Adora Crooks's Blog, page 7

Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?

Read on for a short steamy story!

This is how it starts:

I’m riding my boyfriend (now ex) in my bed at 2 am. We’ve got the TV going in the background—some really bad late night horror movie—mostly to drown out the sound of our neighbors next door. My walls are toilet-paper thin and we can hear everything. The guy (dubbed 207 for his apartment number) isn’t bad—he’s actually got a really nice, low grunt that slips out at just the right moments. It’s his girlfriend I can’t stand, or girlfriends, since it seems to be some new scream queen every night. 207 is blaring the Rolling Stones (Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?) like we’re in a college dorm room, but his girl is going off like a freight train. I decide if you can’t beat them, join them, and start shouting as I ride my (ex-)boyfriend’s cock. There’s something to be said about faking it until you make it, because I cum hard that night, and every night after as 207 and I get bigger and louder, trying to out do each other.

Weeks later, I’m freshly back on the market, lingering in a sex-starved rut (207 has also been quiet for days, it must be contagious), when the fire alarm goes off. It’s a drill, but we don’t know that until we’ve been waiting in the cold for about fifteen minutes. The guy standing next to me, waiting, is wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I’ve got a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and I offer him a corner. Party because he looks cold, party because he’s tall, fit, but not overly so, with just enough muscle to lightly define his arms and chest and copper-brown hair. He smiles—a charming, cute smile—takes the corner with a thanks.

After a second of silence, he starts humming to defuse the awkward situation. Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?

I bark a laugh. “Oh, shit,” I say. “You’re 207.”

He blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m your neighbor,” I tell him. “I can hear you…playing Rolling Stones all night.”

It clicks. He gives me a stupid, crooked grin. “Sorry. I’ll try to keep it down.” And then he adds, almost like he’s setting up for a review, “You like the Stones?”

I crinkle my nose. “I’m more of a Beatles girl.”

“Tough audience,” he says. Our shoulders brush and I don’t know if it’s my dry spell or the secret smile in his eyes, but the hair on his bare arm electrifies me.

Twenty minutes later, we walk each other upstairs and break at our respective apartment doors. “Let’s keep this conversation going in morse code,” he says before he heads inside and I laugh. It’s not all that funny, but he’s cute and my heart is hammering a mile a minute, day dreaming about pulling those low-throated moans from him with his bottom lip between my teeth.

I’m about to go into my own apartment, but I stop with my key in the lock. Well. Who knows when the next fire drill will be. I don’t think about it, I just knock on the door marked 207. He answers—still boxer clad—in seconds. “I was wondering,” I ask, tilting my hips, “If you could play that song again.”

He smirks. A shark’s smile. “I think I can do that,” he says and takes me by the arm, pulling me inside. The door shuts behind me and he pushes me up against it; our foreheads touch and I feel my breath ricochet off his lips as I laugh. I don’t know his name, I don’t know what he does for a living, I don’t know if he’s someone’s husband or boyfriend, but somehow I feel comfortable here, like I’ve known him forever. He fits me like a winter sweater—snug and warm—and our bodies knock together, trading heat. My shirt rides up and his bare abdomen feels smooth and hard against mine, making me crave him. I close the gap between our lips and drink him in like a woman starved, my tongue swiping over his, flicking the tip. That gets a little impatient jerk from his hips and I would take more satisfaction from that if it wasn’t followed by one of his deep grunts.

That noise—it does something to me. Makes my insides clench and my breath catch; I can feel my panties getting uncomfortably wet and my thighs squeeze together. “I want you,” I beg, breathlessly, and I’m surprised by how weak I sound for him suddenly.

“Me too,” he says, and even in my fog of lust I can tell that he means it. The thin fabric of his boxers is doing nothing to cover the very obvious erection tenting vulgarly, demanding attention. His hands are on me now, lips and teeth sucking at the sensitive skin on my neck as he fumbles with my shirt until he just rips it open in one clean yank. I can hear a couple buttons clatter to the floor and I might be pissed about that later by right now, his hunger just makes my thighs press tighter together around my swollen, throbbing clit. I’m not wearing a bra underneath—I gave up on trying to make more of my tiny tits long ago—but the second he notices this he grabs them—soft, perky handfuls in his hands.

“I want to hear you moan,” he growls thickly against my neck.

I can’t help it—I have to make it hard on him. It’s that same challenge that kept us beating the wall between us to death with our headboards; that double-dog-dare spark that keeps me defiant and bold. I bite my lip and grin wickedly at him. “Make me.”

It lights up his eyes—challenge accepted. His hands work the button and zipper of my pants, then my panties, and he pushes them down my legs, his foot tugging both down the rest of the way. I’m in nothing but a haphazardly torn-open shirt now, back against the door, feeling sexy and wanted and wanting.

“You’re even hotter than I imagined you’d be,” he says. His eyes drink me in, his breath short, and he reaches down to give his needy cock a squeeze through the fabric. That sight alone is almost enough to pull a whimper from me, but I button it back with my bottom lips between my teeth.

