Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Conrad and I trade a look of shock on the way up the stairs, soaking in the revelation that my mother orchestrated our meeting…and quite possibly never intended for me to marry the prince. “I’ll never question the queen again,” Conrad vows.
“Me either, apparently.”
And that’s the last time we speak for hours, except to moan and whimper and grunt, because our mouths are occupied, locked in kisses that taste like eternity, while my future husband expends himself vigorously on top of me, my knees tucked under my armpits, the bed scraping up and back on the stone floor, causing lights to flicker throughout the palace.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” I whisper against his sweaty chest many hours later.
His hand splays on the back of my head, pressing my ear tighter to his rioting heart. “Never, my princess.”
epilogue
. . .
Conrad
Five Years Later
I often joke that I’m married to two women.
One is a prim and proper princess.
The other milks cows in ripped jeans with dirt streaks on her cheeks.
After I was given the divine honor of marrying my Greta five years ago, her belly started to swell with my son almost immediately. I was a beast during those nine months, snarling at everyone who dared to tax my girl in the slightest. But as time went on and she gave birth to Conrad Jr., I realized having a child made her a fiercer warrior than myself.
Thus, when we started spending more and more time at my farm, I relented in allowing her to take on some chores, such as feeding the animals, helping me plant crops and harvest them during the appropriate season. Oftentimes, she performed these tasks with our son strapped to her back and I would sit and marvel at the phenomenon I married.
My awe of Greta increases daily, as does my love. My devotion.
My hunger.
I stand on the porch of our farmhouse now as the sunset paints the sky red, watching her through the window, watching her buns flex in the tight red panties she’s wearing, her cropped sweatshirt showing off the small of her back and a single shoulder, that sexy indentation of her lower spine. Sometimes, like now, I need to get myself under control before returning home or she ends up with rug burns on her knees.
I take a deep breath and adjust my heavy cock, wondering how she’ll want it tonight. The kids are with their grandmother at the palace and there’s no holding back when we’re alone. I almost fucked her right here on the porch this morning because she kissed me goodbye a little too long and got my dick worked up. It’s been throbbing for her all day.
Unable to stop myself, I press my forehead to the glass and go back to watching my gorgeous wife, my hand twitching with the need to wrap all that golden hair around my fist, to feel her skin against mine, make her breathing pattern change. Scatter. I love her in gowns and frippery, but my God, I am obsessed with her in casual clothes, especially when she’s wearing so little of them, letting me see what’s mine.
Letting me see the fingertip bruises on her backside.
She bends over now to put something in the oven, and I press my bulge to the window frame, jerking my hips in agitation. I can’t always allow my obsession to show at the palace like this, especially during televised or high attendance events—and the freedom I have tonight only fuels my need for Greta, knowing she screams twice as loud when we fuck at the farm.
We split time between the palace and the farm these days, enjoying a life of luxury on one end, hard work on the other. It helps us both keep things in perspective and gives our sons—there are two of them now—a chance to escape the confines of royalty every so often. There are still guards stationed all over the farm with binoculars and rifles, but so be it. All part of being married to a princess.
And my God, she’s my princess in more ways than one. She’s more comfortable now voicing her opinion, making herself heard in royal proceedings. She walks with her chin higher, her confidence shining from within. Sometimes I can barely maintain my balance carrying all the pride I feel in her.
She’s also my princess in the bedroom.
Obedient, eager to satisfy, uninhibited while somehow being…sweet.
So sweet.
Inside, Greta strips off her sweatshirt and I see she’s in a ruffly, red strapless bra that matches her panties and I can’t hold on any longer. With my briefs full of lead, I cross the porch and jerk open the door, ducking into the farmhouse.
Greta turns with a gasp, backing up against the counter, as if I’m an intruder, her tits heaving up and down with alarm, barely contained within that flimsy bra.