Page 16 of Owned By Royal

This is the real Royal. The realization settles warmly inside my chest. Somewhere along the way, without noticing, I’ve stopped falling for the handsome billionaire everyone loves to gossip about. I’ve fallen for the quiet man behind him.

A little later, after everyone drifts back to work, Royal leads me into his private tattoo room, where he’s preparing for his next appointment. Sketches cover one wall while shelves display neatly organized inks and equipment.

He studies a client’s reference photographs with complete concentration. He occasionally makes tiny adjustments to the stencil resting on his tablet before printing another version. I don’t interrupt him. Instead, I simply watch.

His brow furrows slightly whenever something isn’t perfect. He compares proportions, adjusts line weight almost imperceptibly, then starts over entirely when he isn’t satisfied. Every movement is patient and deliberate, revealing a level of precision I hadn’t expected.

He’s brilliant. Quietly brilliant.

The more I observe him, the more embarrassed I become by the assumptions I made when we first met. I thought he was superficial because he smiled so easily. I assumed he floated through life relying on charm and good looks because that’s what everyone expected of him.

Now I understand those smiles are armor, and beneath them is a thoughtful, intensely focused man who notices everything. He’s still breathtakingly handsome. That certainly hasn’t changed. If anything, seeing him in this environment only makes him more attractive.

Unfortunately, my admiration is quickly followed by guilt.

Tell him.

The thought surfaces again. Tell him about Marco. Tell him what you found. Tell him why you’ve really been spending time in that house.

I look at him. He’s completely absorbed in refining the stencil for a client he’ll meet in an hour, and the words refuse to come. What if he already knows? What if he doesn’t? What if telling him destroys whatever we’ve built?

For the first time since Dad died, I’ve allowed myself to be genuinely happy. Being with Royal feels easy. Safe. Normal. Bringing my investigation into this room might shatter that illusion forever. So I stay silent. Cowardly. Selfishly. And I hate myself for it.

I bury my thoughts. Today, I simply want to exist in this little bubble we’ve created together. So, I focus on the man before me. I focus on the way his broad shoulders stretch his shirt. My gaze shifts to his face. His scrunched brows, intense gaze that I wish was directed at me, then down to his full lips.

My sex floods, and an ache begins to bloom in my core. I bite into my lower lip as I imagine those lips wreaking beautiful havoc over my body as he has done in the past week, taking me to new heights over and over.

And I want him with a ferocity that frightens me. He looks up then, catching me staring. His gaze holds mine, dark and knowing, and something in my chest catches fire.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” he says, his voice low and rough, “I’m going to fuck you right here.”

The words should shock me. They don’t. They ignite me. I set my phone aside and lean back against the couch, letting my knees fall slightly open. “What’s stopping you?”

His eyes flare. He sets down his pencil and rises, moving toward me with a predator’s grace. The closer he gets, the more I can feel the heat rolling off him, the contained energy barely leashed.

“The door’s unlocked,” he murmurs, stopping in front of me. “Anyone could walk in.”

I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. “Then you’d better be quick.”

He laughs, a dark, dangerous sound. “Oh, princess. I’m never quick.”

He reaches down and hauls me up, his hands rough on my hips. I gasp at the sudden contact, at the hard press of his body against mine. Then his mouth crashes down on mine, and I forget everything. The worry about Marco, the secrets I’m keeping, the careful distance I’ve tried to maintain. It all burns away under the heat of his kiss.

He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that makes my head spin. His tongue slides against mine, demanding, and I meet him stroke for stroke. I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.

He breaks the kiss and trails his mouth down my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point. I arch against him, a moan escaping before I can catch it.

“Quiet,” he breathes against my skin. “Unless you want the whole neighborhood to know what a slut you are for me.”

I flush, the word hitting me like a spark to dry tinder. I should be offended. I’m not. The idea of it, of being exposed, of someone seeing what he does to me, sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs.

“Maybe I do,” I whisper, reckless, wild.

He growls and spins me around, bending me over the arm of the couch. My hands catch on the leather, my heart hammering against my ribs. He shoves my skirt up, his palm smoothing over my ass, and I hear the sharp intake of his breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already wet.”

His fingers hook in my underwear and drag them down, leaving me bare and exposed. I should feel vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful. The way his breath catches, the way his hands shake slightly as he grips my hips, I feel like a goddess.