by Kim Karr
Pissed off at her audacity, I lower my head and look into her eyes. “Like I’d answer that.”
She leans forward, as if no longer afraid to be close to me. “This isn’t about a story, Julius. This is real-life. My life. You owe me an answer.”
My breathing picks up. “I don’t owe you anything.”
Her lips are so close to mine when she speaks, “Maybe you don’t think so, but I do.”
I don’t know why I even entertain giving her a response, but for some reason, I do. “Yes, I loved Liz,” I tell her, but then the hurt in her eyes is too much, so I decide to be real. “No, I didn’t, not enough, anyway,” I confess, and then I kiss Lia even though I know better. When she moans lightly, her lips part for the invasion of my tongue, and I pull her closer, pressing our bodies together. “And I blame you for that.”
“For your confusion?”
“For being in my fucking head.” Fuck, I just can’t seem to keep my hands off her. Grinding against her, my cock nudges her pussy, and I know I should walk away; I just can’t.
When I put a hand between us to cup her sex, she pushes into my touch with a greedy, desperate sigh that drives me wild. “Good, because you’re in mine, too.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Yes, it is.”
I laugh. “I doubt it.”
In the next moment, she’s pressing her palms against my chest and pushing me back. “You shouldn’t,” she whispers, and then she’s circling me, our lips still attached, and I’m following her. “Because I’m not lying.”
Before I know it, I’m the one with my ass pressed against the cherrywood, and she’s dropping to her knees and tugging open my button and lowering my zipper like she wants to show me just how much I’m in her head.
On her knees, she uses one hand to free my cock with a tug and then pushes the fabric of my pants down my thighs with the other. My dick jets out, wanting this more than it should.
Taking my dick deep into her mouth with no hesitation, she feels just like I remember, no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget.
Suddenly, the head of my cock nudges the back of her throat, and it’s my turn to moan. “Fuck.”
I hadn’t expected this, but I’m not about to stop her, either.
Pure lust takes over. It doesn’t matter where we are or that we shouldn’t be doing this, I don’t only want this—I need this. I put a hand on her head, guiding her, but I really don’t have to. She’s doing just fine. She wraps her hand around my shaft, stroking as she sucks, the way I’d encouraged her to three years ago, when she wasn’t quite sure what I liked.
She’s sure now.
And it’s good.
So fucking good.
The hate I feel disappears, and unbelievable pleasure has me falling into the sensations of Ophelia’s mouth and hand. “That’s it, Pretty Girl,” I groan.
Her eyes dart to mine, and I can’t even take the words back, not now, in this incredibly hot moment. Instead of worrying about calling her something from our past that means nothing anymore, I push forward into the wet, warm grip of her lips and tongue, focusing on nothing else but the building ecstasy. Most of the time, I can make sure I get off in minutes. Today, I don’t want to, and I relish in the way Ophelia is drawing out this blowjob by switching up the pace and rhythm, keeping me on the edge and not letting me go over.
After a few minutes, I look down again, and when she looks up at me with that bewitching look of hers, I know I’m about to explode into her hot mouth. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”
She doesn’t stop.
Right now, I’m unable to think about anything other than the white-hot moment of this incredible orgasm.
Gasping out a guttural growl, I close my eyes and come so fucking hard my knees buckle.
By the time I’m able to open my eyes and draw in a breath, I feel steadier on my feet. I look down at the woman I hate, and she’s staring up at me with a heavy-lidded look of satisfaction that I might hate even more.
“Holy shit,” is all I can say.
Ophelia gets to her feet with a smug smile on her pretty lips, lips that I can’t resist. She seems a little startled when I move to kiss her, but I urge her to open her mouth, and I’m not surprised that she moans a little when I do. The taste of myself on her tongue sends a potent thrill through me, especially since I’m still pulsing with the aftershocks of my climax.
She sighs into our kiss. “I thought you said never again,”
Struck by reality, I step back with a nod and tuck myself back into my slacks. “Yeah, yeah, I did. That was a mistake.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” I ask, as I zip up, that bitter resentment ever-present in my tone.
“Trying to punish me.”
“If I wanted to do that, you’d know it.”
“Fine. Be an ass. I don’t care anymore.”
“Then, you’ve caught up to where I am, finally.”
She flinches, and her gaze goes bright, but there are no tears. “I thought you wanted to talk to me,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, as if letting me know she doesn’t regret what we just did.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yes, I did, about that thing you proposed.”
“About us playing pretend, you mean.”
“Yeah, that. I only need you to stall your boss for about three weeks. Four at the most. Do you think you can handle that?”
Ophelia leans against the desk, this time on purpose, and crosses her arms. “Yes, I think I can handle that.”
“Good.” I head for the door and toss over my shoulder. “I’ll pay you for your time, so you don’t have to worry about your mother.”
“I don’t want your money.”
