by Ella James
“I’m sure they do.” I use a tone that makes it hard to tell whether I’m teasing or being sarcastic, and it helps me get my footing back. “Do you have your boxer-briefs off yet? What color are they?”
“Black. I’ll take them off—for you.”
“Only for me. How kind.”
“Disparaging comments while I’m getting naked, Lucy? Harsh.”
“It’s been said.”
“What would you do to me if you were here?” he murmurs.
“I would touch you. Stroke you. Maybe lick you if you’re nice.”
“Fuck.”
“Would you like that? If I licked you?”
“Oh yeah.” I can hear his ragged breathing. “Lucy…”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“What do you want me to do?”
I can tell that he’s enjoying this. Getting a kick out of me giving him orders. He’s probably never been on the receiving end of them before. Distantly, I know I’ve lost my mind, but…I can’t seem to stop. I love the feeling of control as I say, “Touch your balls first. Lightly. And then put your hand around your dick. Grab on, and stroke it up and down.”
His rough voice seems to crack across the line. “Spread your legs, Lucy. Touch your clit. Just for a moment. Then I want your fingers in your pussy.”
I hesitate a moment before rubbing myself through the fabric of my panties. “Run your fingertip around your head,” I whisper, “and imagine it’s my finger.”
I hear him breathing. “Push your fingers inside. Get them wet. Then drag back up and go around your clit. Shut your eyes. Imagine it’s my tongue.”
His voice is so damn sexy. I still hear him breathing.
“I wish I could see your face,” I murmur.
“You want to see my face?”
“Of course,” I whisper.
The line goes dead. My phone rings, and it’s FaceTime. I answer with my left hand, holding the phone above my face and looking into the camera, even as my other hand moves over my pussy.
I see Liam’s handsome face, his eyelids heavy, mouth curved slightly as he stares into the phone. He smiles, and it’s panty-melting.
I take in his lightly bearded cheeks, thick throat…and then I’ve got an eyeful of his bare, beautiful chest. I can see his tattoo, black ink in the dark. The small, hard pebbles of his nipples, flawless pecs, a six-pack that is painfully perfect. And a happy trail that disappears behind the elastic of his boxer briefs.
He pans out a little more. I see his huge erection straining against the cotton of his boxer briefs. It’s so long, it’s stuffed inside the underwear, curved a little at the elastic. I watch his thumb stroke over something, and when he moves it, I can see the spot is wet.
“Oh God. That’s…”
I swallow as I push my underwear aside and ease two fingers into my slick pussy.
“God.” I can’t help the little moan that comes from my throat. “Pull them down. I want to see your hand around it.”
He must set his phone on his chest, because for a long moment, I see a sheet of fabric sort of like a canopy.
Then the camera is in motion, giving me a glimpse of his rock-hard abs before…Crown Jewels. Lord, but he is absolutely perfect. His long, thick cock is pointed toward his navel, giving me a perfect view of the plum-shaped tip.
I let out a little sigh, imagining him rubbing it against my slit.
“Oh, Lucy. You’re a bad, bad girl.” He wraps a fist around his dick, causing the veins of his muscular forearm to stand out. “I want you to focus on yourself,” he says, stroking his length. “Do you have your fingers in your pussy?”
I push my fingers deeper. “Maybe,” I rasp.
“Do you feel full?”
I move my fingers, mesmerized by the up-down motion of his hand as he pumps his cock. “Play with your clit. Do you have a toy? I want to see it in you, where I would be if I was there.”
I slide another finger into myself, inhaling deeply.
Liam starts to stroke a little faster, and I clench around my fingers. His hand comes over his head, palm cupping it.
“I like that,” I murmur.
“Focus on your clit. Light and then harder. Do you have a bullet?”
“Yes.”
“Can you use it?”
“I’ll come fast.” My face flushes on the whisper.
“I’ll come when you do. Then you can go to sleep. I want to see your face when you get there.”