And then he’s on me. His hand cups over my pussy as my legs part for him and I can barely stop myself from grinding against his palm. He doesn’t let me off the hook, however; he keeps me hovering there and just teases two fingers against my slit. I let out a breathy, frustrated sound and I can hear how wet I am, that slick, sticky sound as his talented fingers work me. His hits my clit and a deep ache shoots through me like a bolt. I gasp, but before my lungs expand his fingers are inside of me. I’m panting like a dog, my mouth open, stupidly, and I buck against his hand.  I’m vaguely aware that anyone walking by us now will be able to hear the door near rattling off its hinges, but that’s not what’s on my mind right now. There’s nothing on my mind right now, just him, him, and more of him.

I finally let go of that coveted moan and he rewards me with a strong kiss before pulling his fingers back. I feel empty without his fingers; my mouth feels dry and I drink him in, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, my legs climbing his hips like a tree. “I need you,” I murmur, peppering kisses over his face, down his neck.

He responds with new yearning in his kiss as his hands slip under my ass and he carries both of us deeper into his apartment, into his bedroom. I shrug out of my shirt completely, dropping it on his couch or his floor or somewhere. He eases us down and I feel my back hit the soft fabric of his bed. I cling to him, nails in his back to keep him close, and undulate under him, body hot and desperate. He drops his boxers, letting his hard cock swing free, and it’s impressive. I feel myself lick my lips like a predator at the sight.

“Stay there,” he murmurs—like I’m going anywhere—and he has to pry me off of him in order to sit up. I flop back on his bed and finally take in the surroundings—white and clean (thank God) sheets, a stuffed bookshelf, some Roy Lichtenstein poster hanging on the far wall. He perches on the edge of the bed to dig through his bedside table and I take the opportunity to sit up. There’s a stereo stuck up on a shelf over the bed—ah, the stereo—and I flick it on, press play. Sure enough, the Rolling Stones’ guitar riff swells through the room.

207 lifts his eyebrows at me as he plucks a condom from the bedside table and I shrug. “Wouldn’t feel right without it.”

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile and he says, “I think we’d make it work.” He’s back on top of me again, his sheer presence pushing me down, making me flatten out against the mattress again. His lips are on mine and it’s like he’s reached deep up into some secret, hidden spot inside of me and flicked a switch; I’m burning again, melting into a puddle of pure want under his kiss.

He shifts on top of me and then I feel it; his cock presses deep inside of me, filling my ache, and I feel like I might cum right then and there. He uses his palms to prop himself up above me, and he finds his rhythm. I can tell he’s trying to go slow at first, trying to let me settle, but when I press my hips back against his, it’s all the encouragement he needs.

He starts pounding into me, his hips slapping against mine, and it unlocks something inside of me. I’m panting, sweating, arching my body up against his, and all I can think of is getting more, more, more, even when I feel filled to the brim, even when I feel completely overwhelmed. His breath comes ragged, his skin heats up against mine, and I can feel myself quickly reaching that taut, sharp peak. Right when I’m vibrating on the edge, my body quaking, my thighs locked around his hips, he reaches down and starts flicking my sensitive, pink little clit. That’s all it takes—I scream, a scream that rips out of my chest and through my whole body as I cum. I’m still reeling, spinning out when I feel him shudder and jerk against me, groaning loudly into my shoulder.

When I start to catch my breath, the weight of his body is warm and comfortable on top of me. I slip my fingers into his hair and feel his heart slow against mine. We stay like that for a long while, just breathing, before I say, “You know what?”

“What?” he asks.

I don’t even know your name, I’m about to say. But instead, I fall asleep in his arms to the deep, jagged edge of Mick Jagger’s voice.

The Royal’s Baby

[image error] Buy on Amazon

I’m pregnant. And my baby has two daddies…

I was no one, just another American tourist backpacking her away across the world. Until I stumbled into the arms of not one, but two beautiful British men:

Prince Roland. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed, drop-dead-gorgeous prince of England. Cocky, brilliant, with the biggest…heart of anyone I’ve ever met.

Ben Tolle. The dark-eyed, brooding former-soldier turned bodyguard. They say the quiet ones are always the kinkiest, and his hands are powerful instruments that make me weak in the knees.

They love me and each other—and I love them. Now I’m pregnant and I don’t know how to break the news. Worse, there are people who hate our unconventional union…people who would do anything to see us torn apart.

The world wants me to make a choice. But this American Princess doesn’t roll over. I’m going to fight for my family and the happy ending we deserve. Together.

Save a life; read romance!

It’s that time of year again… 

If you remember, Rory starts her journey by traveling the world on behalf of her brother, Oscar (AKA: “Otter”). Oscar has Cystic Fibrosis (CF), an incurable condition that keeps him state-bound.

