Low Country Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  When I reach the gallery—it’s more of a bar turned into a gallery—I look behind me to see nothing and no one. The bouncer lets me inside with a fee of twenty euros. I give him a tip and tell him not to let anyone know I came in. He shrugs.

  The floor is cement, painted red, and the tables are the kind of dark, old wood that always looks sticky. But each and every surface is covered with some kind of art—small sculptures on each table, paintings and graffiti covering the walls and countertops. And there’s some kind of experimental dance troupe performing on stage as people mill about, laughing and talking and actually having fun.

  I order a beer without the bartender recognizing me, and I take off my jacket, rolling up the sleeves. Even if she’s not here, this place seems like it’s a good time, and not a total snooze.

  Then, I turn, and I see her. My cock stiffens at the very idea of meeting a woman like this. So long, I’ve suffered through arranged dates, boring ballets, overly fancy dinners, and all sorts of palace theatrics.

  It’s not just that.

  She’s different.

  There’s nothing painted or artificial about her—her beauty is genuine. She doesn’t have puffed lips, and she’s not tottering on heels. Her blond locks are wild with curls, gathered in a messy bun. She’s dressed in clingy black leggings, Doc Marten boots splattered with paint, a fitted undershirt, and a wispy, thin tunic concealing just enough curve and silken skin to render her fascinating—and far more beautiful than any woman I met at that gallery.

  Duncan would be horrified.

  Her eyes meet mine, and I give her a genuine smile—no artifice there either. There’s something mischievous about how she looks at me, like she’s undressing me with her eyes. She leans over to the man she’s been talking to and quickly departs, walking my way with a wide, un-self-conscious stride.

  “I’m Collin,” I say.

  “Norah.” She absentmindedly pulls her hair out of the bun, and it spills over her shoulders in a sunny cascade.

  “Artist, adventurer, thrill-seeker?”

  “All of the above.”

  “And you’re… American, I take it? What brings you to Paris?”

  “Getting away from old habits… and looking for new stories.”

  “Found any yet?”

  “No, but I’m still searching.”

  “Maybe I can be part of a good one,” I say.

  “Maybe.” She grins at me. “But I already have an exciting night planned. Just wanted to… meet someone afterwards.”

  “You’ve already met him. And he already likes you.” I can’t help it—the words come out of my mouth unbidden. Maybe it’s the couple of drinks I’ve had, but the words definitely feel right.

  “Don’t make such a quick judgment. You’ve been talking to me for about thirty seconds.”

  “Hopefully more. I’d like to stick around longer than…” I take out my phone and tap the screen. “Just one date.”

  “You say that now.” She steps closer to me, and I smell the tropical scent of her hair—floral and coconut. I do want to know this girl just a little bit better, I realize. But my position as prince doesn’t often afford me such opportunities.

  “Let me get you a drink.” I signal the bartender and walk over to the bar with Norah. She gets whiskey—straight. I like watching her drink it, and I feel something tighten deep inside me as her lips pull upward into an enchanting smile.

  “I, um, haven’t used that thing before. Sparc. Not to meet someone for—” She shrugs and raises an eyebrow.

  “The app?” I take a swig of beer. “I haven’t either. But I’m glad I did tonight.”

  “Me too. My ex—er my sometimes stalker—Eric—has been following me around. He’s going home next week, and he just ditched me here at my art show.” She pauses. “Not that I’ve been sleeping with him or anything—he’s just been following me around.” She looks around nervously, like I’m going to judge her for finding me on the app.

  “Glad he’s gone. I’d like to get to know the artist-adventurer-thrill-seeker for myself.”

  She laughs. “Okay, well, you want to stay for my painting? Then we can…”

  I nod. “Your painting?”

  “Consider it foreplay,” she says cryptically.

  God, yes. Uncomplicated. No strings attached. I look her over. Her breasts are round and full beneath her tunic, and her ass is a work of art in and of itself. I let her lead me over to the stage, near where she was standing.