I head for the door, tossing over my shoulder, “It’s a good thing I really don’t care what you want. Oh, and my grandmother has invited you to come to tea at her summer cottage tomorrow.”
“I can’t do that.”
I stop in the doorway and grab onto the jams, without looking back. “Yeah, you can. I’ll send a car to pick you up at 3:30. It’s the perfect lead into this pretend game of yours.”
“It’s not just my game,” she calls.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
The question is, will there be a winner or just two losers by the time we get to the end?
GLOVES AND GRENADES
The Present
The clock strikes 3:25, and I’m still trying to decide if I should wear the pillbox hat and gloves I bought this morning at the vintage store down the street or my work clothes.
Tea with the Queen.
What the heck was I thinking when I said yes?
Oh, right, I wasn’t thinking at all.
I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror, but it’s not me that I see. I snap a picture and send it to my sister with the text, “Do I look like a Pan Am girl who lost her way?”
Her response is instant. “Don’t be mad, but maybe just a little. Still, you’re much hotter than any stewardess in that color ever could be.”
“It’s the white shirt, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure it’s only that.”
I frown and then sigh, before texting back. “Okay, thanks for being honest. I’ll message you later.”
Just as I’m about to say, ‘screw it’ and wear the black pantsuit I have in three varieties for work, the sound of a loud engine has me rushing toward my open window.
Much to my surprise and horror, I watch as Julius himself climbs out of a shiny sports car. He said he would send a car. He didn’t say he’d be driving the vehicle.
My stomach twists in a messy knot at the sight before me. He’s in dark jeans and a white Polo shirt and looks entirely too delicious for my liking.
There’s no way I can be alone with this man. Not ever again. First, I’m starting to really hate his brooding temperament. Second, I can’t keep my hands off him when he gets too close. And third, after last night,
I’m hornier than I’ve ever been. Even though I masturbated when I got home and again in the bath this morning, no self-satisfaction can compare to the elevator orgasm he gave me. Then again, he always did have magic hands.
Unsure what his game is today, I watch as he reaches his arms over his head and rolls his shoulders, stretching in a way that really should be illegal. I’m about to turn away when his shirt lifts just enough to bare those very familiar rock-hard abs. Ones I’ve licked and touched and done other very wicked things to, and I can’t move.
Like the idiot, I tend to be around him lately, I squeeze my eyes closed and try to block out how hot the rest of him is, even if the memories are more than vivid.
Suddenly, I hear a clearing of the throat. I look down and see him peering up at me. “Are you okay?”
If you call looking ridiculous, appearing desperate, and feeling tingly all over, okay, sure, I am. As a better response, I bite at my lip and nod.
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he casually leans against the car. “Good, because I was wondering if you got caught in a time machine and were waiting for Doc Brown and his DeLorean to come to whisk you back in time.”
With my mouth pursed, I narrow my gaze. “Very funny.”
He lowers his sunglasses and peers over the rim. “You really should change. My grandmother doesn’t expect you to dress like a Royal.”
Screw him. I’ll wear what I want. “Don’t bother to come up. I’ll be right down.”
With that, I close the window and turn away. I stare at the white patent sandals and decide I can’t do it. I can’t wear them. After opting for my white chucks, I grab my purse, work bag, and keys and lock the door. Nerves swarm me and force me to take my time walking down the stairs.
The smell of lavender from the soap shop calms me. I can do this. I will do this. I said I would, and I will.
When I reach the street, I notice there are two black sedans behind his sleek sportscar.
Security.
I’ve never witnessed his detail.
I’ve never seen any of his bodyguards.
This is the side of him I never got to witness.
He always told me, here in Wimberly, he felt like a tiger in a cage. I didn’t really get it, but I think I do now.
Inhaling the lavender one last time, I approach the car. I’m surprised when he strides around it and opens the passenger door for me.
He’s harder than he was, and I don’t mean just his body. His once always present charm is hidden behind that mask of indifference he’s wearing. He can pretend what I did to him is in the past, but he wears it like a coat of armor. Then again, so do I.
Hate.
Love.
Guilt.
Resentment.
So many emotions. Emotions that are impossible to separate but easy enough to cover up. My sister asked me what I hoped to get out of this venture with Julius, and I had one word—atonement.
a·tone·ment
/əˈtōnmənt/
Noun
reparation for a wrong
When she asked me why I needed it, I couldn’t respond because the truth is too hard to face—I still love him—and I need to make things right. No matter what state of mind it leaves me in.
“Decided not to change?” he says, as he grips my fingers to assist me with sliding into the small car.
“That’s right. I think I’m dressed more than appropriately for today’s meeting.”
“Well, then, I think you forgot the white gloves.” There’s a snicker in his tone that I don’t really appreciate.
He’s making fun of me.
Because I can, I open my purse and pull a pair out. “No, I didn’t. What are you doing here, anyway?”
He grins that thousand-watt smile that lights up the world. Damn him. Damn him to hell. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, so I decided to pick you up myself. Figured I’d toss you over my shoulder if I had to.”