I’d never heard about CF until I met one of my good friends, Drew. She has an amazing story, too; she’s been living with CF her whole life and, despite the hurdles, performed in nightly comedy shows, fostered a handful of sweet puppies, and married her best friend. She continues to fight the good fight and her strength inspires me daily!

Since this month is Cystic Fibrosis Awareness Month, I’m offering The Royal’s Baby for FREE for a limited time (from 5/19 – 5/21).

If you don’t have the book, now’s the time to pick it up! Whether or not you snag it, I encourage everyone to donate $0.99 (the original price of the book) or more the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation to sponsor research and, ultimately, find a cure. 

Drew, Oscar, and I think you’re super cool 

The Royal’s Baby (Excerpt)

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Since you’re a stark raving bada$$ babe, you get this special sneak peak into my upcoming book, The Royal’s Baby, a not-so-sequel to The Royal’s Pet!

Enjoy Rory’s little secret and some lovely M/M action from our favorite wolf and lion…

Love ya, kittens.

Adora Crooks

Chapter 1: Rory

I’m minding my own business at the bar, picking through a
plate of a German egg pasta called spätzle,
when the insults start flying.

My German is rusty at best, but I
know enough to make out the sneered words: “Ack! Turn it off—I won’t listen to that
sick freak!”

I turn my eyes up to the television
hanging crookedly in the corner. The local news is playing an interview with
Roland Pennington, Prince of England. Just the sight of him makes my pulse beat
a little faster—it’s so strange, seeing him the way other people see him, on TV
like this. The camera loves him and it’s not hard to see why—his dashing smile,
his twinkling blue eyes, his golden mane of hair—my lion.

The interviewer loves him, England
loves him, and I love him. But the
two German men circling the pool table in this Berlin diver bar have a
different opinion, and they aren’t afraid to show it.

“Shut that pervert up!”

“Schwuchtel!”

“Where’s his American slut, eh?”

They spit and snarl, clearly having
no idea that the American slut
they’re referring to is sitting barely three feet away from them, with a meal
that’s suddenly gone sour.

We knew we would get backlash,
coming out like we did. It’s been over a year now since Roland announced to the
world that he has not one, but two loves in his life—Ben, his best friend and
loyal then-bodyguard, and me, the American tourist who stumbled into a love
story as beautiful as it is bizarre. England was supposed to be just one more
stop on my way to see the world for my brother who couldn’t; I’d go to new
countries, take videos, and send them home to Oscar, who was stuck at home with
a crippling illness. Instead of a good story, I met Roland and Ben, and the
three of us fell in love. It shouldn’t work, but somehow, some way, it does.

I love my two men—Prince Roland,
who has so much energy, compassion, and love in him that sometimes it
overwhelms me. And Ben, our quiet, sometime surly lover whose loyalty knows no
bounds and who can make my body hum just by putting his hands on my throat. We’ve
overcome insane odds and grown together. In our world, in our little bubble,
it’s perfect.

But as soon as I step outside
Buckingham Palace (as I do, often—these travelling legs won’t sit still), I
remember the cold truth: that the rest of the world is still struggling to
understand our love.

And some—like the two men behind
me—have turned their confusion to hate.

I pinch my bottom lip between my teeth.
I know I should stay out of it. I’m the prince of England’s girlfriend now,
which means certain things are expected
of me. I’m no longer allowed to wear ripped jeans and Doc Martins 24/7. I have
to watch my mouth and can no longer swear like a sailor on my (increasingly
popular) travel vlog. And I’m definitely
not supposed to engage with drunken, homophobic Germans who can’t wrap their
small heads around love is love is love.

Buuuut…

Your girl Rory March has never been
incredibly good at following the rules.

I pay my bill, push away from the
bar, and step over to the pool table. I can feel eyes on me—that would be Sam,
my bodyguard, watching me from behind her Shirley Temple a couple seats over. Travelling
on my own is one thing I would never—could never—give up, so I’ve since made
concessions to appease my overly-protective boyfriends: Sam is one, and my
multitude of disguises is another. Right now, for example, I’m wearing a black
wig that stops short at my shoulders to conceal my trademark ginger hair.
Between the wing and a black romper that is both comfortable, casual, and cute,
and I can tell that the men at the pool table still don’t recognize me even
when I’m right up next to them. I motion to the table and in my
American-accented, bad German I ask sweetly: “Do you mind if I play too?”

They exchange looks, then one grins
leeringly and passes me his cue. We establish that I’m stripes, his partner is
solids. The man I’m playing against is a burly, built guy, and the muscles that
flex in his arms when he arranges himself over the pool table briefly remind me
of my Ben, my wolf, and the hard biceps that stretch when he pins my wrists
effortlessly above my head. It’s been a while,
too long, and I fidget with a present that remind me of my boys—a necklace that
hugs my throat with a small cat figure on the end of it. Their kitten. It’s a pet name they gave me when we were first
dating, and it stuck. And, boy, can my men make me purr…

My daydreams scatter as the pool
balls click together. My opponent stands and turns to me, smugly, and says in stilted
English: “Your turn, darling.”

