The Royal Scepter_A Royal Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  Instead, he found a painfully familiar sight, perched on his stool and gulping back the rest of his lukewarm brew – in those familiar, daggered black heels; a maroon-plaid miniskirt, and a familiar jacket – a very, very familiar jacket. HIS jacket. She glared up at him with those big brown eyes, casually pushing her coiled black hair past her shoulder.

  “At least she remembered the fucking jacket,” he thought to himself; the only sound he made came as a curt grunt in Gracie's direction while he loomed above her.

  “Hey,” Gracie threw at him flippantly, and Braden could already tell from the tone of her voice she'd be a monumental pain in his ass tonight. He was starting to remember all the things about her he wished he could forget – that nagging, irritating sound she got in her voice when she got ready to taunt and argue and aggravate the hell out of him. Braden didn't respond to her with anything other than a stray grunt and an anticipating look – he wanted her the hell off his perch.

  “So how come you never fucked me in the bathroom stalls?” She blurted without a care in the world to who might hear; the chunky drunk with the salt-pepper hair and the trucker's cap next to them gave the pair a kind of a “what the hell” glance, crater-faced Hannigan behind the bar smiling to himself at the exchange. “We were together for how many years? A bunch, and you never took me into the back of the bar for a quickie like that.” This wasn't exactly the place he wanted to have this conversation; an alert eye darted down the bar to see if the petite, big-breasted redhead had returned to the spot, but thankfully, she seemed to be nowhere within earshot. He hoped it stayed that way.

  “Fuck off, Gracie,” he managed in a crackling murmur. “Give me my jacket back.”

  “I'm serious,” she whined sarcastically, and he knew immediately she wasn't going to drop the stupid subject unless he addressed it, or until they started shouting and screaming insults at one another loud enough for the bums outside the bar to hear. “And I like the jacket,” she added, running her fingers along the zipper. “Now I know why you wear it so much.”

  “This isn't the fucking place for this,” he responded, his voice hushed and acrimonious. He'd given up now on reclaiming his bar stool, his irritated, hazy mind beginning to consider just leaving for the night. Still, he wanted his fucking jacket.

  “What do you mean, not the place? What, you can drink and you can fuck here but you can't have a conversation with an old friend?” She gave him the insufferable grin he remembered from far too many of these arguments. She knew her preening sarcasm really got under his skin. He fucking hated it so much, but he couldn't ignore that every frustrating question she posed got him a little harder.

  “I didn't fuck you in any bathrooms because we were too busy fucking in stolen cars and other peoples' beds,” he spewed back at her with clear annoyance in his venomous interjection. “Now, you're on my stool. I hoped to have another beer before I left, but if you just give me my fucking jacket, I'll go home.” With a quirk of her head and several bats of her eyes, Gracie's facetiously elated tone continued. It hadn't been two weeks and already Braden regretted that night.

  “Oh, right? Well, that's not the kind of thing you want to talk about in a place like this, in front of everyone,” she infuriatingly responded, mimicking him. That line got a good chuckle out of the fat man in the adjacent stool; his chortle earned him a killing-eyed glare from Braden, and he silenced himself rather quickly. Braden's eyes shot back to Gracie and he sighed while she sat there, smirking, smirking a hole in him. He stepped indignantly towards the stool and snorted at the fat man in the hat, who now tried hurriedly to busy himself with his beer.

  “Move,” Braden demanded, “The lady and I have issues to discuss.” The chubby man glanced over his shoulder with a nasty glare at first, but when he saw the colors inked brightly along Braden's arm – proud Irish greens-and-oranges – he got the message and hastily lifted himself from the stool, giving a flattering nod to Braden's incomparable grimace, striding towards a nearby empty table. Braden straddled the newly-emptied stool and dropped onto its cushion with a slow, airy 'hssss' accompanying him. With his characteristic nod, Hannigan shuffled to the cooler to retrieve another brew for Braden.

  “So was she a better fuck than me?” Gracie kept needling him, picking mercilessly at the itchy scab molded over their broken relationship. Gracie always got jealous, but outside of their stormy fling, they'd not shared a moment together in over three years. She just wanted to piss him off.

  “I want my jacket back,” Braden growled to her, refusing to engage her. He shifted on the stool, trying to loosen the slack on his pants to accommodate the bulge her bothersome tone inspired below his waist. He could deny it, but his body couldn't.