Trying not to laugh, I say, “I didn’t realize I had a choice.”
With a careless shrug, he says, “We all have choices,” and then he shuts my door.
Another dig. And still, his touch lingers against my skin. I count to three and then let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Alone, I close my eyes, reminding myself that after last night, I will no longer fall under whatever spell he has over me. Yes, I loved him once, and yes, I might still love him now, but being used by this man doesn’t really make me feel good, even if his touch does.
Before I can even open my eyes, he’s in the car. Once again, we’re alone in a small space, and as always, his delicious scent envelops me.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Don’t think about the fact that every time you’re alone with him, you end up in some sort of comprising situation.
Since I’ve decided I am going to keep things professional between us, I ignore how close he is. It’s what’s best for me since my feelings for him can’t be turned off, and his for me can’t be turned around.
As soon as he shuts his door, though, he reaches across me, and I almost stop breathing so that I don’t have to smell his sinful deliciousness.
Great.
Just great.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making sure you’re buckled up tightly,” he tells me as he grabs the belt. “We have two cars to lose.”
I twist back. “Your security detail. Why would we do that?”
“I hate being followed by anyone,” he says, as he presses his foot on the gas, and we take off.
As usual, I’m not prepared for the ride Julius takes me on. It’s crazy and wild, just like him.
Once he manages to lose his tails, he presses a button, and the roof disappears. I quickly remove my hat, so it doesn’t blow away. I don’t complain, though, because I love the way the wind whips my hair around.
He glances over at me. “About last night.”
I put my hand up. “I really don’t want to talk about it. In fact, I think you and I are on the same page for once in that I agree; we need to keep our hands off each other.”
He looks back toward the open right. “That sounds like a great plan.”
Well, that was easy.
With the sun beating down on us, we spend the rest of the ride on the isolated country roads in silence, and I ignore the spark I feel from being so close to him.
When we pull through the gates of the House of Drake, I’m relieved to soon be able to gain some distance from him.
The summer cottage is located about ten miles inland on the north side of the island on Drake’s Bay. A place named after Sir Francis Drake in the 16th century and whose waters are fabled to hold one of Britain’s most valuable pirated treasures. Tales have it that King Henry’s first love, Isabelle, was on the ship when it was stolen and never seen again.
The treasure has never been found. However, fable states the place is magical, and anyone who sets sight on the spot where the treasure was lost, will fall in love.
It’s outrageous folklore.
The summer home was initially built as a hunting lodge by the Queen’s great-grandfather. As he preferred the forest to the beach, it was expanded and turned into a second royal residence almost one-hundred years ago.
I’ve never been here, but I have seen pictures. I glance out the window. The French classical architecture is much more beautiful than its photos. And the gardens are something out of a storybook. Almost magical.
“It’s exquisite here,” I whisper, shading my eyes with my hand as I continue to look all around me.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it. I doubt you’ll be invited here very often.”
I shake my head and pull on the door handle, but a man in a tuxedo rushes to the car and finishes the job. “Thank you,” I tell him as I step out.
“Robert,” Julius nods his head and tosses him the keys. “Keep it close. We won’t be too long.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
&n
bsp; All is quiet when we walk inside. The first thing I see is the red-carpeted grand staircase, which I know leads toward the State Rooms upstairs. Its grandeur is hard to convey, and the historical portraits of all the members of the royal family are just breathtaking—especially those at the very bottom. There is Queen Helena, her heir apparent, then next in line, Julius.
While I gather my courage for this meeting, I’m staring at Julius, and I can’t stop my heart from skipping a beat at the sight, frown or not.
When did my Prince Charming become Blue Beard?
Did I do this to him?
The answer is ‘yes.’ I know it is.
“This way,” he barks, when he notices I’m no longer beside him.
The design of the Crown’s cottage is very similar to the Palace, just a bit smaller. I could argue with Julius that I will be here again since at least half of the season’s events will be held here, but I don’t bother.
Hurrying toward Julius, it isn’t long before I’m standing in front of another hidden elevator, which happens to be located right next to a room that reads OFFICE on the door. It’s not the same place I got down on my knees for Julius last night, but almost the same.
Oh, God, what was I thinking when I did that?
That he’d see the truth in my eyes?
Feel the emotion?
Understand me?
Forgive me?
Well, I already know he won’t do any of those things. He only sees deceit when he looks at me, and after the way he walked away from me last night, like I was a whore, I finally realize that.
The doors close, and once again, we’re alone. “What’s wrong with you today?” he asks. “Have you changed your mind? Do you not want to do this thing?”
I blink at him. “No, I do.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to deal with Raquel, that’s all.”
“What’s she asking of you?”
“Not that much, yet. She just wants updates to our status.”
“Status? Is that what she calls this thing she wants you to reignite between us?”
I nod, purposely not using the word ‘relationship’ in front of status to avoid any jerky comments he might have.