The King's Virgin Bride: A Royal Wedding Novella (Royal Weddings Book 1) Read online

  But even that much effort…that’s fucking beyond me now. My head hurts. My whole shoulder feels swollen and tender. And my mouth…my mouth is so goddamn dry that I’m feeling the surface of the pool lapping at my toes and thinking water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

  So I just fucking lay there for a while.

  Floating on an inflatable dick and hoping that if I keep my eyes closed for long enough, maybe—just maybe—when I open them again, I’ll be literally anywhere else.

  Doesn’t fucking work.

  Imagine that.

  I’m tentative to get too splishy splashy in this pool right now—and if you knew me, you’d know why. Last time I woke up like this, there was a shark in the pool with me.

  And I fucking like sharks. Love them, even. Hell, I’m spending my whole life trying to save the noble hammerhead from extinction, y’know?

  But I don’t want to get eaten by one.

  Imagine that.

  It takes me a while, but finally, I get there. With a lot of tentative little flutter kicks and a lot more holding my breath, I make it to the edge of the pool.

  I’m thinking I’m going to go into my hotel suite, drink some water, pop some aspirin, and see what my BFF Percy has handcuffed herself to this time. Maybe grab some sunglasses on the way—because while my future might be bright, right now, there are better reasons I could use some serious fucking shades.

  In fact, I’m shielding my eyes with my hand just to try and stop that nasty Thai sun beaming straight through my eyelids and into my soul.

  But then the weirdest fucking thing happens.

  Some big, hulking object shifts at the edge of the pool and eclipses that sunshine.

  And even though it fucking kills me to do it…

  I open my eyes to see what the fuck is casting a shadow that damn long.

  I see a calf—a shapely, well-muscled calf with thick with shimmering, sandy blonde hair.

  It’s attached to a thigh. A thick, manly thigh. The kind of thigh that you just want to sink your teeth into or spread your legs for—or first one, then the other.

  A hip. God, the most glorious fucking hip. A hip made for fucking, and an inguinal crease right beside made for sliding your tongue up and down until you’ve rubbed off all your taste buds on the rough ruggedness of his skin.

  He’s got a chest so hard and so rippled with muscle that he could join a bluegrass band as a washboard player and use his body as his instrument. A scruffy, sandy blonde sailor’s beard so thick that when he walks through a drugstore, it probably breaks all the razors just from proximity.

  A Southern Cross constellation tattoo on his forearm and the Aussie fucking flag tattooed over his heart.

  But it’s not his gorgeous seafoam eyes or his bastard smirk or his dumb, gorgeous, stupid beautiful Christ Hemsworth face that I find myself staring at when I’m done taking him all in.

  And I mean, there’s a lot of him to take in. Broad shoulders. Messy, sunkissed hair. Big, thick fingers and a handsome nose more crooked than a seasoned politician.

  But that’s not what I’m staring at.

  Not even close.

  What I’m staring at is the biggest, thickest, most gorgeous fucking dick that I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.

  Perfect shape. Perfect color. At least nine inches, but probably more like ten—uncut, girthy as fuck, half-mast and growing…

  And with a glistening drop of precum, just begging to drip down on my face.

  “Morning, darl,” owner of said dick says down to me in a rough Aussie accent. “Need a hand?”

  I want to tell him no. I want to tell him that I don’t need a hand—what I need is that big fucking cock between my lips or between my legs or just rubbed all over me until I forget my own name.

  But I don’t fucking tell him that.

  I don’t fucking dare.

  Because for one thing, I’m supposed to get married later today. God help me, I’m about to be Mrs. Eggbert Humphreys—and yes, that is his real name, poor bastard.

  And for another thing, I know exactly who that dick and that body and that delicious fucking voice belongs to.

  But so help me god, none of it belongs to my husband-to-be.

  “Lachlan fucking Williams,” I snarl.

  And then I do the last fucking thing in the world that I mean to do.

  I try to take a swing at him, then fall right off the dick I floated over on and into the fucking pool.

  “Aaagh!” I growl, gasping as I resurface. If I felt wiped before, I feel more alert than ever now.