  There are stage hands clearing away the hippie-style dancers and rolling out canvas all over the stage and behind us. Stage hands are bringing out buckets of paint.

  “What is all this?” I start laughing. “Are you going to…”

  She nods. “I’m a broke artist.” She leans into me for a second, eyes sparkling. “And I don’t intend to be wearing any of these clothes later.”

  I watch her as she helps the stage hands prep. She hasn’t recognized me yet, and if she hasn’t, she won’t. Perfect for one night together.

  Her eyes glint and crackle as she gets up on stage, and they’re fixed on me. There’s a sexual, sensual energy pouring off of her as she arranges the paint cans. A bucket of red sloshes up and spills onto the edge of one black boot, and she laughs, letting it ring out long and loud. Everyone in the entire place turns to her, eyes locked on her pristine clothes and her body.

  “Merde.” She looks around the bar and grins. “That’s French for ‘Oh fuck, I spilled this paint.’”

  There are laughs all around. She kicks another can over. Green this time. And then orange. The colors swirl together in a rainbow sea. My heart beats faster as I watch her. It’s madness, and her boots are utterly covered in paint. She slides as she walks, tracing ridged lines over the canvas in all manner of colors.

  “Is this artistic enough for you?” She yells through the din of the bar.

  “Not quite!” Someone yells from the back. She takes her white tunic off, revealing the tops of her perfect, round breasts, poured into the tight black tank-top she’s wearing. She throws the tunic at me, and I catch it. I drape the gauzy fabric over my arm, but I don’t move. I’m mesmerized, watching her.

  The lights in the bar dim, and a purple spotlight falls on her.

  I can’t quite remember her name from the app. Was it … Cora? Something old and Gothic. Dickensian.

  Paint pours from the ceiling, one can after another—purple, blue, green, iridescent black. It splashes like waves hitting the shore, natural and unstoppable.

  She raises her arms in celebration, kicking the paint and letting it splash on the canvas, on the floor, into her hair and all over the untouched black of her outfit. It’s an explosion of color and sound. She stomps, dances, turns—and then she lies down in the middle of it, rolling and moving her body over the canvas.

  My eyes are locked on her. It seems like hours have passed when her performance ends, and the weirdos in the bar clap wildly for her. I do the same, like I’m in some sort of erotic trance.

  When she stands again, her nipples are hard, pushing through the lace of her bra and camisole. Green and blue paint trickles over her breasts in tendrils. Her hair is a mass of red and ochre and silver.

  As the canvasses are cleared and hung to dry, she comes and stands beside me.

  “What did you think, pretty boy?”

  “I’m a pretty boy?” I grin wickedly. “I came to this bar and watched you do… whatever that was.”

  “You did. I guess that gives you some credit.” She pauses. “I don’t really know how this works. But I live right on this street. It’s… Not much.” She shrugs like it doesn’t matter where she lives, like nowhere is really home. And she’s talking so fast, I’m not sure if she’s asking me back to her place, or if she’s just making conversation.

  “You asked me what I thought,” I say slowly. I pause, and she looks up at me with those glinting eyes. “I think you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  She takes my hand in hers, g
etting green paint on my skin, and she pulls me down towards her, kissing me. Her body collides with mine in the middle of the bar, and I’m covered in color. Consumed in it.

  I have the passing thought that I won’t know how to explain this to Duncan, but I’m not sure I care.

  “We’re going back to my place,” she whispers. She pulls me through the bar and out onto the street in a mad dash. I nearly forget to grab my coat, but the bartender throws it at me at the last second, and I catch it, smearing it with paint.

  It’s so unlike the art opening I’d attended earlier this evening that I have to laugh. Norah laughs too.

  “I’ll be moving on in a week,” she says, the wind whipping through her sandy blond, paint covered locks. “It’s not much but…it’s enough for right now…”

  I take her then and kiss her, my tongue glancing off of hers. “Don’t care,” I murmur. She walks with me along the dark Parisian street, arm in arm. Like we’re lovers, old friends. But we barely know each other—and even better, she has no idea who I am.