  “No,” she answered simply, pleased with herself. “I realize I've got something important to you now, Braden, and that means I'm going to get everything I want out of you before you get it back.” Hannigan silently slid an amber-tinted bottle down the bar to Braden, which he snatched up abruptly and took a deep swig from. The cool ichor did little to still the anger in his blood, or the thickness below his belt. With doom in his eyes he turned them in her direction and wrinkled his nose.

  “Cut the bullshit, Gracie, and give me my fucking jacket. It's too late for a fucking scene again,” he demanded. She had no trouble standing face-to-face with him when it came to these barbs and she didn't back down at all, her voice lifting into that nasally howl she preferred in the heat of their arguments.

  “No, Braden, fuck you,” she quipped, setting her elbows up on the bar, cradling her chin between her palms. “You pissed me off. I feel inadequate,” she hissed sardonically, “you never fucked me in any bars. Was that redhead really that good?” Gracie continued, “She didn't have nearly enough ass for you. And she smiled too much. Do you just fuck anything, anymore?” Braden saw nothing but these repeated rounds in his near future, like two boxers circling one another for an hour before anyone throws a punch. Braden had no patience for those kinds of matches; he preferred his to be short, brutal, real; visceral. An alpha wolf like Braden struck first, and he struck fast In the exasperated silence that fell after her sneers, Braden pondered; he took another swallow from his Sam Adams and his hand slipped back into his pocket, his palm falling onto the binding – the belt, wrapped up in his pocket, unseated from the jacket she wore. The memories flashed back quickly; while only the muffled, piped-in music filled the air around him, Braden's brain played back his previous encounter with Gracie like a broken record – he heard her filthy, seething moans, her calls back to him; he heard the thunder rolling while they grunted and groaned and fucked one another senseless.

  “Make me your whore,” she mewled back at him; the flash of the lightning across her fair, creamy skin left him frozen in his stool, his finger tracing the texture of the belt in his pocket. Braden, the hungry wolf, had tasted his prey again; he'd bound her and made her his own once more. The more she yapped and yapped and scolded him, he realized he needed to do it again.

  “Is that what you want?” he growled under his breath at her, in that domineeringly seductive tone he spat angrily in her direction when she lit that fire in his chest. With a wary eye thrown across the bar – thankfully, no one had paid their exchange any further mind – his arm stretched out towards her thigh. The bar in Hannigan's seemed the perfect place for the sordid encounter in his mind – the surface of the bar extended a foot or so out, situated like a table, with plenty of shadowed room for Braden to maneuver his hand beneath it. His palm grabbed with a ruthless squeeze onto her right thigh, his nails scraping along her pearly complexion while he spoke. She twitched at first and instinctively shifted away from his direction, her eyes beaming a dagger glare at his heat-tinged expression.

  “What the f--” she spoke before she muffled herself, her eyes widening while Braden's fingers crept to the inside of her leg, drawing his nails in harsh, blistering paths across the sensitive spots inside her thigh. “Bra--” she started to protest again, before he hushed he
r once more with a skilled swoop of his digits across her thigh, pushing higher, shoving her skirt away as he plunged heedlessly into her heat.

  “You want me to fuck you in a filthy place like this?” he rumbled, his teeth gritting and his eyes dead-on serious, focused on her widened eyes. She started to speak a word in protest but he immediately flicked a finger towards her tight labia, feeling it full, flushed, and damp from his approach. She squeaked instead, biting her bottom lip closed tightly while he taunted her. He leaned in to whisper, a hot, steaming hiss seething through his teeth while he commanded her.

  “Stay quiet and enjoy this,” he whispered, sliding his index finger along one soaked pussy lip, and then teasing it down the other. Gracie spread her palms cautiously across the bar, a scarlet blush running along her fair complexion when she felt the first teases he offered. With a breath Braden grasped his beer casually and brought it to his lips, sucking down a hefty gulp and pounding the bottle down with a loud thud. With a satisfied breath he immediately shattered whatever sense of composure Gracie had assembled when his index finger slid hastily in sweeping, quick motions across the crown of her slit, teasing the twitching, flushed flesh. His finger slipped sneakily between her tight fold and rolled in fast circles around her tense and tender clit. With a predator's seductive eyes Braden watched, he watched for every minuscule response she offered; he watched to make sure she followed his command. Her jaw dropped agape for a moment, but no sound came out; she warily bit her lip once more, squeezing her teeth against it hard enough to redden her chin.