  “Aw, darl,” Lock coos, clucking sympathetically and offering me a strong, manly hand out of the pool. “If you needed help getting wet, I could’ve sorted you out with that.”

  I should be too proud to take his hand…but I’m not. Maybe I just want to touch him. Maybe I’m just that fucking done with this morning already.

  “How’s the hangover?” Lock Williams asks.

  I steal another glance at that dick.

  “Yours is looking better than mine,” I admit, shoving my fingers through my dark, thick, dripping hair and slicking it away from my eyes. “What happened last night?”

  “Aw, darl,” Lock says again. I’ve never seen a man pout like that before, but it makes my stomach do gymnastics flips, and my heart skip more than a couple beats. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “Every last bit of it.” I shake my head out, feeling my brain rattle around loose inside my aching, tender skull as I drip and dribble my way inside.

  The suite’s trashed, which doesn’t fucking surprise me. Empty cans, empty bottles, plastic cups still half-filled with beer and more questionable fluids—the works.

  What surprises me, I realize, is that Lock fucking Williams is even here.

  “Lock, honey,” I say, crossing my arms over my bare chest and surveying the scene inside the hotel suite. “What did I tell you the last time we saw each other?”

  My beauty queen BFF Mysti May is passed out in the kitchen, covered in pad Thai with her arm draped around the shoulder of a Thai ladyboy who looks a hell of a lot like Celine Dion.

  I’m betting my valley girl BFF Becky is probably passed out in the arms of her wheeling, dealing, card shark billionaire hubby Liam in one of the rooms here.

  Percy is still nowhere to be found, and Lock…

  I cast a glance back at Lock.

  He’s still bare-ass naked.

  And he’s also very thoroughly checking out my ass.

  “Lock?” I say, getting his attention.

  “Mm. Sorry, darl,” he purrs. “I think you said…ah. Right-o. You said you never wanted to see my shit-smirking Crocodile Dundee face again, I think it was.”

  “Sounds about right,” I agree, rubbing my temples. “So what the fuck are you doing naked in my hotel suite?”

  “Darling,” Lock coos, walking past me and slapping my ass as he goes. “For that, you really ought to try and remember last night.” He steps effortlessly over Mysti May and her new friend, making his way into the kitchen as his man-meat slaps against his thigh. “Breakfast, darl? I make a mean vegemite toast.”

  I’m about to tell him that I don’t want his vegemite toast. I’m about to tell him that the thing I told him last time our paths crossed still stands, and that I’m getting married tonight, and to put on some goddamn fucking clothes.

  I’m about to tell him that I love my husband. That whatever he thinks he’s selling with that dick of his, I’m not buying. That I want him out of my suite, out of my hair, and out of my fucking life.

  But before I can say any of that, something else interrupts me.

  Something loud, belligerent…and frantic as fucking hell.

  “HOLY FUCKING GOD,” a startled voice bellows from the bathroom. “MY GODDAMN PUBES ARE PINK!!!!!”

  Percy.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” I snarl, poking a frustrated finger into Lock’s rock-hard chest.

  I’m still nursing that fing
er when I race towards the bathroom, Percy’s latest body hair disaster on my mind.

  Sammi

  5:49 AM FRIDAY

  It’s so early in the morning that it’s still dark out and I don’t have a care in the goddamn world.

  I love waking up early. I love the way the world is quiet and still and how the day is still tidy and clean.

  I love tidy. I adore clean.

  I love the feeling that everything is in order—nothing is a disaster, my life is completely sorted, and the day is bursting with the potential to be fucking great.

  Of course, the Queensland heat leaves a lot to be desired. Cairns is fucking humid this time of the year—maybe every time of the year—and it’s left my long, dark hair billowing around my head like a crown made of clouds.

  I guess it’s just preparation for Bangkok, where from past experiences, I know the heat and humidity will be even worse.

  It’s been three years since I’ve been in Bangkok, and frankly, that’s probably for the best. The last time I was there, I got so fucking drunk that I didn’t even remember what hotel I was staying in—let alone what I got up to the night before.