I shut my eyes, not sure if I can do it. “I’ve never had phone sex.”
“You’ve been missing out. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful with the video.”
“Promise?” I ask as he works his cock.
“Yeah.” The word is breathless, reinforcing how worked up he is. Letting me know I’m not in this alone.
So…I do it. I lean over to my nightstand and pull the drawer open, revealing my little silver bullet vibrator.
I position it over my clit and look into the phone. I find Liam’s eyelids heavy. “Show me, Lucy.”
So I aim the iPhone’s camera at my lower body, turn the bullet on, and am rewarded by a strangled groan.
“Fucking hell…”
The camera moves from his cock to his face. He looks drunk and dazed. “You’re beautiful,” he rasps. I get a sweet, lopsided smile before the camera view returns to his cock. I can see it’s just a little longer, thicker, darker. His hand squeezes as he pumps it, strong fingers around his gorgeous shaft. I can see his balls just barely from the angle. They look full and taut, bouncing as he strokes.
I imagine how it felt to have all that inside me. God. The sight of him working himself makes me writhe under the bullet. Liam groans again, urging me onward. I can’t help a tiny moan of my own. I push my fingers deeper, rock the bullet over my clit.
“Ahhh.”
“Oh Christ…”
I see his abs jerk, watch his hand stall. As his chest expands, he makes a low, rough sound—and then it happens: creamy cum spills through his fingers.
The sight of that, combined with his ragged breathing, sends me over my own ledge. I squeeze my eyes shut, panting as pleasure consumes me. I hear a low murmur and draw my legs up around my hand.
“Oh God.” I laugh.
He moves the phone to his face, blinks up at the camera. “Lucy Rhodes. You’re stunning.”
I move the phone to my own face, a second late. I give him a shy smile. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You were hotter.” He smiles softly.
“Go to sleep, Prince Liam.” I blow a kiss at the camera and hang up while my heart is still pounding.
Eleven
Lucy
I stare into the mirror for a long time. My cheeks are pink from sleep. My hair is wild around my face. I let my eyes sweep down my body—naked. It doesn’t look different.
I feel different.
“Can’t do that again,” I murmur as I start the shower.
It’s good that Amelia’s here. I have a plan before I finish washing: shopping on Elkhorn Avenue. Amelia has a thing for Native American jewelry. I’m obsessed with salt water taffy and caramel corn. They have both fresh, made daily downtown.
Back in my room, I divert my gaze from the bed and pull on a flowy Missoni dress with colorful, vertical stripes that fan a little at the bottom. I slide on some platform sandals and grab a lime green clutch, then clomp down the back staircase: a narrow, polished wood affair ending in a tiny back-of-the-house foyer near the kitchen.
Amelia is just finishing a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and takes immediately to my shopping suggestion, hopping off to her first-floor guest room to get dressed.
An hour and a half later, we’re polishing off omelets at a downtown breakfast joint.
“I can un-vegan for one meal, surely,” Am says between bites.
“Surely.” Though I can’t help laughing at her. If memory serves me, Dash was one of those principled vegans who had some spiritual issue with killing anima
ls. Which is sexy. I can see why she would be inspired. But—omelets.
Despite our non-stop chatter, I can hear the ghost of Liam’s voice in my ear. I can see his hand around his thick cock—and I want to tell Amelia.
But I can’t.
And really, I convince myself as we hoof it toward the Native jewelry store, there’s no reason to. It won’t happen again. I doubt Prince Liam will even call again. And if he does… I rub my lips together.
If he does, I’ll just ignore the call. That simple.
“Is that it over there?” Amelia asks, interrupting my thoughts with her finger outstretched toward a corner store on adorable Elkhorn Avenue.
“Sure is.”
My bestie is obsessed with Native American culture. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with her love of Western-themed romance novels. She claims her great-grandmother was a Creek Indian, but that’s what everybody in Georgia says. It’s basically some kind of collectively perpetuated urban legend.
