rack, or on the runway, but on her is looks like sex. She looks like sex.
And she’s sitting there, her legs crossed, looking up at me.
Should we finish what we started?
I send the text, waiting for her to beckon me down and beg me to take her up against the piano. Or on top of the piano.
I want to lay her back across the lacquered surface of the grand piano, spread her legs, and devour her.
Depends. Are you asking nicely? Are you saying please?
The text makes me laugh. Even now, she’s refusing to bend. It’s such a small thing.
I shake my head, knowing that she can see the gesture from where she sits. When I call her, she answers, her voice breathy. “Ask me to come down and join you,” I say.
She just laughs. “No.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she asks.
“I think you want me to touch you,” I say. “I think that you want me to spread your legs, spread you out right there on the piano, and lick you until you come.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breath catch in her throat and then she exhales heavily. From the window, I watch as she moves, just slightly, her legs parting so that the red material falls down between her thighs. She’s a tease, obscuring what she knows I want to see.
“Are you wearing panties tonight?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She looks to the side, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid of someone walking in, even though most of the staff and guests are far away on the other side of the palace right now.
Then she shows me she’s wearing nothing underneath that dress of hers. She pushes the fabric to the side, spreading her legs for me on the piano bench, and she’s completely bare.
Completely and totally bare.
And the expression on her face, the sly smile, says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me right now.
As if my raging hard-on wouldn’t be obvious from a mile away.
“I want you to touch yourself,” I say. There’s nothing in my voice that leaves room for discussion.
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breath get shorter on the phone, and she listens.
I watch as she slides her fingers slowly between her legs, then pauses. “Don’t stop,” I tell her.
“I’ve never done this in front of someone,” she says, her voice a whisper, so low I can barely hear it.
The fact that she’s on display, right in the music room, with her legs spread open, is enough to make me hard as a fucking rock. But the fact that she’s never touched herself in front of anyone before is enough to make me insane.
“You’re going to make yourself come in front of me,” I say, my voice gruff. “Right here.”
“I’m not sure I can,” she protests.
“You’re the one who set this up, luv,” I say. “You had me meet you here. Now, stop being coy. Spread your legs so I can see you.”
She looks up at me in the window, the phone to her ear. For a second, I think she’s going to close her legs, stand up, and walk out of the room.
But she doesn’t. She spreads her legs wider. When the fabric of her dress falls between her legs, momentarily covering her, she pulls it up farther on her thighs, suddenly less timid.
“Slide your fingers over your clit,” I tell her, my voice low, watching as she obeys. Her eyelids fall closed, the phone still at her ear, as she touches herself.
She’s like a fucking piece of art, spread out on the piano the way she is, in that red dress that’s practically obscene, her legs open.
Touching herself for me.
“Are you wet?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Her breath comes in short pants, and I repeat myself. “Tell me, Belle.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m wet.”
“Is this how you touch yourself when you’re alone?”
“No,” she whispers, her voice breathy.
I will my hand to remain where it is on the cell phone, my other hand on the window, my fingers pressed lightly up against the glass. I will my hands to remain where they are, no matter how much I want to unbutton my pants, draw out my cock, and run my hand down the length of it while she touches herself.
I’ll remain in control.
“Show me what you do when you’re alone, Belle,” I say. “Touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone. When you’re thinking about me.”
“I don’t –“ she starts to say, but stops.
“I know you think about me, Belle,” I say. “You think about me sliding my fingers inside your wet pussy, the way I did that afternoon, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer, but I watch as she draws her hand away from her clit, spreading her legs open wider as she slides her fingers inside herself until her palm is pressed flat against her mound.
Fuck, this girl is going to give me a heart attack. I can already picture the headlines:
Prince Drops Dead in Royal Observatory, Pants Around His Ankles, Cock in Hand.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about, Belle,” I say, as her eyes close. Her mouth falls open, tongue running along her lower lip, and all I can think about is what I’d like to put in that smart little mouth of hers.