I retract my previous thought—he
looks nothing like Ben. Similar builds, maybe, but Ben’s dark eyes are full of
aching love and compassion. This man’s face, though handsome at first glance,
is ugly with lines of anger and superiority etched into his Jack-O-Lantern mouth
and anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better
eyes.

What he doesn’t know is that, during Prince Roland’s decade of isolation in
the palace, he became very good at two-person games—darts, chess, and yes,
pool. As a result, I went from not knowing which end of the stick to hit the
balls with to becoming pretty damn good,
if I do say so myself, after multiple games of what we called strip pool. We also left a couple
unsightly stains on the pool table, which…sorry to the maid who had to clean up
after us. Really. Sorry.

I bend over the pool table, relax
my grip on the cue, and line up my shot. I can almost feel Roland’s hands
teasing my hips, his breath on my neck, his cocky smile on my throat: sorry, am I distracting you?

Yeah,
babe, you are.

I exhale a breath, steady my focus,
and tap the ball. The cue hits with just the right force and I sink a ball in
the hole. And another, and another. We go a few rounds back and forth—my
opponent’s smile drops, he talks less, and when he does say something, it’s in
a German mutter I don’t understand. The whole game doesn’t last ten minutes
before I sink my final ball in.

“Well,” I say cheerily as I pass
the cue over. “Not so bad for an American
slut, am I?”

I linger just long enough to see
the recognition dawn on their faces as their mouths fall open. On my way out
the door, the second German—the bigger one—starts after me with a single,
growled: “Hey!”

But my bodyguard, Sam—all
five-foot-one of cucumber cool—is already between us, and she peels back her black
blazer just enough, I know, to reveal the firearm holstered at her side. “I
wouldn’t,” she warns him.

The threat is enough to stop him in
his tracks. Meanwhile, Sam and I make a swift exit out into the street.

It’s late December and Berlin is
freezing. The entire city is covered in a coat of white snow. I’ve got a parka
with me and I pull it over my shoulders as the wind bites my cheeks. The chill
or the dark of nighttime sobers me up, and we walk past buildings covered in
surreal, post-war graffiti. I heave a sigh and see my breath in a puff of
crystalize in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Sam. “I know
I forced you to Hulk-out and I shouldn’t have—”

“You absolutely should have,” Sam insists. “Please—they
were being complete pricks. Badass bitches like us have got to put little boys
in their places sometimes.”

And this is why I love Sam. I thought it would suck not having Ben as
my personal bodyguard—and there are late nights when it does—but then there are moments like this. I grew up with a brother
and now I have not one, but two
boyfriends; Sam is the female empowering attagirl
that I need on my shoulder. My sister from a British mister. Ben handpicked her
himself, which is all I need to know about the strength of her credentials, but
I don’t think even he realized what a source of gal-pal comfort she’d be to me.

Or maybe he did. My boyfriends have
a way of knowing what I need most—even when I don’t know it myself.

“I only wish he’d put up more of a
fight,” Sam huffs. “Would’ve liked an excuse to break his nose.”

I hook my arm in hers. “Since I
failed to provide you a good bar fight,” I tell her, “how about a mini-bar
nightcap?”

“It won’t make up, but it’s a
start.”

We laugh and Sam hails a car to our
hotel.

***

I’m staying at Hotel Adlon Kempinski—another one of my
concessions to Ben and Roland’s rampant paranoia. It’s hard to believe that, not
so long ago, I was backpacking across the world, hopping from hostel to hostel
and cataloging my experiences on my vlog:
March On! (a play on our names—Oscar and Rory March). My adventures started
after my older brother, Oscar, was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, a condition
that left him wheelchair bound and made him incapable of leaving the house, let
alone the country. So I travelled for him. I went from country to country,
getting lost, making friends, and most importantly, documenting everything for
my brother so he could see the world through my eyes.

I still travel, but things are
different now. Instead of a hostel, I’m granted access to five-star hotels all
across the world. It’s the kind of luxury I couldn’t care less about; I’ll take
the community of hostel life over a high thread count any day. But I have to
take certain security measures as the girlfriend of royalty. There are some perks to a pampered life…the hotel
mini-bar, for example, is a nice touch. Even though I can’t touch it. I haven’t
been able to for weeks. Still, someone should
take advantage of it, so I tell Sam to help herself as I go to the bathroom to
change into sweat pants and a loose shirt.

My black wig lays like a dead
animal on the sink. As I’m taking the pins out of my hair, my phone starts to
ring. It’s a video request and, when I see the caller ID, I grin and answer it.

“Bonjovi, Otter,” I say as I prop
the phone up on the sink.

“Bonjovi,” my brother responds.
Oscar—or “Otter” as I’ve affectionally nicknamed him—looks good, his ginger
hair tamed and slicked back. He’s not wearing his nasal cannula—the at-home
tube that attaches his nose and pumps oxygen through him—which is a good sign. The
new drugs he’s taking have been working wonders, and each small improvement
thrills me to no end. “Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?”