I watch Am ooh and aah over jewelry for almost an hour before she stacks the counter with four necklaces, two pairs of earrings, one bracelet, and a necklace I find when we walk outside is meant for me.
“Look,” she says, pointing to the tiny turtle hanging from the chain. “The turtle is meant to keep you calm and grounded. And this stone on his back—” it’s emerald-ish green— “is malachite. Ancient peoples wore it as a good luck charm to ward off illness and keep the mind stable.”
My jaw drops open, even as I snatch the little turtle from her. “You think I’m not stable?”
She shrugs. “You are preggo now. That’s the illness part. This turtle will help keep you and Little Biscuit healthy.”
I slide the necklace over my head. “Are you seriously calling my royal spawn Little Biscuit?”
“Aww, of course I am! C’mon Lucy, it’s adorable!” Am is beaming as we start off down the sidewalk. “I’m going to be an aunt.”
I nudge her in the ribs. “Shh! Someone might hear.”
“Oops, you’re so right. Sorry.” She leans over to whisper, “You should probably avoid the term royal spawn.”
I’m laughing when we pass an art boutique and my thoughts turn to Dash—as I remember him. I try to add sexy stubble and hipster glasses, but I just can’t picture him grown up. My eyes rise to Amelia’s. “Is your boss missing you?”
She puffs her breath out, wearing the kind of miserable face I know she intends to be a neutral face. Amelia is terrible at hiding her feelings. “No idea.” She rolls her eyes—at herself, I think.
“Well, has he texted?”
She gives me a funny look: slightly widened eyes and a pinched mouth. “Why would he?”
I just about buy it—until I see her nostrils flare.
“Am! He is texting!”
She grins, shaking her head; the smile dims quickly, her expression falling solemn. “I’m a fool.” She sighs.
“I think I need to see a picture of this new Dash. You said something about hipster glasses back in Southampton, yeah?”
She stops mid-sidewalk, scrolling through her phone. Her blue eyes flicker up at mine. Then, with her lips twisted—half smirk, half frown—she hands the phone to me.
“Oh wow. That’s like…really wow.” I bite my lower lip as I look at grown-up Dash doing the same. He’s bending over a big, slanted desk, a pencil in his hand, charcoal lines rising up on his white paper. He’s got black hipster glasses, longish, wavy, honey-brown hair, and an absolutely fucking gorgeous face adorned with stubble. “Lordy. You’ve got my blood pumping.”
She nods. “He’s good with his hands.” Her brow quirks as I hand her phone back.
“Well, I understand your venture into Idiotville a little more.”
Amelia actually looks ashamed of herself, which makes me want to ask more questions. I don’t get a chance before she hits me with one. “What does Liam do? He doesn’t have a job exactly, does he?”
I shake my head. “Well, sort of. I did a little reading online last night and read that when he turns a certain age, he’ll start having to participate in Gael’s government. There’s a position waiting with his name on it, but until he’s old enough to fill the role, other people kind of do it. Plus, his dad. When Liam is forty, no matter how old his dad is or what’s going on with him—even if he’s the best king ever—Liam will become king.”
I hear Amelia’s phone ring in her purse and make a grab for it. “Is that Dash?”
She snatches it back, blushing as she turns partway away from me, so she can examine her screen in privacy.
I hear another ding and frown. Or maybe that’s my phone. It dings again, and I’m sure it’s my phone. I pull it out. A group text from Mags. ‘What are you guys up to?’
Amelia’s phone dings again, too. I glance at her to find her frowning, with a crease between her brows. I watch her lips purse.
“What?” I ask.
Her wide eyes lift to mine, then dart back to her phone’s screen.
My phone dings again.
‘What up?’ It’s Charley this time.
That’s a little weird.
I text her back, ‘Walking around downtown with Am. What’s up with you?’
I copy the text and paste it as a reply to Mags as well. And find Amelia still glued to her phone.
“Everything okay?”
She nods, but she looks troubled.