  It gives me a headache just fucking thinking about it. As I sit in the back of the cab to the airport, I can at least be sure of one thing: getting blackout drunk in the Las Vegas of the East is never fucking happening again.

  I used to be a party girl. Hell, sometimes, I still am. They called me Slammin’ Sammy B., and when unleashed on a frat kegger with my BFFs, I had some of the best times that I’ll never remember.

  But that shit is behind me now. My last trip to Las Vegas for my BFF Becky’s wedding taught me exactly how behind me all of that is. I think it took me a month to recover from that hangover alone.

  And now that the BFFs and I are reuniting in Bangkok for my own wedding, one thing’s for sure: what happened in Vegas can never happen again.

  The cab takes a turn to get onto the freeway, and my phone lights up on my lap with a big, goofy picture of Becky’s adorable, little face.

  “Heya, Becks,” I say, answering the video call. “Pretty early for you, isn’t it?”

  A redheaded beauty in a pristine hotel suite grins back at me on the screen of my phone.

  “Sams! Oh, my god, don’t even worry about it. Liam and I, uh…we haven’t gotten any sleep yet, if you know what I mean.”

  In the background, Becky’s scruffy-looking husband accidentally walks into the frame. He’s wearing a lot less than he ought to be—but good looking as he is, he’s way too British for my taste.

  “Ah, bugger,” Liam swears, noticing Becky on video chat and his own state of undress in rapid succession. “Wotcher, Sammi! Apologies for—er. The lack of trousers.”

  Becky throws a pillow at her husband and his dangling manhood, then giggles at me, looking well-fucked.

  “So, we’ve got your bridal suite here at Liam’s new hotel all ready for you,” Becky reassures me. “We’ll go out for drinks after your award ceremony tonight, then tomorrow night’s the wedding.”

  “You’re telling me all this like I don’t already have it down in my planner,” I say, smiling a little. “No drinks, though. We both remember what happened last time.”

  Becky’s a walking disaster, but when it comes to party planning, she’s on top of things. Not that my wedding will be much of a party—after what happened in Vegas at Becky’s wedding, I’ve chosen something very down-to-earth and chill.

  “Hey,” Becky pouts. “Vegas went okay!”

  “You ended up married to your fiancé’s evil stepbrother,” I laugh.

  “Yeah,” Becky says dreamily. “And he fucks like a dream. If you don’t want drinks though—”

  I can tell Becky’s about to start pouting, but then my phone rings again.

  Saved by the bell.

  “Gotta go, Becks. Love!” I say, hanging up and switching over to a call from Percy, my curvaceous, blonde BFF.

  “Sams! Holy shit, it’s early there!” Percy yells into the video chat. “Look who I found here at the airport, babe!”

  Percy throws her arm around Mysti May, who’s looking every bit the part of a former beauty queen…but with a black cloud over her head the size of Texas.

  “Hey, Sammi,” Mysti May says mournfully. “Congratulations on the wedding, darlin’. I’m sure it’ll be…great or whatever.”

  “Oh, fucking stop it,” Percy says, punching her in the arm. “Myst is just still bummed that she hasn’t found The One yet, babe. Don’t listen to her.”

  “Two marriages, two annulments.” Mysti sighs. “You’d think at some point I’d get better at choosing men. Or women.”

  I give her a sympathetic look. In the last year alone, Mysti married a man who turned out to secretly be a Colombian drug lord and a woman who turned out to be already married to a butch lesbian truck driver.

  Not the best track record when it comes to love, I have to admit.

  “And how’s your love life, Perce?” I smirk as I say it. With sugar daddies in every major city in the US and otherwise, if there’s anyone with a more complex love life than Mysti May, it’s definitely Percy.

  “Ughhhh,” Percy groans. “So annoying. They’re all like, ‘Marry me, Percy! Have my babies, Percy! Let me buy you a private jet, Percy!’ It’s just so laaaaame.”

  Mysti May side-eyes Percy like she wants to commit murder, so I decide to change the subject.

  “What about that one guy you’ve been seeing. Silver Fox, right?”