“Berlin, for now. But I’m leaving
in the morning. What in the world is
my brother wearing?”

“Oh, this?” He glances down at the
ugly Christmas sweater, which features a Rudolf in the middle and red nose
pom-poms scattered around him. “Francesca is taking me to her Christmas office
party.”

“Oh! Is she there? Can I say hi?”

He shakes his head. “She’s swinging
by in a few to pick me up.”

“She’s taking you to her office
party, huh? As her boyfriend?” I
stretch out the word. “Sounds serious.”

“You know what else is serious?” he
says, trying to not-so-casually steer the conversation to a place I don’t want
to go yet, “Pregnancy. Motherhood.”

I shrug. I knew he’d bring it up,
but I don’t want to talk about it, not yet, because what can I say? I hiss: “Lower
your voice. My bodyguard is right outside.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ror. You still
haven’t told them yet, have you?”

“No…it’s not really an
over-the-phone conversation. I want to tell them in person.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

“I thought I’d just put a bow on my
stomach and plant myself under the Christmas tree.”

“Seems legit. Don’t forget the gift
tag. To: Whose Sperm It May Concern.”

I laugh. I have to laugh. If I
don’t laugh, I’ll panic. I’ve been half-panicking since I missed my period over
a week ago. Oscar is the only one who knows I’m pregnant right now…and that’s
only because I held him hostage on the phone while waiting for the test results
to show up on the little stick all while ranting we use protection and except
for that one time and but why now,
right now?

My stomach has been in knots since,
and it’s more than morning sickness. I haven’t got the slightest idea how to break the news to Ben and Roland…or how
they’re going to take it.

If tonight proved anything to me,
it’s that the world is barely ready for a polyamorous prince, let alone one
with a baby attached. So I’ve
extended my Berlin trip, made up excuses for my delay in Germany, and
procrastinated, procrastinated, procrastinated.

“Oscar…” I start, and I know he can
hear the worried whine in my voice because he cuts me off.

“They love you,” he says. “No
matter what. You’ll figure this out.”

I know he’s right…but that doesn’t quell
the jitters.

I can hear the doorbell ring in the
background. Oscar glances towards it once, his mouth pulled into a frown.
“That’s Francesca.”

Oscar looks pained, and I know he
would call off the office party just to spend the night calming me down. But
I’m not about to let him do that. For the first time, Oscar is able to go on
his own adventures—and there’s no way I’m letting him hold himself back for me.
“Go,” I tell him. “Have fun. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise. No way I’m letting you
get out of public sweater humiliation.”

He grins. “You’re a freak, Ror.”

“Takes one to know one. Love you,
Otter.”

“Love you too.”

With that, he ends the video
message. Now that the room is silent again, my anxiety starts sinking into my
bones again. My heart pounds in my chest and my head swims. I curl my fingers
around the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t look so much like a
badass princess anymore. My fuzzy red hair poofs out, the remains of my makeup
make my eyes look sleepless, and my t-shirt swallows me whole. It’s one of
Roland’s, a Manchester United shirt, and I bunch it up to my face and inhale
the smell of home—tea leaves, mint, and sandalwood. It makes my heart ache.

We’ve been through so much
together…but what if this breaks the camel’s back? It’s a fear so real it knots
in my throat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see
the pregnancy test sticking up like a flag pole in the bathroom trash bin. A
spike of fear hits my heart—what is Sam sees it? Or housekeeping? I shove it
down to the bottom and pile up tissues for good measure.  

What’ve
you gotten yourself into, Rory?

Chapter 2: Ben

Something is wrong.

There is no transition from asleep to awake; I open my eyes and I’m immediately on high alert. I check my
senses. The bedroom is quiet, save for Roland’s deep breaths beside me. His
bare skin is hot against mine and when I sit up, dried sweat makes the sheet
cling briefly to my back. We’re alone, but I can’t shake the spine-tickling
sensation of being watched.

My pistol sleeps in its holster on
the bedside table. Roland doesn’t budge—not even when I kiss the top of his
head, pull the blankets over his shoulders, and slip out of bed. My clothes are
on the floor (we made a mess of them last night) and it takes me a second to
pick mine from his and redress in the dark. I slip my holster over my shoulders
and exit the bedroom, closing the door as softly as I can on my way out.

The hallways of the Buckingham
Palace are bright and I squint as my eyes readjust. The palace never sleeps.
Two guards stand outside the prince’s room—Thom and Lincoln—and I haven’t
checked the time but if Thom is still here, it must be four or five in the
morning. I nod to them and ask: “How’s it?”

To which Thom responds: “All clear,
boss.”

Doesn’t quell the discomfort
rushing through my blood, however.

I know I must be a sight—hair
askew, jaw unshaven—but the only person who could fire me for my unprofessionalism
is me, and I decide to let myself off
the hook this time. I walk barefoot down the hall and follow a familiar path
through the kitchen (smells of tomorrow morning’s scones and biscuits already
baking), through door disguised as a walk-in freezer, and down a staircase that
leads into the basement security.

