Royal Duties--Book Two

by Nikki Steele

  “You really do worry about him, don’t you?”

  “Of course—he’s my little buddy. I want him to be happy.”

  I laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little secret then. Baxter’s motivated by food, and I left a zip lock bag of dog treats with Richards. He’ll be fine.”

  We walked inside the Palace Theatre, location of our not-quite-date for the evening; all huge marble columns and plush red carpets. “I guess this is what your home is like, right?” I asked. Then I grabbed his hand in excitement “Wait. Do you live in a castle?”

  He laughed, drawing my hand to his lips and kissing it. “You’re radiant when you get excited.” He thought for a moment. “There are a few similarities. The throne room has almost as many columns, and twice as much red carpet.”

  I pulled my hand from his with reluctance as an usher greeted us, showing us to the door of our private box. It was on the second level, just to the left of the stage, luxuriously appointed in rich velvet brocade.

  “Oh my goodness!” I said, walking inside then turning back to Xander. “Can you believe this?”

  Sound echoed up from the seats of the vast auditorium below. There must be a thousand people below us! And above... my neck craned... the most beautiful fresco I had ever seen adorned the roof.

  A private box! I felt like the queen in one of those British charity galas I sometimes saw—secluded from the masses in our own little viewing chamber, with deep seats and miniature binoculars on the ledges before us. Gold leaf angels fronted the walls to either side, as if protecting our privacy.

  I turned to Xander suspiciously. “What did you do to get these tickets? They’re the best seats in the house!”

  “Of course. It’s the royal box. It’s reserved for dignitaries and visiting heads of state.”

  I shook my head. I was still having a difficult time thinking of Xander as a prince. It shouldn’t be hard, I knew. He was fabulously wealthy and looked so comfortable in a tuxedo I’d swear he was born with it. He’d just been talking about a throne room in a castle! But princes didn’t bend down to get their $2000 loafers dirty playing with a puppy. And princes certainly didn’t take me to the Opera.

  I walked over to plant a kiss firmly on his cheek. “You are one hell of a guy, you know that?”

  His hands moved to my waist, lips dipping to nuzzle my neck before he realized what he was doing. He stepped back, a wild look in his eyes. “I’m trying so hard to be good for you, Kate. But then you go and kiss me.”

  “It was only on the cheek!”

  He bit his lip with a smile. “I know. That’s the problem.”

  The orchestra began to warm up. We took our seats. I allowed myself a guilty smile as the lights dimmed—I knew it was my idea to ‘just be friends’, but the thought of what I could still do to him sent tingles down my spine.

  * * *

  I’d thought opera was always rotund women with horns and braided hair singing high pitched songs in a foreign language. What Xander introduced me to was nothing like that at all. It was in another language, yes, but captions on a screen above the stage translated what was happening.

  I was seeing the opera in a whole new light, and that light was contemporary, and glamorous, and sexy. Half-naked bodies writhed as the most beautiful music flowed over us. A woman sung about her lost lover. And then, to a dramatic clash of symbols, the lover reappeared. He ripped off his shirt, and the two embraced.

  My hand went to Xander’s thigh before I realized what I’d done. His hand rested briefly on top, giving it a squeeze. It felt right for my hand to be there, so I let it stay. What harm was a hand on his thigh anyway?

  His hand went to my thigh. It felt right for his hand to be there too. No harm in that either, right?

  My hand slipped a little higher—an accident, I was almost sure. Just me leaning closer to the stage. We both kept staring at the opera.

  I could feel something at the top of this thigh. Something hard. My hand slid toward it. I was staring at the stage, but suddenly I wasn’t concentrating on it.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I was the one that had said it couldn’t happen. I was the one who would get hurt if it started again.

  But it felt so good. The sexy musk of his cologne reminded me of his lips against my neck.