  “Good whore,” he hissed in her direction, his finger torturing her, retreating from her shivering bead and rolling it across her wet opening, teasing at its nerves and splitting her lips apart with two fingertips. He knew how it made her shiver to hear him reward her with that filthy word, and she tried hard to steady herself on the stool, her knuckles whitened against the bar and her lip held tight, a tremor shooting along her spine. She silently struggled to still her breaths, his finger dancing along her slit gingerly, before he startled her, suddenly plunging his middle finger into her depths, piercing her drenched labia and dragging her finger delicately along her inner wall. She subtly shifted her seated position closer to him, her legs held open, her velvety thighs shaking while he dragged one finger along her trembling insides.

  “Braayy--” Gracie's voice creeped out from her gaping lips in a silent whisper, and his gaze immediately shot to her pleasure-gripped, blushing face. He glared stern as stone, and she immediately felt his fingers flee from her quivering depths, her expression gripped in an impassioned terror. With a flippant dismissal on his face he turned back to his beer, scooping it up and downing a gulp. She leaned closer, the pleading pouring like sugar from ruby lips.

  “Please. I'm begging, daddy,” she whispered, an addict suffering from sickening withdrawal in every fiber of herself. “I'll be good. I promise.” Braden glanced around the bar; a few scattered drunks, too deep into their cups to notice the salacious words spoken like wisps of steam from their lips. He leaned in to respond, and her legs twitched when she suddenly felt his fingertips teasing at her wet pussy lips.

  “I don't want to hear a word,” he muttered, “but when I tell you to, I want to hear my name. I want to hear it loud.” Her flummoxed cheeks burnt a blistering rosy-scarlet at his demand, her eyes wider in confusion; and again, before she could think to protest her daddy's demands, she felt three stiff fingers suddenly push between her flush labia, rolling their tips along the opening beneath, softly scraping at the sensitive orifice. Her breathing fell unsteady again and her palms gripped harder at the bar to steady herself, her legs shifting uncontrollably while he zig-zagged his fingertips across her sweet and succulent lips, his index finger finding her clit again and rolling in quick circles around its quaking nerves. He drew torturing, tormenting, endlessly enticing figure-eights along her tight, dripping hole, steadily teasing her insides with the tip of his finger each time he passed. Her legs opened wider in the shadows beneath the bar and she silently gasped in deep, her legs bouncing, high heels clacking against the steel of the bar stool's legs. Those heels, those high, black, jagged heels he coveted so greatly; even after wearing himself out with the redhead earlier, they made him hard; they made him hot.

  Air puffed in pressured bursts from between Gracie's lips; Braden slipped his last three fingers past her pouting folds and plunged them between her slick, shuddering insides; he felt them clasp and clamp and beg for him, unwilling to let him abandon her pleasure again. His arm pivoted, the fingers swirling in sumptuous, tantalizing circles along her tight pink depths, his digits stretching and stimulating every last tiny nerve along her soaked cunt. Her legs splayed wide, her hips scuttling along the seat towards his devilish digits, her breaths strained while he stared deep into his unmoved eyes with an enthralled glare. His hand pumped slowly in-out along her spread slit, savoring her damp juices between his starved tips; his index finger stretched along the crown of her labia, simultaneously pleasing her craven feminine bead each time his fingers slipped deeper into her trembling insides. He threw back the last hefty gulp of his amber-tinted lager and let free a satisfied “aaah,” sliding it away from him by the bar, too taken with the action beneath the shadows now to care whether it clattered to the floor and shattered or not.

  “Tell me who this pussy fucking belongs to,” he demanded of her in a sordid murmur, coaxing the words from her cramped throat with a sudden and fierce plunge of his dexterous fingers into her depths, pushing nearly half of his hand deep enough to stretch her wide. She let out the first notes of an audible, squealing gasp, before she swallowed the sound and, her voice quaking, responded in a thick and heavy whimper.