Back when I was Prince Roland’s
personal bodyguard, I used to practically live in here. So much so that he
called it “my lair.” Now that our relationship is less professional, more
personal, I’ve been promoted to Head of Security, where I can keep an eye on
the palace without actually being on the front lines anymore.

Which means I have less and less
reason to be down here. I have my own office upstairs—complete with a view of
the palace gardens. Still, I find myself returning to my lair on nights like
this, when the whispers won’t quit.

The lair is a small, closet-sized
space, filled with television screens that show a live feed of every possible
angle in the Buckingham Palace. It’s also not empty. My replacement sits in the
swivel chair, eyes on the screen, large cup of coffee in front of him. He’s a
twenty-six-year-old pup whose name—much to Roland’s amusement—is also Benjamin.
But our name and loyalty to queen and country are all we share; we couldn’t be
more unalike.

“Boss!” Benjamin unfurls his legs
from the desk and beams at me. “Top of the morning to you!”

“Benjamin,” I mumble. Hate, Rory reminds me constantly, is a strong word. “How is it looking?”

“Just the usual, sir. There were a
couple of stray cats that got into it on the South Lawn—a real doozy of a
fight, you want me to play the tape back for you? Kept me on edge the whole
time—I think everyone’s alright, though.”

“Any word from Rory?”

“Miss March got on her flight and
is on schedule to touch down at 06:15. Do you think they serve pretzels on the
plane? I was thinking the other day—why do they hand out peanuts? Allergies are
so rampant these days, you never know what will set someone off.”

My back molars grind. He’s like a
too-curious child tugging at my trousers and it’s far too early for this. “Go
relieve Thom,” I tell him. “I’ll watch the monitors for a bit. Report back when
Rory’s touched down.”

“Easy, peasy, lemon-no-problem,
boss,” Benjamin says in a voice so cheery, I want to easy, peasy squeeze lemon
juice in his eyes.

He’s lanky and has to bend his tall
frame to exit the room. Finally, I’m alone. I take my old seat in front of the
monitors. I’m taller than most, but no one is taller than Benjamin, and I have
to adjust the seat so it fits me again.

The television monitors glow. This
room hums. Didn’t notice that until I started spending time away from it—it was
all white noise before. But I hear it now. It drowns out the crackle in my
brain. I slowly examine each monitor, letting my eyes prove to my nerves what I
logically already know—everything is in its right place.

Benjamin left his mug. It says
“Keep Calm And Hodor,” whatever that means. It’s leaving a coffee-colored ring
on the desk, so I grab a tissue and wipe it down. While doing that, I notice
the dust behind the monitor. The cleaning staff doesn’t come in here—they don’t
have the clearance. I used to clean it, because unlike some Bens, I take fucking pride in my
workplace. I pluck a couple more napkins out of the box and start wiping behind
the monitors, and on the monitors.

I see him coming on the screens, so
I’m not surprised when the door clicks open. Nor do I turn around; I’m too busy
hunting a dust bunny.

“How did I know I’d find you here?”
Roland asks. I can hear the smirk on his lips.

“Just doing a little spring
cleaning,” I mutter.

“It’s December.”

“I’m getting an early start.”

I’m bent on the desk to reach
behind monitor four, and I nearly jump when he slips his hand up my backside
and snakes it underneath my shirt. “We ought to get you a uniform to clean in,”
Roland says. “French maid, I’m thinking.”

The noise that leaves me is a sigh—half
exasperated, half distracted by the tickle of his fingertips on my bare skin,
and not at all amused by his interruption. I pull away from under the monitors,
drop the dusty tissue in the bin, and twist around to face him. There’s not a
lot of room in here—it’s barely closet-sized—and Roland certainly isn’t giving
me any space, so I find myself wedged between him and my desk.

No—not my desk anymore. Benjamin’s now. I frown at Roland. “You should go
back to bed.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he says. “But
only if you come back with me.”

The offer is, admittedly, tempting.
I love him like this—he hasn’t made himself up for the public just yet. He’s
not the prince of England right now—he’s just Roland. His blonde locks are
standing up in all directions like an electrocuted cat, his eyes are bleary,
and he’s wearing jeans and an open button-up that hangs uselessly around his
shoulders, baring his svelte form. He looks unbearably handsome like this, and
I wouldn’t mind kissing the daylight out of him and laying down beside him.

But something pulls me back, anchoring
me here. “I can’t.”

His eyebrows furrow. “You have work
to do?”

“Something like that.” The real
answer—that I can’t sleep, that the well of anxiety is rising in me and I can’t
stop it—stays glued to the roof of my mouth.

His frown softens. He leans in now
so that our lips are almost touching. “Well,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “If I
can’t move the mountain.”