  I stroked the hardness between his legs; an accidental brush that I knew was anything but. I felt it move at the attention, though Xander’s eyes stayed on the opera. To know again what it was like to be wanted... just a little play, perhaps. An extension of that kiss on the cheek—a reminder of that rush of power, the knowledge that I could please him. I’d stop before it got too far. I could stop any time I pleased.

  My hand slid to his fly, pulling it down. Xander’s squeeze on my thigh was the only acknowledgement of my actions.

  Well, there was one other acknowledgment—I felt him swell harder as my nails ran lightly up and down the fine material of his designer underwear.

  I pulled him free by touch alone. As long as I looked straight ahead, the covered balcony of our box would mean no-one was the wiser. I smiled—it felt so naughty to be holding him, my index finger playing idly with his tip, as below us a thousand people watched the stage, unaware.

  A bead of moisture wet my finger. It wasn’t the only thing getting slowly wet—I could feel heat between my own thighs too. I remembered every inch of this length. I couldn’t forget it—the way I’d watched it swell before me on the balcony that night. The feeling as it entered me.

  I wanted him in me so badly. My wrist began to stroke him up and down without conscious thought.

  He shifted, eyes still straight ahead, though I knew he wouldn’t be concentrating on the opera now either. Then his hands slid up my thigh, moving slowly, to find my center. I frowned in the dark, my own hand faltering. This wasn’t allowed!

  His hand pressed in, gently, against the material of my dress. Ohh. I widened my legs. No, not allowed. And that’s why it felt so good.

  He began to stroke me, through my material, as I did the same to him. I had the advantage of course, being able to place my hands directly on his flesh. Or at least, I’d thought I did. But the feel of that soft skin underneath my fingers—velvet covering a rod of steel—maybe I didn’t have the advantage I’d thought I had. Each stroke of his fingers mirrored the stroke of my hands, and I could imagine him, naked against me, as we both began to get faster.

  I widened my legs more, for the first time closing my eyes briefly. His fingers were rough against the material of my dress, but softened by a layer of silk and then lace to just the right pressure. Each pass as they moved up and down flicked little tornados up into my stomach, spinning me around, making my breath quicken.

  It wasn’t just his fingers that felt good. The tight lace of my lingerie, normally not noticeable, was now a partner in my pleasure. It pressed in against me everywhere his fingers did not. The effect was a ripple that never quite disappeared—the lace sustaining the pleasure his fingers generated as they roamed.

  No. Maybe I didn’t have the advantage at all. I drew a ragged breath, struggling not to moan out loud, fist tightening upon him. His own breathing was as ragged as mine.

  His fingers pressed deeper, making a furrow in the dress. The tiny tornados grew larger, swirling across my belly, tickling my heart. It was now a struggle to keep my eyes focused straight ahead. It was now a struggle to think of anything but the whirlwind he was stoking within me; raging gusts that were stripping my mind of everything but the awareness that I couldn’t hold out much longer. I was at the opera, and I had to be quiet.

  My hand on his member began to move faster—if I was going down, I was taking him with me. He choked off a strangled groan, his own hand faltering briefly.

  The end was now just a matter of time for us both. I could feel a slickness at his tip, lubricating him as my fingers stroked. My panties were soaking through, but I didn’t care—each caress we made against the other was a glorious precursor, a command that took control
of our bodies and made it the others’. His skilled fingers worshiped me. My eager hand worshiped him.

  I closed my eyes. I had to be strong. I had to stay quiet!

  His fingers stopped suddenly. And then they pressed, firmly, just there.

  The whirlwind took me over, whipping through my frame; a hurricane over which I had no control. My body quivered as my eyes went wide. I bit back a scream with herculean effort.

  My hand grasped him firmly; my motions now spasms that mirrored the contractions occurring inside. I felt him grow within my palm. My hand slid one final time, gripping him tightly, from tip to base. His face screwed up, then suddenly his eyes went wide and he leaned forward, jaw clenched, bringing me with him. His length tightened within my fingers, then began to pulse with sharp urgency.