  Percy rolls her eyes even harder. “He’s the worst one of all. Thinks he’s in love with me or something! I swear to God, if I ever get married, he’s the last on my list.”

  The taxi pulls over, and the driver helps me juggle my suitcase as I head for check-in. Right on schedule—when it comes to flying internationally, I’m kind of a pro.

  “Babes, I gotta go through security,” I tell them, blowing a kiss. “I’ll see you in Bangkok after the award ceremony?”

  “Whatever,” says Mysti May.

  “Definitely,” says Percy.

  I’m barely through security and still putting my laptop back in my bag when my phone rings yet again—but this isn’t a call I can hardly afford not to take.

  “Hey, babe,” I say as my fiancé, boss, and husband-to-be’s handsome face shows up on the screen.

  “Hey, Sammi-poo,” he says, and I suppress a groan. “How’s it going?”

  “You know I hate when you call me that. Going good, though. Prepping to hop on the plane. How’s the research trip?”

  “Wrapping up nicely,” he says with a chuckle. I can see the rest of our team popping bottles in the background as the boat they’re on sways back and forth. “It’s been no fun without you though, Sammi-poo. Can’t wait to see the award you’ve won for us before the wedding tomorrow night.”

  “Me either,” I say. And I mean it. Mostly. I think.

  Until Eggs smiles and adds his final little zinger. “You’re going to make a fantastic Mrs. Eggbert Humphrey, Sammi-poo.”

  Because I love the man. I really, probably, mostly do.

  But goddamn does he have an awful fucking name.

  I think that’s going to be the last of it. Everyone is checked in and accounted for—so I can finally slip into the first class lounge and enjoy a little peace and quiet while I catch up on some much-needed work.

  But then another video call shows up on my phone.

  An Australian number, but not one that I recognize. No picture, either.

  “Hello?” I say, taking the call.

  And then the last face I want to see in the entire universe shows up on my fucking phone screen.

  “That’s it, sugar-tits,” Lachlan Williams says, plowing a busty blonde from behind while she moans and angles the phone’s camera to capture both of them. “I want you to get a nice, good video of the way I’m destroying your fucking—Sammi?”

  From the looks of things, he and I realize what’s going on at the same time.

&
nbsp; Lock Williams’ latest slut has confused his phone camera with a video call. I can hardly fucking blame her, since he’s currently so balls-deep in her pussy that her eyes have gone crossed…

  But I fucking hate Lock Williams, and I hate seeing him fucking even more.

  Lock has been the bane of my existence over the last three years. When I apply for a grant, he’s the asshole who ends up winning it. When I have my heart set on a research project, he’s the bastard they choose to actually go. When I have an interview, Lock is the man who fills the position.

  So help me God, I’m surprised that Eggs is marrying me at all. Based on my track record with Lock Williams, I’m somewhat anticipating that my own fiancé leaves me at the altar so he can get hitched to Lock fucking Williams instead.

  I’m just about to hang up the phone and shove it deep into my purse where neither Lock—nor anyone else, for that matter—can bother me for the rest of my flight. But then I walk into the first class lounge and suddenly, Lock’s weird little sex scene isn’t just on my phone screen.

  It’s playing out right before me in real life.

  “Fucking seriously, Lock?” I say, eyes widening in disbelief.

  The flight attendant that he’s boinking has the good fucking sense at that point to push him off of her and pull down her skirt—which I should be thankful for.

  Except without her there as a distraction…now Lock’s attention is turned onto me.

  “Sammi fucking Brighton,” Lock says, taking his still-slick cock into his fist and turning to face me full-on. “Didn’t know you flew first class these days.”

  “Class isn’t something that seems to concern you much, Lock,” I glower back.

  Lock only shrugs with those big, broad, gorgeous fucking shoulders of his. “Maybe not—but that’s where you’re in luck, Sammi. Want a go? From what I recall, your pussy was the bomb…”

  I ignore his sexy Aussie accent. I ignore the way he’s wagging his dick at me like it’s some kind of special treat. And I especially ignore his gorgeous eyes, the way they sparkle with amusement and glisten the color of the sea…

  But what I don’t ignore is his word choice.