His hands slip up my thighs,
closing in on my groin. I’m practically sitting on the desk now and my arms
lock at my sides, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

“Roland,” I plead. I want him to go. I want him to leave me to my
demons and my lair.

But my protests are only
half-hearted…and my prick is already half-hard. We both know that my
declaration of his name isn’t a no,
and my meager dissent falls away as his lips find my throat. He kisses—purposeful,
insistent kisses—all the way down my neck. When I feel his teeth graze my skin,
I can’t help the shudder that ripples through me.

I can’t deny him. I can never deny
him. I spoil him, I know that—what Prince Roland wants, Prince Roland gets. But
he’s my weakness—always has been—and all it takes is a couple kisses and his
hand cupping my crotch over my trousers and my resolve melts like butter.

There was a day when I’d only dream
of us here. Before Rory pushed me to admit my feelings for Roland, I kept them
caged inside. For six long, painful years, I was nothing more than his
bodyguard and, at times, his trusted friend. His mate (that loathsome bloody word). And—when the pressure got to be
too much, when I needed an outlet for the frustration mounting inside of me,
I’d come to this very room. I’d watch him on the monitors, feeling like a
bloody pervert, hating myself, hating that I couldn’t shake these feelings. All
the while, I’d play out fantasies in my head.

Even my filthiest fantasies,
however, had nothing on the real Roland. I could’ve never imagined how he could
be—all with one kiss—playful and dominating, loving and teasing, boyish and
arrogant and mine. He knocks the
breath out of me with every kiss until, finally, he lowers himself to his knees
and unzips my trousers.

His hands are soft, his touch so
unlike my own—where mine are rough and calloused, his palms are warm and
smooth. He wraps his fingers around my prick and I feel the blood rush,
swelling to my full length at his touch. I know it delights him how quickly my
body responds to his touch—he’s like Tinkerbell, he needs applause to live—and
those violet eyes of his practically sparkle when they meet mine. “Is this what
you want?”

“Yes.” My voice is so husky, so
thick with lust already. I’m memorized as he begins to stroke me, slowly at
first, taking his time working me up. Then his lips come into play, wrapping
around the swollen, needy head of me. His tongue swirls, tasting the salt of
me, and a groan rumbles deep in my throat.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, his breath
beating against my prick as his fist pumps my shaft, “don’t want anyone
bursting in here, do we?”

The prince loves a challenge—these
are the little games we play, pushing one another’s limits. And I must be a
sucker, because I trap my bottom lip between my teeth so hard that I taste
blood.

Roland licks me, pumping the parts
of me he can’t fit in his mouth, and I white-knuckle the edge of the desk as I
struggle hard to keep my hips in place, even as everything is screaming in me
just to grab his thick, blonde hair and rut against his chin. But I let him set
the pace, drawing me out, and it doesn’t take long before he has me right where
he wants me—sucking in tight breaths of air, pulse pounding, muscles taut on
the brink of release.

I’m about to explode down the
prince’s throat when I hear the last voice I want to hear crackle on the radio.
“Er, boss?” Benjamin says, his voice coming from the small handheld on the desk,
“are you monitoring this line?”

“Fuck,” I bark. Roland’s lips pop
off and leave me throbbing. “Don’t answer it,” I warn.

Too late—he grabs the handheld radio
before I can. “Copy that,” Roland says, over-pronouncing his vowels in the
worst Cockney accent I’ve ever heard.

“I don’t sound like bloody Oliver
Twist.”

He winks at me. Meanwhile, on the
radio, Benjamin says: “Miss March’s plane has just landed. She’s on her way
now.”

“Jolly good, Benjamin. Over and
out.” Roland sets the radio aside and comes between my legs again. His palm
slides up my tortured organ.

“You’re a prat,” I growl.

“So…you don’t want me to finish you?” His fingertips ghost across my cock,
keeping me on the painful edge. He nuzzles me; his warm breath hits my face,
his lips trace my jaw, and he purrs: “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

I’m annoyed, pent up, and I want to
cum, I don’t want to laugh, but he’s
being such an impossible arse right now that I can’t help the chuckle that
leaves my throat. “You fuck—”

Suddenly, his fingers curl around
my erection, his thumb circles the slickened tip of my prick, and the jolt of
pleasure pulls a sharp gasp from me. I’ll do anything, say anything to feel his lips, so I choke out: “Please, sir—”

That’s all he needs before he’s on
his knees again, swallowing me whole. The moan I make is barely human and my
toes curl on the cold floor as I shoot down his throat. Roland lets out a soft,
approving noise as he sucks my sanity from me, swallowing thick spurts of me
until I don’t have anything left to give. He cleans me with his tongue, making
me shudder with the fucking bliss of it all, and finally releases me from his
mouth, tucking me back into my pants.

“Feel better?” he murmurs. He’s
kissing me sweetly now—my throat, under my ear—as I catch my breath.

“Mm.” I can’t form words. I’ve cum
too hard to be a functional human for the next thirty to sixty seconds.

