neck as I lower my lips to hers, kissing her slowly.
The fire that existed between us a few moments ago is still there, a peripheral entity waiting to be brought back to life.
I can’t control myself with her.
“Are you worked up?” I murmur as we break apart, my lips skimming over her jaw and down her neck, greedily inhaling the scent of flowers and honey on her skin.
There was something else there last night, perfume, I would imagine, but it’s faded in the hours since we met, and what’s left behind is better by far.
Zelda trembles, her head falling to the side to allow me better access to the delicate skin there. “You know I am.” Her voice is breathy and strained, illustrating the truth of this statement.
My hands drift to her ass, pulling her more securely against me, and ensuring she can’t miss the evidence of my arousal. I’m surprising even myself with my stamina where she’s concerned. “I’d better take you to bed, then, hadn’t I?”
A tremble passes through her body and into mine as she presses herself closer to me in response. Another kiss, this one more feverish than the last, and I groan as her fingers find my hair.
The memory of her pulling it as I ate her pussy comes to mind, and I break our kiss, eager to recreate that scenario as soon as possible. “Let’s find our room,” I murmur, pressing a chaste kiss to the place just beside her mouth.
Zelda nods, and as I draw back to look at her properly, the sight of her wide pupils and kiss-swollen lips sends a fresh surge of blood to my cock.
Neither of us speaks as I take her hand in mine, leading the way up the old wooden steps, which creak and groan under our weight.
The upstairs hall is adorned with faded wallpaper and a runner, which is threadbare with age.
There are perhaps a dozen polished, dark wood doors, but only one stands open at the very back of the house.
I feel my heart beating faster as we draw nearer, Zelda’s palm warm against my own.
The bedroom isn’t grand. An old wooden bed dressed in plain white linens stands in the middle of the space, flanked by mismatched tables.
Whoever tidied the space left the windows open, and as we watch, a warm morning breeze rustles the old tartan curtains.
Truthfully, I can’t say I’ve stayed in such a worn place in quite some time, but as I turn to the woman at my side, I find I couldn’t be less bothered.
Nobody could ever accuse me of being a romantic man.
My stiff, absent nature has lent itself well to a string of disappointed lovers, and a wife who despised me before we ever said, “I do.” As I look at Zelda Flowers, though, this woman I’ve known for barely twelve hours…
Jagged pieces inside me seem to settle into place.
How utterly, terrifyingly mad.
Something flashes behind her pale eyes, and I wonder if she can see these feelings written in my face, and whether she is reading them with the same ease she’s displayed since the first moment we met.
Is it her effect on me? Is my obsession with this woman loosening whatever emotional block I’ve kept in place nearly all my life.
Or, even more daunting, can she simply understand me in a way I haven’t yet encountered?
Releasing my hand, Zelda draws forward, gazing up at me from beneath her long, dark eyelashes. I expect her to kiss me, or to pull me backward toward the bed, but the woman of my dreams does neither. Instead, she drops to her knees.
The house is so still that I can hear my every heartbeat and the soft clink of metal as Zelda works my belt open.
I’m viciously hard, and groan in relief when she finally pulls down my briefs, allowing my cock to fall freely into the space between us.
Her lips are parted, and the look of unguarded desire I see in her face is nothing short of pornographic.
Zelda wraps her slim fingers around my base, and I watch, entranced, as she leans forward, dragging her hot tongue over the underside of my shaft. Automatically, my hand flashes out to grip the doorframe as pleasure twists at the base of my spine.
She takes her time, licking, sucking, and kissing every inch of me. It couldn’t be more apparent that she’s turned on by this, and I know that the sight of her, squirming at her feet as she showers attention on my cock, will be all the fantasy material I’ll need for a very long time.
“Don’t make me come,” I rasp, my chest heaving as her grip on me tightens. “I want to be inside you again.”
There is no missing the way her thighs press together at my words, or how her ministrations grow more fervent, confirming the theory I formed in the car. She likes having this effect on me. She enjoys me coming undone and losing control with her.
It is no burden at all to give her that.
Heat is beginning to spread outward from my cock, as is the impulse to hold her face in my hands, and fuck .
If I don’t put an end to this now, my seed will be on her tongue.
I want it there. I want it on her tits, too, on her ass, and painting her lips.
It’s instinct, a dark, animalistic need to mark this woman as my own, to ensure no other man will ever touch what is so clearly mine.
More than any of that, I want it inside her.
My tip hits the back of her throat, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from erupting. “Get up,” I snap, my tone harsher than I’ve ever used with her in my desperation. “Take your dress off. Now.”
Every muscle in my body is coiled tight with the effort it takes to stop myself from lunging at her as she rises gracefully to her feet. I watch as she slips the thin straps over her shoulders, gazing at me through pupils blown wide, a needy flush spreading over her cheeks and chest.
The dress slithers down over her curves and falls to the ground in a silvery blue puddle. Every perfect inch of her is bare and on display, and my chest heaves as I finally allow myself to draw forward until Zelda sucks in a little gasp as her tightened nipples brush my chest.
I lean forward, my lips grazing the shell of her ear, and feel a tremor wrack her body. “On your back.”