by Zoey Oliver
A little moan escapes me, and then another. I’m holding onto the chair as though it will keep me grounded here on earth. His touch is sending me flying, and I know it’s wrong, but I need more. I’m so close to coming already, he doesn’t even know. I’ve been electrified since he whirled me across the ballroom, my entire body sizzling with static charge as he held me close.
He moves his hands around my hips and pulls me forward, my ass sliding to the edge of the seat. “Abi...”
It’s a husky, desperate growl of a whisper that spreads through me like a drug, my nipples hardening into stiff point, my pussy clenching at the sound of his voice begging for a taste of me.
I steal a glance at him, and the look on his face, so possessed with hunger, makes my insides quiver. The longing in my eyes is all the permission he needs. He pushes my dress up to my waist and tears my panties away, ripping them off me as if they were made of delicate paper.
I’m bared to him and exposed to the night air, but it’s a naughty, delicious feeling. I dart a quick peek at the balcony doors, but all I can see is the backside of the security man’s suit jacket.
No one is looking outside, which is a good thing, because Henry leans forward and dips his chin, and his mouth is on me, hot and wet. I clutch the arms of the chair as he kisses my most sensitive area, his tongue darting between my folds.
He gently spreads the lips of my pussy and dives on my clit like it’s Christmas and he’s been waiting all day to open his presents.
It’s better than my hands and fingers have ever been. It’s better than I’ve fantasized. The heat from his mouth, his nimble tongue flicking against my swollen nub, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and I can’t believe it’s finally happening here, now, on the balcony outside the ballroom.
I hear breathy gasps between long, blissful moans, and realize it’s me. There’s a white-hot tension building between my legs, and I’m ready to explode. The heat rises from my pussy and into my chest. I want to run his hair through my fingers, to grab onto his shoulders, but I keep my death grip on the chair.
But my hips, my hips respond to Henry. It’s just the smallest of movements — a little sway like on the dancefloor — but he groans as I move with him. Henry does something with his tongue — oh my God, does he do something with his tongue — pressing into my clit with a circle, and my thighs tremble and clench.
The lights on the balcony begin to flicker and I wonder if I’m going to blackout from holding my breath in as my body vibrates. I lift myself from the seat, pressing into him with need.
Henry squeezes his fingers into my rear, getting good handfuls of my ass as his licks my pussy and sucks my clit like a man possessed. I clamp my lips shut to muffle my cries, whimpering silent moans of long-awaited-for satisfaction, my skin hot with the flush of a powerful orgasm.
Chapter Five
ABIGAIL
“Would you like more tea?” The waiter leans over my right shoulder expectantly, but I cover the dainty cup with my hand and shake my head.
“No, thank you.” If I have any more tea, I’m going to be waddling like a fat duck to the ladies’ room.
Two hundred guests — the royal family, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking members of the court, and assorted celebrities — are seated at large round tables under an expansive white tent on the East Lawn. There’s a late season cold, crisp in the air, and thousands upon thousands of tiny lights are woven throughout the tent. The effect is like luminous fairy dust.
Dinner is almost over, and dessert will be served soon, but I’m too stuffed to take another bite. The legendary late night Black Diamond event — the charity poker game which has brought in wealthy card sharks and high-rolling celebrities from all over the world — is about to begin, which will last well into the night. A man’s event, mostly, ending in cigar smoke and unbuttoned tuxedo collars.
As luck would have it, I’ve been seated at the same table as Henry. The seating arrangements are supposed to be random — as each guest arrives, they draw a playing card and find the numbered table matching their card. But something tells me Henry skipped over luck of the draw and went straight for an empty spot at my table. Royal prerogative. Not like anyone’s going to reprimand him.
He’s sitting across from me, a wide expanse of white linen between us, enough to prevent a polite volume of conversation, especially with the buzz of chatter and clinking of silverware and dishes filling the tent. He’s talking to the Duke of Fellsworth, but his eyes are on me, as they have been all through dinner.
Every time I look up, he’s staring, and I blush like a schoolgirl making eye contact with a cute boy for the first time. Over and over. Or perhaps I’m staring at him, I don’t know anymore. I can’t keep track of who is looking at who at this point. It’s a shock no one has noticed, or if they have, at least they haven’t said anything, except for Emily, who has elbowed me at least a dozen times over the past hour and is currently muffling a giggle behind her teacup.
I lower my eyes, embarrassed at the rosy shade of my cheeks, and hiss at her. “Emily, for heaven’s sake, shush. You are not helping.”
She’s already making me regret telling her about the private moments with Henry on the balcony last night, but I still love her anyway, and besides, who else was I going to tell? It was too big to keep to myself — a momentous occasion worthy of shouting from the rooftops, if I could.
He literally took my breath away and rocked my world, ooooh did he ever. My God, I had no idea I could even come that hard. I’d wanted more, I wanted all of him, every hot, firm inch of him inside me — his tongue, his fingers, his cock. But a moment after my legs stopped shaking from my earth-shattering orgasm and my vision swam back into focus, Henry pulled my dress down.