  She practically drags me up the stairs to her place. It’s a bohemian hole-in-the-wall, and she probably has at least five other roommates. Thankfully, they seem to be absent—though there could be one lurking behind one of the Turkish wall hangings or behind the clearly broken cappuccino maker.

  But we don’t pause for a tour of her living arrangements. Inside the apartment, she barely manages to turn on a lamp before I lift her and carry her over to what I assume is her bed. She squeals in delight and kisses me again as I hold her, suspended in midair like some paint-covered sprite.

  I throw her down on the bed, and she kicks off her boots. They land in a wet thump on the floor and she laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be getting back the security deposit.”

  I pause for a second. “What will you do?”

  She lifts up onto her paint-covered elbows. “I’ll think of something. I always do. I’ve got a few accounts here and there.”

  There must be a concerned look on my face, because she takes her shirt off and throws it away. And then, she pulls me down towards her waiting body. “Shut up,” she says. “We’re not here to chat.”

  I peel off her paint-covered leggings, and her milky white thighs spread willingly for me. I can feel the heat of her body rising to meet mine, and my brain tweaks into that place—the one where I become hunter instead of man. My cock rises to the occasion.

  Her body is perfection—skin pliant and soft, reactive to each touch. I kiss her again, slowly this time, trailing my lips over the line of her chin and down to the tender flesh of her neck. My tongue traces the goosebumps rising on her flesh, and I take one nipple in my mouth and then the other.

  She moans softly, then whimpers in need.

  My fingers descend, tugging her panties to the side and slipping inside her delicate folds. I feel her clit, swollen and ready for my touch. Her back arches as I slip one finger inside of her, and then another.

  “Let’s get this done,” she says, putting one hand to the bulge pressing against my jeans.

  “I think I can manage that,” I say, unbuckling myself and letting my cock free.

  She slips my jeans off and kneels before me, looking up at me with those curious, glinting eyes. Her hand wraps around my cock, and she presses her fingers gently against my flesh, stroking me, tracing the ridges and contours with careful attention.

  “Lie down,” she instructs.

  She stands and presses me back into the bed this time. “You have a way with words,” I say.

  “I’d rather not exchange any more of them,” she says, almost haughtily.

  She’s not timid. She straddles me, her naked skin against mine, her hands working my cock. Gently, slowly, she lowers her lips to the head of my shaft and goes to work, swirling her tongue around the tip, and bringing my rigid length into her mouth. And she looks at me as she does it, bringing me to heights I didn’t think possible.

  This isn’t something that happens. The girls I see use this kind of thing to get in my head, if they do it at all.

  But Norah is just having fun.

  She brings me to the very limit and backs off, slowing the movements of her mouth and tongue and bringing her cherry-red lips back to the head. There are still flecks of paint on her face and hair. They make her look more beautiful, more like the wild thing she is.

  She builds me up again, licking and sucking, taking me to the back of her throat and swallowing gently, time and time again, like she wants to milk me dry. I’m unable to hold on any longer. My balls seize, and an orgasm made of light and liquid gold fills every nerve ending in my body. I come hard, lifting my eyes to watch her as she swallows every last drop.

  Normally, I might leave in this situation. I’d be done.

  But I’m not satisfied. I want that body—I need to know it.

  I pull her next to me.

  “That was…” I murmur. Earth-shattering. Unexpected. Insane.

  Before I can think of a word, she brings a finger to my lips. “Shhh. You’ll ruin it.”

  I grin. “You might be right. I’m told I don’t have a way with words.”

  “Still talking,” she murmurs, curling her fingers in my hair and yawning. Lazily, she moves her naked, paint-flecked body to straddle me again, positioning herself above my chest.

  “I need something to shut me up, don’t I?” I pull her closer towards me until she’s sitting just above my face.

  She laughs. “I like how you think.”