“You,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about you.”
“Tell me, Belle,” I say. “Are you thinking about my fingers sliding in and out of your slick pussy?”
“Yes,” she says. Her hips buck against her palm as she fucks herself with her hand, tossing her hair back as she closes her eyes, no longer caring if I’m here or not. I watch her as she loses her inhibitions more, giving herself over to pleasure, her chest heaving as her hand moves faster.
“But you don’t really want that, do you, luv?” I ask. “You want more, don’t you? You want my cock inside you, filling you up.”
“I want…” her voice trails off as she bites the side of her lip.
“Say it,” I order. “Say you want my cock inside you. Tell me how much you want me to bend you over that piano, to pull that dress of yours up around your waist and fuck you until you come around me. You want to feel my bare cock inside you, pressed against you until you can’t hold out, until you come and you’re milking me of everything I have.”
She drops the phone, and it clatters on the marble floor, spinning in circles. But she doesn’t seem to notice.
My eyes stay fixed on her face as she brings herself to the edge. I’m transfixed, watching her expression. Her breasts heave as her breath comes shorter and shorter. Then, at the last moment, she opens her eyes, and looks straight into mine.
And she comes.
Her lips, painted red to match her dress, form a perfect “O”. Her head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes wide open and meeting my gaze, she comes. I can hear her on the phone, the small moan she allows herself, still in control at the very last.
I want to rip that control from her.
I want to make her scream. I want my name on her lips. I want it to be my name she moans when she comes.
I want that more than anything.
When she's finally finished, she slides off the piano and picks up the phone. Putting it against her ear, she doesn't speak. I hear her breath, short gasps as she comes down from her orgasm. “You never said it,” I tell her.
“I already told you,” she says. “I’m not going to beg.”
It’s the big night – the night of my mother and King Leopold’s engagement party. Next week, we’ll head north to the summer estate, where we’ll be shielded from much of the media flurry that will inevitably follow the official engagement announcement.
We’ll go to the summerhouse.
Suddenly, I’m including myself in the future royal plans, as if I'm staying for the summer.
Who am I kidding? Last night
, I fingered myself in the music room while Albie watched. Even from where he stood, through a window and an entire floor higher, I could see he was hard as a rock watching me, a very large bulge in his pants.
Of course I'm going to stay for the summer.
I'm not thinking clearly right now, obviously. My rational mind is clouded by unruly desire, my ability to think clearly diminished by my lust for my stepbrother. I'm not rational at all, not anymore.
But that doesn't mean I want to give in to his demand – to beg him to fuck me.
Even though every part of me is begging for it, lusting for it.
"You look…well, good enough to eat."
The voice is deep, sultry, soft – so soft that I'm the only one who can hear. At least, I hope so, anyway. I whirl around, or try to, but Albie’s hand is on my waist, guiding me around the corner, and down a service hallway of outside the main ballroom where the engagement party is being held.
"Albie, what are you doing?" I hiss, pushing against him, but he holds my arm, his lips near my ears.
"We only have a second," he whispers from behind me. The service entrance is empty, but anyone could walk through at any moment. I should be terrified of that – terrified of the possible repercussions, of the potential public embarrassment.
Instead, a surge of adrenaline rushes through me, a secret thrill at Albie's hands on me. The heat from his body radiates onto mine, and every cell in my body is on high-alert, acutely sensitive to him, aware of his every breath.
"We need to go to the engagement party, Your Highness," I say.
"Spread your legs."
"Excuse me?" I must be hallucinating, driven mad with lust. He did not just tell me to spread my legs right here in the hallway within twenty yards of the ballroom where our parents -- the King and Future Queen of Protrovia – together with everyone who's everyone in this country, are celebrating their upcoming nuptials. Because that would be insane.
"You heard me, luv," he whispers. "Don't think. Just do it."
But Heaven help me, that's exactly what I do.