“Sorry, Abi,” he’d whispered. He rose from his knees and pressed his lips to my cheek in a tender kiss, his skin hot against mine.
Bewildered, I’d sat forward, reaching for Henry, but he was already walking away. I thought the flashing of lights behind my closed eyelids had been orgasm-induced, but upon opening my eyes, I noticed the dim lights of the sconces along the exterior wall of the balcony were indeed blinking on and off. A second later, the glass door swung open and the royal guard stuck his head outside.
“Your Highness?” the guard had called hesitantly, his eyes lowered to the ground. “So sorry to disturb you, sir, but your father, sorry, His Highness the King, is having another of his migraines. He needs you to step in as host.”
“Yes, coming,” Henry said, already halfway to the door.
The lights had stopped blinking by then, and I realized it had been a signal to the Prince that our private moment was about to be interrupted. Just before he slipped through the door into the ballroom, he’d turned and looked at me, a lingering gaze that I couldn’t quite read. And then he was gone.
Emily’s continued giggling pulls me back to the present. The noise level at the table has increased now that dinner is finished and large quantities of wine and spirits have been consumed.
I can still feel Henry’s eyes on me, undressing me in front of everyone, this intense sparkle in his gaze. And is that a hint of jealousy I’m catching once in a while? I think it might be. Every time one of the men at the table talks to me, Henry is on instant alert.
I’m supposed to be chatting politely with the guests seated at the table, including two of the suitors my parents have picked out for me, but there is a growing wetness between my legs that is entirely distracting, because I can’t look at Henry without thinking about his mouth on me, and how he knows exactly what to do with his tongue. It sends a pulse of pleasure through my pussy every time he lifts his champagne glass and parts his mouth to take a sip.
It doesn’t help that he keeps licking his lips — whether intentionally or not, it’s driving me crazy.
I want to climb across the table, draped with crisp white linen and crystal stemware, directly into Henry’s lap and wrap my legs around him, proper dinner party be damned. The f
antasy is playing itself out in my head so vividly that all my attempts at conversation have been awkward and short lived.
The gentleman on my right — Horace something, I believe — turns to me. “Lady Abigail, I heard you just graduated magna cum laude from Umberland.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What was your field of study, if I may ask?” Horace is easily twenty years my senior, with an actual, bonafide pencil mustache, thin brown hair, and a deeply pockmarked red nose.
Despite staring at Henry for most of the evening, I couldn’t help but notice that Horace had sucked down five glasses of wine already and is currently working on the sixth.
“Environmental engineering, actually.”
He wrinkles his nose, his tone becoming a mix of patrimony and incredulity. “Engineering? Isn’t that a man’s job?”
What the hell? Where did my parents’ advisors find this joker? “Well, traditionally, most positions have been held by men, but that’s slowly changing.” At least outside of the royal court, in the modern world.
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
He waves his hands. “Oh, you know — you’ve got your little piece of paper to show that you’ve accomplished something, a nice certificate to hang on the wall. Very urban of you.”
I blink slowly, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly. “It’s quite a bit more than just a piece of paper. I worked very hard to earn that degree. I studied nearly day and night for years, wrote research papers, helped with field projects, took every related workshop and seminar I could. It did not come easy, I assure you.”
“Well, yes, my Lady, I wouldn’t presume that it would be easy for a woman to achieve such a thing, especially one so young and pretty as yourself, but it’s hardly like you’ll be employing any of that knowledge in your future.”
“Excuse me?”
He rolls his hand in the air, his gaze wandering the tent, sounding the more bored with the topic the more we talk. “Well, you’re not actually going to go gallivanting off to work, now are you?”
I give him a cold stare. “I had been planning to, yes. I’d like to work with a nonprofit in third world countries.” Especially since those places are far, far away from you.
He snorts, and something resembling laughter catches in his throat. “I can picture it now. A woman of nobility in muck boots, slinging elephant shit in Africa somewhere? Pardon my language, my Lady, but really. You’re just having a good one over on me now.” He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head.
“Actually, I’d love to go work in Africa,” I say through clenched teeth. “And elephant shit doesn’t scare me. I have done field work before.”
He clicks his tongue and sucks back the rest of his wine, no longer interested in the topic, dismissing it as only men who have a stately title in this little corner of the world can.
I glance around, hoping someone — anyone — has heard this nonsense and can confirm I’m not crazy. But everyone is busy chatting with someone else, even Henry, who is motioning to the waiter to stop serving refills of wine to the Duke of Fellsworth.
I turn back to Horace the Horrible. “I certainly wouldn’t expect to get served tea and sit comfortably in a plush air-conditioned room all day. I’d pull my weight and contribute valuable data to research programs, help make a difference in the world.”
He sets his glass down with a thud. “That’s all well and good, my Lady, but perhaps you need to rethink these preposterous visions, because what your husband will expect of you is quite different.”
I glare at him and grit my teeth, but refrain from saying what I’m thinking. I’m gripping my fork tightly, imagining what it would be like to jab it into his misogynistic, patronizing leg.