  He looked for all the world as if captivated by the opera as he leaned against the balcony. But when he turned to me, I knew it was a different performance that had driven his eyes wild.

  He kissed me passionately.

  “People will see,” I said pulling away.

  He seized my hand, pulling me to my feet, pushing me into the deep shadows at the back of the stall, looking into my eyes. “Right at this very moment? I don’t care one bit.”

  My dress went up. His pants went down. He entered me with an urgency my own breathing mirrored; we both groaned quietly.

  “Kate,” he whispered into my neck.

  I shook my head, reveling at the fulfilment I felt inside. “Don’t talk. We’ll make excuses later.”

  A hand went to the back of my head, scooping my hair between his fingers. Then both moved to my hips. He began to thrust. I stifled a moan as I felt him slide all the way in, then out, then in again, the motions causing a ripple of pleasure that followed his shaft’s head as it moved.

  I pulled open the first button on his stiff white shirt, then the second, my hand slipping in to feel his hard chest. Oh but he was hot. He was hot, and I was at the opera, and we were doing it on the second floor balcony while a thousand people watched a show below. It felt so deliciously bad. It felt so amazingly good.

  His thrusts were getting faster now—firm hands guiding my hips to help with the motion. I pushed off him, panting, and spun around. “I want to watch the opera,” I whispered, my grin cheeky in the shadows. I leaned down over the back of the chair, Xander behind me, and he entered again.

  The angle was totally different from behind. It hit all new spots, thrusting deeper, as if spearing my soul. That ripple of pleasure I’d noticed before began to grow stronger.

  I looked down as my body rocked forward and back with his movements. A woman was singing on the other side of the stage. She turned, song directed to someone out of sight below us.

  My pearl necklace caught the light. She looked up, and suddenly her song faltered. She could see me.

  I hesitated momentarily. But then her song grew louder, and though her salute was to the person out of sight, I knew it was meant for me—a you-go-girl that I intended to thoroughly take advantage of.

  Xander’s hips slid smoothly into me once more. My eyes rolled up and my head went down. I didn’t care who was watching. Let them enjoy the show.

  His hand slipped between my legs and my head snapped back up, my eyes widening as he stroked in time to his thrusts. Below, the opera singer had her arms wide to the audience. I almost cried out, joining her in song.

  I was breathing heavier and heavier, concentrating more and more on keeping quiet—my entire energy now devoted to containing the pleasure Xander was generating. It was a battle I was slowly losing. Whimpers escaped my gritted teeth. My fingers on the seat were clenched so hard they were white.

  I couldn’t help it. Each thrust chipped away at my very core—all I wanted to do was scream Xander’s name and the pleasure he stoked inside.

  He slid into me again. Then again, his motions growing harder as his own passions built. He was losing control too, his hands returning to my hips to pull me in over and over again. I pushed back into the thrusts, meeting them in a wild, hard joining of our bodies as one.

  The opera singer glanced up. She saw my wide eyes and gritted teeth. She grinned, and then I saw her bosom swell. Her voice rose an octave in a final crescendo. I could swear she gave me a wink.

  I felt Xander swell too. With a groan he tipped over the edge, and I couldn’t help it—the motion tipped me as well. I opened my mouth and joined in the song below, contractions shuddering over and over as I sung my joy.

  “I don’t know who that was on stage,” I panted when we were done. “But we need to send them roses.”

  His face was shadowed but I could see he was confused. “Of course, it was a great performance, though that final song was quite loud. But why?”

  I shook my head, a blush spreading over my features, and then allowed myself a small grin. “It’s a girl thing—you wouldn’t understand.”

  Chapter Four

  The next time we met, we tried to be smarter. Sure we’d slipped up, but I rationalized that away in my mind as something everyone did just once after a relationship broke up. Never mind the fact that we’d never had a relationship—that it was the very thing I was trying to prevent.