I stand here, in my ridiculously expensive designer cocktail dress, with my stepbrother's arm around my chest, pulling me tightly back against him, and I spread my legs.
"And?" I ask, provoking him. My heart pounds loudly against his arm, and he fumbles with something.
"I have a present for you," he says, slipping his hand between my legs from where he stands behind me. A sensation of something cold makes me jump.
"What the hell, Albie?" I yelp.
"This is your present," he whispers. "I sent it to you in your box. I borrowed it back."
The box he sent me with the sex toys.
"You are not touching me right here, right now, with one of those things," I hiss.
“It’s unfortunate you say that,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to take it back.” I feel a light vibration flick on, sending a tingle through my core, and then it stops as quickly as it starts.
He’s teasing me. Taunting me.
He knows I’m wet, just as soon as he touches me.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t take it back.”
“Is that a yes?” he asks.
“I can’t believe I’m considering this,” I whisper.
"Make your choice, luv. One of the caterers or the staff is going to walk out of that entrance any second now," he whispers, his breath hot on my ear. "You don't want them to see you with your stepbrother's hand up your skirt, do you?"
I shake my head. "No."
He flicks the vibrator on again, and the sensation sends arousal rushing through me. "Then spread your legs, Princess," he says. "Because I'm not playing around anymore. Say yes."
"You're going to send me out there with that inside me?" I ask.
“Most definitely,” he says. “Say the word, luv. The word is yes.”
“Hurry,” I whisper. “Do it now.”
I don’t say yes. Just hurry. It’s the principle of the thing.
He chuckles, his breath warm on my ear, and I stand motionless with my body pressed against his as he slides the vibrator inside me, aided easily by my wetness. When he finishes, he takes a step back and puts a business-like amount of space between us. It’s just in time, too, as two servers carrying trays bound around the corner and stop sharply in their tracks. "Your Highness," one of the servers says, carefully balancing a tray of champagne flutes while bowing his head.
"Please," Albie says, waving them past us. "I apologize for being in the way."
Once they've walked past us, Albie holds up a small remote. "I like to watch you come," he says, slipping the remote into his tuxedo jacket pocket. "And I want to watch you come in a room filled with every important person in this kingdom."
"You're crazy," I say, except what's crazy is the fact that this is turning me on. "Someone will hear it."
He smiles, reaching inside his pocket, and I feel the vibration inside me. But I hear nothing. "What were you saying?" he asks. "This was especially-made for me. It's not exactly available on the open market. And yes, it's totally silent. So don't worry -- people will have no idea why you're coming all night. Shall we?"
He doesn't wait for a response. He walks ahead of me, out the hallway and toward the ballroom, and I'm left to catch up. I take my steps slowly, carefully, and measured, conscious of the vibrator inside me.
I feel a weird mixture of nervousness and confidence as I walk toward the ballroom, several steps behind Albie. And arousal.
I definitely feel aroused, even with the vibrator turned off.
It’s a delicious secret Albie and I share. One among several secrets.
I push that thought out of my head, squeezing my muscles around the vibrator, assuring myself that it’s not going to slip out and clatter to the floor in the middle of this event.
Now, that would be a scandal.
“Darling.” My mother greets me like I’m the prodigal daughter, arms outstretched, her face beaming. She never calls me darling, but I can’t help but smile anyway. She looks happy. Really happy, like I haven’t seen her in years, and despite our differences, that makes me feel good.
“Mother,” I say, as she draws me in close, giving me two air-kisses. “You look really stunning.”
She’s breathtaking in a cream-colored chiffon evening gown that trails to the floor, a huge diamond statement necklace lying carefully over the scooped neckline of the dress. Her hair is piled on her head, and she wears a small tiara – not the royal crown, which she’ll wear during the wedding, but gorgeous nonetheless.
“Thank you, darling,” she says, smiling. As she pulls me close, she whispers softly. “I know you hate these big social things, but please try your best and I promise I'll make it up to you."