Not knowing when to keep his trap shut, he continues. “I know it’s very easy to be swept away by silly notions at your age,” he goes on, puffing his chest out assuredly, “but I’m quite certain none of your suitors have plans involving Africa, elephant dung, or a wife with career ambitions. I certainly don’t. God forbid my heir is born in some dusty desert in a piss-poor shanty town. I expect my wife to tend her duties at home, where she belongs, as does any gentleman with high standards.”
He looks at me finally, and that look says it all. It says what all my suitors won’t verbalize. That a gentleman of high standards really means a man with an impressive bank account and the right connections. They know I’m for sale. They won’t say it, but they know.
“You shouldn’t mention these things if you want to land a decent husband, dear — just leave the business to the men.”
I swallow hard and take a deep breath, trying not to choke on my indignation or on the vague sense of shame that comes with the position I find myself in. It’s humiliating. I’d almost deceived myself into thinking I could find a good match with a decent man. As I’ve been trained to, I keep my lips sealed, but under the table, my hands are shaking I’m so furious.
Across from us, the Duke’s phone rings loudly, and he stands up unsteadily beside Henry, bumping the table several times. As the china clatters and people snatch up full wine glasses to keep them from spilling, I seize the opportunity to whisper to Emily.
“Let’s excuse ourselves to the ladies’ room. If I have to hear another word out of this guy’s mouth, I’m going to stab him with my fork, and I won’t even be sorry.”
Chapter Six
HENRY
“Your Highness?”
I turn to my left, where Pierre, my security chief, has leaned over to whisper to me. “Yes?”
“There are two young ladies who’ve requested to speak with you privately.”
Curiosity filling me, I get my hopes up that it’s Abi and her assistant, beckoning me to wherever they’ve left to. “Concerning?”
He glances up at the many faces turned curiously toward us and clears his throat. “I assume it’s of a personal nature, sir. They wouldn’t tell me.” Code for ‘you’d prefer I didn’t say the true reason aloud’.
“Where?”
“I asked them to wait at the portico near the chef’s entrance.”
“Very well, thank you, Pierre.”
“Would you like me to accompany you, sir?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
I place my napkin on the table and excuse myself, winding my way through the gaily decorated tables to the exit of the large event tent. It’s a brief walk across the East Lawn to the rear of the palace, where I spot two women hovering together behind the columns of the portico covering the kitchen delivery entrance. Disappointment hitches in my chest. Neither of them is Abi.
“Ladies? You needed to speak with me?”
They smile and blush, bowing their heads in unison. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“What can I help you with this evening?”
They look at each other and then turn to me, stepping closer.
“We, um, we have a special request,” the redhead says, smiling demurely at me.
“Yes?” Don’t do what I think you’re about to.
“I’m Leela, and this is Stacy,” the redhead continues, “and we have a bit of a situation.”
I keep an oblivious façade up, hoping they’ll stop. I’m no idiot. I know that look they’re giving me. “How may I be of assistance?”
“We each had a birthday this month; we both turned twenty-one.”
I can feel the fakeness in my smile, but they don’t seem to notice. “Congratulations, a belated happy birthday to you both.”
“We’re hoping you can help us celebrate,” Stacy says.
“Oh?” Fuck me, they’re going to do it.
“The thing is, we’ve never been with a man before.” Stacy tosses her blonde hair and looks at me from under long eyelashes.
I raise both eyebrows. Not because of the propositions, that I’m used to. It’s because I highly doubt either of these girls have never been with a man before. “I see.”
They step forward together, now inches a
way from me, and Leela slips her arm around Stacy’s waist.
“We’d like you to be our first, Your Highness,” she says, tracing a finger down Stacy’s chest. “With both of us, together.”
“Doing whatever pleases us — all night long,” Stacy adds.
That primal part of me sets my heart beating faster, and yet, my response is without hesitation. It’s firm. “I’ll have to pass on that, unfortunately.”
“But... but,” the blond stammers. “We’re up for anything. We’ll do whatever you want.”
I take a step back and clasp my hands together. “That’s not the issue, I assure you. I’m certain there are many gentlemen — several in that tent, in fact — who’d jump at a chance to, um, celebrate with you. But it won’t be me.”
“But you’re the only one we want,” Leela says, pushing her lips into a pout. “We heard you were into this sort of thing.”
Last year me, yes — I likely would have taken them up on their offer. But I’m not that man anymore. I keep a civil expression on my face, the polite but otherwise emotionless look all the royals of Ostwyn do so well. “So sorry, ladies. Thank you for the offer, but I really must get back to the dinner party now.”
I turn heel and walk away quickly, crossing the lawn without looking back. I’m almost to the tent when Pierre steps out of the shadows.
“Is everything okay, Your Grace?”
“Yes, it’s fine. I’m going to return to my seat now.”
He looks in the direction of the portico. “Shall I bring the ladies to your suite later, sir?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. They’ll have to find other company.”
A brief look of confusion flashes across his ordinarily neutral expression. “Has my selection displeased you, my Lord?”
“They were perfectly lovely. But I’m not interested.”
“Oh, I see. I thought, perhaps, since you haven’t left the estate in a long while, you might want to take advantage of the, um, offerings the festival has brought.”