“Good.” His lips press against mine now; gentle and loving and tasting like me. “Because you have to get dressed and I have to brush my teeth. We can’t keep our princess waiting.”

…Stay tuned for updates, or join my newsletter to be the first to get your copy of The Royal’s Baby, coming out at the end of April!

XOXO,

Adora Crooks

We Made A Difference!

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Hey, you!

Yeah, you! Rory March here! Okay, so, been a while since my latest vlog update, right? Turns out, being the royal pet is…uhhhh…demanding?

(Not that I’m complaining. Trust me. I like their demands.

Read A Book; Save A Life!

Dearest reader,

I hope you’re having a good summer; I know I am. We’re in the height of New Orleans summer here; trumpets blast up and down the French Quarter streets and my dog smells like jasmine and lavender after every walk. But enough about me–let’s talk about you. And how you can save a life just by reading romance.

All of those who read THE ROYAL’S PET will remember Rory starts her journey by traveling the world on behalf of her brother, Oscar. Oscar has Cystic Fibrosis (CF), an incurable condition that keeps him state-bound. I’d never heard about CF until I met one of my good friends, Drew. She has an amazing story, too; she’s been living with CF her whole life and, despite the hurdles, performed in nightly comedy shows, fostered a handful of sweet puppies, and married her best friend. She continues to fight the good fight and her strength inspires me daily!

For a period time, I’m offering The Royal’s Pet for FREE on Kindle this weekend (5/12 & 5/13). If you don’t have the book, now’s the time to pick it up! Whether or not you snag The Royal’s Pet for free, I encourage everyone to donate the $2.99 they would have spent on the book to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation instead to sponsor research and, ultimately, find a cure.

DONATE HERE.

Stay awesome, and in the words of Rory: “March On!”

XOXO,

Adora Crooks

Character Interview #1: Prince Roland

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The following is a transcript from a video interview with reporter Sally Sanders and Prince Roland.

SALLY SANDERS: Prince Roland, can you hear me?

PRINCE ROLAND: Yes. I can hear you. Roger that.

S.S.: Good! It’s truly a pleasure and an honor to speak with you, Your Highness.

ROLAND: Yes. Thank you. The pleasure is honestly mine.

S.S.: This is your first official interview with the people of England…how does that feel?

ROLAND: Honestly? It’s a tad unnerving. But I’m ready for it. It’s high time the people know who their prince is.

S.S.: And we’re thrilled to get to know you. Now…for those of you who can’t see, I’m actually on a video conference with the Royal Prince of England. Can you tell me more about why you requested this method of communication?

ROLAND: Right…well. Unfortunately, I’m unable to leave Buckingham Palace for the time being.

S.S.: As I understand it, the palace doors have been closed ever since the death of Prince Consort Duncan Hughes. Is that true?

ROLAND: Mmhm. Yes. My father’s assassination was…a tragedy. A tragedy for England and a tragedy for my family as well. We’re all just…coping the best way we can. Until we find the man or woman responsible for my father’s death, the doors will remain closed.

S.S.: It’s been ten years. What do you say to the people who claim there was no assassination attempt, that it was a malfunction in the plane’s engine?

ROLAND: I’d tell them they’re nutters. We’re not exactly doing this for our health.

S.S.: Ten years.

ROLAND: Yes.

S.S.: That’s a long time for a man to be cooped up in one place. Last time we saw you, you were a thirteen-year-old little boy and now you’re…well.

ROLAND: I’m what?

S.S.: Ah…I only mean…you’ve grown up into quite an attractive man, Your Highness.

ROLAND: Aren’t you an angel?

S.S.: I—well. Next topic.

ROLAND: Please. I hate talking about myself.

S.S.: Well, you’ll only have to bear with my a little longer.

ROLAND: Ah, no. This is nice. You are wonderful. Continue.

S.S.: How do you keep yourself busy during the day?

ROLAND: I read. Quite a lot. I love the escape. I take tea with my mum most evenings…every now and then, we’ll get a visit from her sister.

S.S.: What do you do for company?

ROLAND: I’m open to suggestions.

S.S.: (laughs) Oh…I wouldn’t know about that.

ROLAND: To answer your question—my bodyguard, Ben. He’s my best mate. I’d lose my bloody mind without him.

S.S.: And your relationship with the queen…what’s that like?

ROLAND: My mother is—

QUEEN SELENA: Right behind you.

(At this point, QUEEN SELENA enters behind the PRINCE and narrows her eyes at the screen.)

QUEEN.: What’s this then?

ROLAND: Who. This lovely lady is Sally Sanders; she’s interviewing me. The people are entitled to know their royal family…

QUEEN: Right. Miss Sanders, is it? You’ll be hearing from us.

The interview ends here. It was never ultimately released.

 

Find out all about Prince Roland’s story in The Royal’s Pet (A MMF Ménage Royal Romance) by Adora Crooks.

Get these character extras and more by becoming a Bada$$ Babe and joining Adora Crook’s FB Group.