  “It belongs to you, daddy, it's fucking yours to claim and to pound.” The admission pleased him and he rewarded her with faster, deeper thrusts of his fingers, running his bent tips like a torrid tempest along her inner walls each time he pulled out, and then plummeting and stretching her salacious cunt anew each time he pumped into her. This deep, stroking motions along her clutching, pink, tightly-ribbed insides sent smoke through her mind and adrenaline rocketing down her blood, her eyes wide as she strove to look straight forward, trying to play this coy game of self-control. She could do little to hide her breaths; they came as strained gusts while he pumped his fingers into her and along her walls over, and over, and over. Each pump ended with a swirl of his index finger around her clit, devastating every last inch of her in a tornado of tempting, orgasmic feeling. She whimpered an audible, strained alto timbre once; it conjured Hannigan's curious eye from over the bar, drawing him away from his work cleaning the glasses and stacking them on his shelf. Through her furious blush and hyper-tense breaths she offered him a bright, nervous smile, grasping so hard onto the bar she could have tore the whole thing straight off of the ground. The clack, clack, clack of her daggered heels against the bar stool picked up pace; the rhythm of her breaths, the bounce of her heels, and the slow, squishing, deep thrusts of his fingers formed a sexy, dirty, sinful symphony around them, her thighs quaking with waves of warmth as he tormented her bead.

  “When you cum,” Braden quietly demanded of Gracie, her hearing dull and her brain on fire and her entire abdomen rising and falling with excited heaves, “I want to hear my name. LOUD.” He sneered the last word, pouring its heavy steam against her neck. She glanced cautiously at him, barely able to process what he said while so many sizzling sensations leapt and skittered in lightning arcs across her nerves. Her weight shifted left-right, left-right while he pumped faster and faster and still faster, feeling her depths quivering in more intense, spastic phases. She climbed ever closer to her peak while he began to grunt, growl like a horny animal, trying as best he could to hide how filthy he felt; a slick, satisfied smirk spread across his dark lips and as he felt her soaring towards her apex, his fingers plunged deep into her delectable pussy, each tip curling, curling mercilessly against her sensitive upper wall, tugging across her ribbed flesh in light
ning-fast motions, Braden fighting every urge inside of himself to dive under the bar and devour those folds whole and suck every sweet dribble of feminine juice dry. He breathed fire in time with her, lifting her faster and faster towards her climax with those talented fingers, slipping and stimulating and scraping faster and faster and FASTER AND--

  “NnnNNNn-BRADEN!” She roared in an ear-splitting exclamation, absolutely dripping from her tongue with so much dirty, delighted desire. She moaned like he always knew his perfect, seductive, low-class, low-brow slut could; the only woman that truly made his mind reel. He felt her gushing folds clamp around his fingers in uncontrollable, tightening waves, her whole body stiff and taut while she soared and screamed into her climax. Her thighs flexed fully shut, trapping his hand between her full and fleshy legs. Fingers stilled now, he felt her nerves erupt and convulse around his hand. Her upper body jittered and her eyes rolled skyward, her lips gaping while her entire pale complexion burst into a flustered, rosy tint. Braden watched every shake and quake and churn of her shapely body with a lewd ecstasy in his animalistic eyes, withdrawing his wringing-wet fingers from her slick depths slooowly, even as her thighs fought hard to keep him there for a moment more.

  As he felt the last of her churning feminine warmth, dragging his palm across her creamy leg, reality snapped back into both of their sex-gripped brains and they realized the awkward silence and the suspicious eyes her deafening shout had drawn to their direction. A quick moment of smutty, amused panic swept across Gracie's face while she gathered her senses and tried to still her thumping heart; she stifled the urge to let a giggle escape her throat. Instead, she broke the silence by turning herself towards Braden, improvising.

  “B.. B-BRADEN! You fucking asshole!” She followed up, shouting much as she had when climax gripped her. “You're not getting your fucking jacket back!” Fighting to sell the scene as best she could, Gracie sent a stiff palm soaring towards Braden's cheek, colliding with his face with a loud and satisfying sting. She picked herself off the stool, her body swaying a moment while her legs strained to regain their strength, her orgasm still sending pulsating heat through her muscles. With lopsided steps she stomped her way through Hannigan's and out the door in a loud huff, shrieking shrill cusses and insults back over her shoulder while she went. Braden heard Hannigan laughing behind him; he shot a stony look in the old barkeep's direction, which silenced him pretty quickly.