The Royal's Baby: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance by Adora Crooks

Author:Adora Crooks [Crooks, Adora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-25T16:00:00+00:00

14

Roland

We’re all so exhausted, we sleep well past breakfast.

For once, I’m the first one up. Usually Ben beats me to it, but I figured he could use the rest. He’s got a face full of Rory’s wild ginger curls, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he sleeps on soundlessly, his arm around her middle. I kiss the top of Ben’s head, then reach across from him to kiss Rory’s. Extracting myself from Ben without waking him up is a near-impossible task, but somehow, I manage it.

I’m awake, I had some of the best sex of my life last night, and I’m in a damned good mood. I want to spoil my loves with breakfast in bed—my personal favorite activity. If it were up to me, we’d never leave the bed; our days would be spent shagging, our nights cuddling, and we’d only ever get up to use the loo or take an occasional shower.

I spent so much of my life longing to leave the palace, and now I crave lazy days in.

I don’t bother with clothes. I have a terry cloth robe with my initials on it, so I sling it over my shoulders and tie it off at the middle. I exit our room, quietly shutting the door behind me. I greet the guards posted at my door, then saunter off to the dining room to see what’s left of breakfast.

Technically, we have two dining rooms—one for formal events and major guests, and one for the day-to-day nonsense of life. This is the latter, a cozy dayroom with long windows to let in the morning light, eggshell-blue walls, a piano that I enjoy tinkering with now and then. I see the table stacked with trays of biscuits, scones, poached eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, toast, sausages, and on and on. I clear off one of the pastry trays and start to make three separate plates. Rory’s favorite is bacon and carbs, Ben enjoys eggs, and I pick at a little bit of everything.

The side doors click open and I glance up to see a familiar face.

“Your Highness, I’ve kept some fresh scones warm in the oven, if you’d prefer.” Miss Thompson is a stout, older woman who runs the kitchen. She’s one of the many staff members in the palace who essentially raised me from a pup—after my father passed away, all I had to care for me was my mum, and she wasn’t always the warmest. I credit much of my upbringing to women like Miss Thompson, who endured my endless questions, my teenage angst, and gave me a spoon and said, “Taste this, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Miss Thompson,” I greet her, “you know me too well. What would I do without you?”

“You’d suffer cold scones, I imagine.” She gives me a wink and then slips back out the doors she came from to grab my scones.

“You know,” my mum remarks, glaring at my tray, “that’s how we get mice.”

And good lord—I didn’t even see her there.

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