  I couldn’t start a relationship with Xander. I knew that. Not when he was leaving. But that week apart had taught me I couldn’t go cold turkey either. He was such a natural fit to my life—he made me laugh, he was good with my dog. It was like I’d discovered a piece of me that I’d been missing, yet had never known until he arrived.

  And so we tried our hands at being friends. We even talked about it like adults, together after the Opera as we walked hand in hand down the street for ice cream. Then again as we stumbled, kissing passionately through his front door. We’d peg the night up as ‘getting it out of our system’, then start fresh in the morning.

  It was a good theory. But it didn’t seem to work well in practice. There seemed to be a lot that we needed to ‘get out of our systems.’

  But we tried. Heaven help us we did. Two days after the Opera Xander picked me up for Chinese. The theory was good—a public place, good food, great conversation. The problem was that the night never got any further than pick me up—I was still getting ready when Xander arrived; he slipped in and put his arms around me in the bathroom, I leaned back to kiss him, and then 45 minutes later Baxter was hoarse from barking at all the noises going on behind the closed bathroom door.

  The next time, we went to the movies. That ended up with hand jobs in the dark. We went to a bar. I ended up bent over a washroom sink. No matter what we did, and where we went, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It was just so hard when it felt so good—especially when he was so good and hard!

  Of course, we talked after—often for hours, falling asleep in each other’s arms; Xander driving me to work the next morning. But that was beside the point. Xander was leaving, and the worst thing I could ever do would be to fall for him. He was too perfect—my dream man in every way.

  I had to start reining the passion back. To get it to a manageable level by the time he left. Because the problem with dream men was that they disappeared when you woke up.

  In the end, the only thing we found that worked was Baxter. The thought of having sex in front of my little dog was like doing it in front of a child—instant mood killer. As long as we weren’t somewhere we could lock him out of, we were safe.

  And so our meetings became frequent dog walks, which Baxter loved, and I endured. All I wanted was to rip the clothes off Xander. But I knew I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to survive after he left.

  The days became weeks, and Xander soon became my best friend. We saw each other multiple times a day. We laughed, and talked, and I told him about my life, and he told me about his. Baxter was our constant companion, our chaperone, and it was the happiest the little puppy or I had ever been in our lives.

  But I still knew I was fooling myself. Because every night after he left, I couldn’t help it—I’d lock the bedro
om door, lay down on my back in the dark, and live out with my hands all the things I still dreamed he might do to me, if only he would stay.

  Chapter Five

  Xander’s last day came around all too quickly. We both decided to take the afternoon off—him from his fancy parties and ribbon cutting, me from my catheter bags and hospital charts. I was constantly teasing him that he did no real work. He constantly teased me that a relative of his had opened my hospital.

  Richards picked me up; we’d learned the hard way that Xander shouldn’t come around personally. We didn’t tend to leave the house if he did, and Baxter did a lot of confused barking at closed doors.

  Baxter sprinted into the house from the hole he was digging when Richards arrived, dirt trailing from his snout across my just cleaned floor. He gave a bark, tail wagging furiously as he scrabbled at the wall for his leash.

  “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses buster.” I grabbed a sweater, looking at myself in the mirror one last time. Today was the last time I’d see Xander. I wanted to look good for him.

  The last time I’d see Xander. I tried not to let the thought crush me. We still had today; I wasn’t going to spend it crying.

  “Good afternoon Miss Wilmont.” Baxter leapt to the seat beside me as I climbed in the car.

  My smile for Richards was genuine. “What did I tell you about calling me that, Rich?”

  “Force of habit ma’am.”

  “Well, it won’t be a habit much longer.”

  He nodded from the front seat. “If I may say so, I’m going to miss you when we go tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. But let’s not talk about that right now, I’m liable to burst into tears.”

  He chuckled. “Me too, in honesty. He’s going to be a right crabby git when he gets on that plane.”

  The thought made me laugh. “Are you allowed to say things like that?”

  “He’s not going to fire me—I’m the only one that will put up with it!”