My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty. Lauren HawkeyeЧитать онлайн книгу.
rises from beside the royal chapel at the edge of the palace grounds. From this vantage, I can see all the way to the river and to the north, the extensive manicured gardens of the castle, where my father, the King of Edenvale, resides along with my older brother, Prince Nikolai, and his new bride, Princess Kate.
A choking bitterness rises in my throat. I do not covet my beautiful new sister-in-law, but I do...covet.
Maybe it’s pathetic to be turned on by a painted angel. But what can you expect from a twenty-seven-year-old virgin and almost-priest?
These days it feels like the Devil tests me at every corner, filling my waking hours with carnal urges. I am no saint, just another sinner.
And what’s one more sin, to release the pressure in my thickened cock?
I make my way to my bathroom and flick on the shower, setting the dial to an arctic cold, and strip, maintaining eye contact with my reflection. My dark hair and arrogant nose reveal me as a member of the royal Lorentz family. My body is hard, but there is no pleasure to be derived from these cut muscles. They are products of long workouts designed to cleanse my mind.
The trouble is that nothing is working.
I step into the frigid spray and close my hand around my rigid shaft.
“Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, beginning to stroke.
My actions are practiced. A firm squeeze at the root, twist at the head, grinding my palm against the crown. It doesn’t take long until the bathroom fades and a fantasy takes shape. Today I’m grinding my cock between the soft orbs of a perfect ass, not penetrating the perfect rose-tinted pucker, but humping the silken crease. My imaginary lover offers a moan, pushing back her hips, urging me to quit toying and grant her release.
I slide my hand to her slick delicate folds and let out an agonized groan.
She tosses her thick mane of golden hair and regards me coyly over one shoulder. But her angelic eyes gleam a deep crimson red, alight with hellfire. Her wings extend and aren’t white feathers, but ebony leather, and when she speaks, it is to promise to plague my soul for eternity.
My fantasies always end the same way. Troubled, to say the least.
My hand flies from my cock, and I fall to my knees, bracing myself on the tile. The shower spray pummels my slumped shoulders, but no baptism is on offer. Neither is physical relief.
In thirty days, I will stand before the high altar in the Shrine of St. Germain and fulfill the long tradition of my family entering the priesthood. My elder brother, Prince Nikolai, is the true heir of our people, and his recent nuptials mean—the Lord willing—that children won’t be far behind.
For the good of the kingdom, I must step aside from the path to succession and consecrate my life to the cloth, as have all the second sons of our line. Once it becomes clear our seed isn’t needed to propagate future kings and queens, we spares are quietly removed in order to prevent any family infighting.
And I am to do so with a smile on my face.
If I ever chafed at fate or held dreams to fall in love, to raise children, to have a life dictated by my own choices, those days are finished.
If I pray hard enough, if I purify myself enough, if I try harder...I will be the perfect priest.
Failure is not an option.
Our family has suffered enough in the years since our mother’s unexpected death and it’s a worthy fate, one that has the power to achieve so much good.
I need to suck it up.
Life could be a lot worse.
Rising, I flick off the water and towel myself off, my actions rough with self-loathing and disappointment. The harder I try to resist my urges, the more these lustful fantasies grow: orgies, BDSM, decadent and forbidden acts, signs that a burning desire smolders beneath my repression. I hate being a fraud, but I can overcome it.
Fire needs oxygen to blaze, and I refuse to entertain this behavior for a second longer.
Exiting into my bed chamber, I move with purpose back to my prayer room—and the gift from my elder brother—my golden angel. On the opposite wall of the gilded frame is a cedar chest, and inside is a black satin bag. I open the drawstring and remove the knotted leather whip. The towel slung around my hips drops, and I don’t allow a moment’s pause before grabbing the handle and bringing the cord between my shoulder blades with a biting blow.
Bright stars of pain explode behind my eyes. I recite the Lord’s Prayer while continuing my self-flagellation, increasing the force of my swing as my gaze locks onto the angel’s sorrowful eyes. She knows all, everything from my doubts to my hidden resentments about being the second son born into a mapped-out future. But I hope that she also sees my determination to bear the weight of family expectation.
After ten blows, my stomach churns and hot blood runs down my skin. Good. Now I shall fast until sundown. The gnawing hunger should dull any unwelcome thoughts.
I’m fastening my white collar when a bell rings, a sign someone has entered the chapel.
A quick glance in the hall mirror provides confirmation that I appear every inch the picture of a serene priest eager to tend to my flock.
No hint of the devil within.
Ruby
I straighten my Cleopatra-style wig and dip my head to make sure the girls are in place, assessing the cleavage and how my breasts threaten to spill over the top of my corset. I take my chances that my client is a breast man, because, really, what man isn’t? Clients tend to pay more when they salivate upon introduction. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ve heard some girls say they’ve taken home an evening’s worth of pay from a man’s ogling alone. But ogling won’t be enough for this job. My instructions require far more than that, and though it’s my first night of employ, I am required to give my client whatever he desires. And if he desires nothing, I must tempt him to want more. There is no work in this kingdom for an artist from a disgraced family, so I have to take what I can get. The Madam at The Jewel Box sought me out, and I couldn’t refuse her offer, not when it meant I could provide not only for myself but also my brother’s wife and child.
“They asked for Pearl, but I believe an ingenue will appeal so much more to our dear, inexperienced prince,” the Madam had said before I left. “And you’re the freshest of my pretty little blossoms. The flower not yet picked. Pearl’s not desperate like you are. Plus, that damned bodyguard X would recognize her in an instant. I’ve been looking for a way inside the palace—and other buildings on the grounds—which means you get to be my little lookout.”
“I don’t understand,” I told her. “You want me to spy for you? Why?”
I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek.
“And here I thought you’d been trained,” she’d crooned. “Question me, and there will be consequences. Disobey me, and—consequences. All I need you to do is tell me if he owns a painting of an angel—until recently, one I was led to believe had been destroyed when your father passed—and report where the painting is.” She smiled her mirthless smile, and I fought back tears at the mention of Papa—at the fear of being struck again. “Darling, you not only get to seduce a celibate prince, but you get to find me something very valuable. Succeed in gathering the prince’s attention—and finding what I seek—and you’ll be a jewel as prized as your name. Succeed, and you and your remaining family will want for nothing as long as you remain in my employ.”
I swallow the threat of my own conscience trying to weigh in. What do I care about a stupid painting or what she wants with it? I have the chance to save my brother, Jasper. That’s all that matters.
So I repeat her words over and over again to center myself in the moment—to remind myself of what I must do.
I nearly break an ankle climbing the chapel stairs in these boots, four-inch stilettos that cuff just below my short skirt. After almost two months