  She lowers the pink lace of her panties closer to my lips. I smell her, kissing her thighs as she sits above me. My tongue begins to explore her skin. She’s salty with sweat, her scent rich and dark and wholly inviting. I take it in, breathing deep, and I feel my cock stirring again.

  Nearly driven mad, I grab her thighs and begin licking and sucking at the thin lace barrier that separates me from her sex. I use my tongue to find the tight, hard bud of her clit, and I suck it between my lips. Each moan and each involuntary movement of her hips makes my cock—impossibly—harder. I use one hand to yank her panties to the side, and I feast on her, covering her clit with my mouth and moving my tongue around that sensitive button in rhythmic circles as she bucks hard against me, her voice building as her own orgasm grows, deep inside of her core.

  I’m vaguely aware that she’s raised her hands to her nipples and that she’s riding me faster and faster now. She’s crying out, arching her hips again and again. Her legs shake, and I know she’s coming with my tongue inside of her. I’m buried in her taste—and I haven’t been this satiated or this hard in years.

  Just as she’s coming down from the high of her orgasm, I throw her back on the bed and move her to her hands and knees.

  She’s laughing, her wild hair hanging over her face. She combs it behind one ear and looks back at me. She takes one look at my cock. “Again? You’re hard again?”

  “All your fault,” I whisper, stroking myself. Her pussy is dripping, and utterly inviting.

  “I don’t have a condom,” she murmurs. “But I’m … taken care of.”

  “Good.”

  I nod with a wicked grin on my face. I take her light body in mine and position her on the bed, her perfect ass in the air. I let my fingers explore her, dipping inside of her soaking wet pussy, and up over her tender, swollen clit.

  “Ohhh….” She moans. “Don’t stop…”

  I press my cock to her entrance and slide inside her, bit by bit. She’s impossibly tight, impossibly hot.

  “God, you’re big,” she groans. “More… please, more.”

  I almost lose it then. Her sharp taste is on my lips, and the feeling of her mouth on my cock is still with me. I’ve wanted to come deep inside of her since I first laid eyes on her in that bar, and I’d stroke my own cock a thousand times thinking of her rolling around in that paint, nipples hard as diamonds. But I hold myself back.

  I fuck her with long, measured thrusts, each movement designed to draw out her pleasure.

&nb
sp; Usually I’m thinking of my own, but this time, it’s different. I ride her as she comes again, her body shaking from exhaustion. Once she’s come just one more time, I let my balls seize up again, and I fill her up with my liquid hot essence. She moans, bucking hard against me.

  We collapse together, and I fall asleep draped in her arms and legs, tangled in her body heat, my skin slick and perfumed with her scent.

  I went out tonight to get art and a beautiful woman.

  I definitely got both—and far more than I expected.

  My phone is ringing. I hear it from a long way off, the tones familiar, melodic. “Purple Rain.” A song from another time, another prince.

  “Jesus, what the hell is that?”

  It’s Norah’s voice that wakes me, not the sound of my phone. I sit up, confused and blinking back sleep. The room is bright with sunshine and barely furnished, scattered with dirty clothes and books.

  My phone keeps ringing; it’s the ringtone I’ve set for palace security. It’s the only tone I know I can’t let go to voicemail. They don’t call without a good reason.

  I scramble in the back pocket of the jeans I dropped in a rumpled heap last night. I swipe to answer, hoping I’ve caught the call before it disconnects. If that happens, a whole different set of events get put into motion, none of them good, especially considering I’m naked and in a strange girl’s bed. I don’t need a mass of armed men bursting in under the assumption I’ve been kidnapped, ready to shoot first and ask questions later.

  “Yes?!” I say, relieved to hear live air on the other end of the connection.

  “Your Highness, this is Rowling. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a situation developing at the palace. Your mother has requested your immediate return.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is she alright? Is she ill?”

  “No, sir. Her Royal Majesty is in fine health. I’m sorry sir—I can’t discuss this on an insecure line. When you get to the plane, we’ll have a secure connection and I’ll brief you. The jet is standing by at the airport. Is Duncan with you now?”