Page 77 of Striking
“Rhys . . .” She clenches my cock in a vice-like grip. “Oh God, Rhys . . .”
The sound of my name on her lips is like a drug. She’s my high. My addiction.
My fucking queen.
I drag my tongue up her neck, savoring her sweet taste.
One I’ll never get enough of.
“You feel so fucking good, Bellamy.” The words are ripped from my throat in a guttural growl. “Too fucking good.”
Both legs wrap around my waist as her nails dig into my back, clinging to me.
“I want you to fuck me, Rhys. I don’t want gentle. I won’t break. I want to feel you for days. I want to remember tonight every time I move.”
Her words fuel the already-burning fire, and I shift my hips, slamming inside her.
Taking what I want and giving her everything I have.
“So good, Rhys...” she moans and digs her heels into my ass as I press my thumb against her clit, fucking desperate for her to come for me. “I’m so close.”
I take her ass in my hands and shift her hips, and she screams and pulses around me.
White-hot blistering heat builds at the base of my spine, and I come with her name a fucking benediction on my lips.
RHYS
We at The Murmur love a tiara moment as much as the next royal watcher, but catching our queen in pink scrubs and sneakers instead of an evening gown and diamonds this past weekend might just have been better. She had volunteered her time in the neonatal unit of St. Corianders Hospital, and seeing her do so beat any bejeweled photo-op this reporter has ever seen.
Better yet, she wasn’t doing it for the good press this would undoubtedly have given her. She wasn’t there to curry favor with the citizens of Mornea. She was simplythere because our hospitals are understaffed and our nurses overworked. She was there to help.
I was there, visiting my sister and new nephew, when I spied Queen Bellamy. To most, she looked like any other nurse working their shift. But once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it. Our queen was working. She wasn’t smiling and shaking hands, afraid to get dirty. She was helping in a far greater way and for a far greater purpose. She was impressive in her quiet determination, and I’m not afraid to admit I may have misjudged our queen. She may have been an American, but I think it’s about time we claim her as our own.
We’ve already given them our Princess Royale, so it’s only fair we get a queen in return.
Stay tuned, royal watchers.
Just once, I’d like to be sitting in front of Parliament and not feel like Nanny trying to wrangle a group of angry toddlers. I’m expecting biting to be the next form of communication, if the yelling proves ineffective.
“Are you going to step in?” Atticus groans as he leans back in his chair to my right, his eyes never leaving Viscount Lindsey. If this man bares his teeth, I may bring back beheading as a form of punishment.
“I can’t. They’re fighting over my fate. If I step in, it can be seen as coercion.” My eyes bounce back and forth between the two sides for over an hour as law after law is cited until finally Lady Louise Darlington stands.
“I think it’s obvious we’re at a standstill. We’ve been debating the legality of your marriage for months, Your Majesty. We are a government formed in your name. What say you?”
“He already did the damage. The monarchy is standing on shaky ground with anti-monarchists knocking at its doors. His opinion is irrelevant,” Lord Exxiter yells.
Well if they want to piss me off, they did it.
I slowly rise and press both palms against the table, meeting each member’s eyes. “My family has ruled this country for longer than your family has existed, Lord Exxiter. I assure you there will always be anti-monarchists in this country, just as I assure you there will always be a member of the house of Windsor sitting on that throne.” My voice is eerily calm, considering I’d like to rip his heart from his body and shove it up his arse.
A murmur slowly makes its way around the room.
“Bellamy Windsor is my wife. There is no debating that fact. She is who I choose. She is recognized as such in the eyes of God and the government of Mornea. The question is whether you recognize her as your queen.”
“And if we do not, where does that leave us, Your Majesty?” one of the few loud anti-monarchists within Parliament calls out.
“It leaves you with a decision to make.” I think about my grandfather and my mother and the last conversation I had with her. About the life I was raised to live. To lead. And I think about Bellamy and the life I want to have. “I have no intention of letting a three-hundred-year-old scrap of paper that no living soul has laid eyes on in this century dictate who I love, and I love my wife. My decision has been made. I married her. I made heryour queen. If you cannot live with that, then let the Marriages Act stand, and I will step aside.”