“Birth control alarm,” she mumbles.
“That’s what kept going off?”
She drops her phone into her purse and nods. “So…candy store?”
I stride ahead. “I need some taffy. And vanilla cream soda.” I sigh, smiling.
“And after that, your place?” she asks. “I forgot my pill.”
“Uh-oh. Yeah. We can go now if you want to.”
“Nah.” She smiles, but she looks weird. Distracted.
I slow my pace and fall in step with her. “So, who was texting?”
“No one,” she says quickly. “Those beeps were from my birth control alarm.”
She’s wearing a decent poker face for once. That, or she’s being honest about the birth control.
“Wait a second—you were on the same group texts as me. So you did get texts.”
“Oh, did I?”
We round a corner, and I can smell a whiff of sugar. I push the candy store’s red door open and suck the fragrant air into my lungs. “Ahhhhh. The smell in here!”
Behind the counter, a man lifts his head from where he’s looking at a book and gives me a strange stare, which I return. Usually a girl named Holly is behind the counter. We’re practically besties, having bonded over caramel corn and strawberry taffy. I don’t know who this dude is, but he needs to learn that death stares don’t sell candy.
I spend the rest of our time in the store ignoring the rude guy and stocking up on caramel corn, fudge, strawberry taffy, and Pop Rocks.
Amelia ribs me about the Pop Rocks. I tell her she’s boring. I’m nibbling a piece of fresh caramel corn as we push through the door onto the sidewalk, so at first I don’t notice when Amelia steps in front of me. I look around her arm and find her digging in her purse.
“Another text from lover boy?”
She shakes her head, and that’s when I see the people across the street. They’re visible through a break in the long chain of downtown traffic: five or six girls, younger than us, holding up their phones in a manner I assume means they’re playing Pokemon.
Then they start pointing our way.
I step around Amelia. “You’re not secretly hunting Pokemons, are you?”
Amelia’s head pops up. She grabs my hand and tugs me—way hard—to the right, propelling me down the sidewalk with the threat of pulling my shoulder out of socket. “Let’s go!”
I tug against her. “What’s the matter?”
“Let’s get to your car.”
I can tell by her voice that something really is wrong. I wriggle free from her hand and stop there on the tourist-choke
d sidewalk. Amelia whirls around.
“Lucy, let’s go!”
A woman stops beside us: short, blonde hair; reading glasses; arrowhead-shaped earrings. “Oh, you poor doll.”
I brace myself, nodding and giving her a generic smile, even as I try to step around her. So she’s heard about the lawsuit.
“You look healthy now,” I hear her say behind me.
There are times when my brain and my mouth are too connected. I turn toward her. “What did you say?” I blurt.
She purses her wrinkly, magenta lips. Behind her eyeglasses, her eyes gleam. “You get him,” she says with a fist-pump.
Amelia’s hand locks around my wrist. “Come on.” She tugs.
Have I landed in the Twilight Zone?
The more we walk, the more eyes I feel on me. I swear to God, a teenage boy nudges the girl beside him, and their jaws both drop at once as Am and I move past.
Amelia’s phone starts ringing: not a ding this time, a real ring. She ignores it, dragging me toward the parking deck across the street. As we walk the crosswalk, my phone rings. I tug free from Amelia and wrestle it from my purse.
Mom.
Before I can answer, Amelia snatches it from me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap.
I follow her into the parking garage.
“Nothing. I’m just in a hurry for my pill.”
“You’re the worst liar.” My car beeps and flashes its lights, letting me know Amelia has my keys in hand. When did she grab them?
“Just get in the car, Lucy.”
“You’re freaking me out!” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds young and whiny. Am jets out of the parking spot before I even have a chance to buckle up.
“You better tell me what’s up. You’re scaring me.”
My 4Runner jolts as she stops to pay the toll machine. And then someone is at my window. It’s a man: not a beggar; he’s dressed nicely. Just as his knuckle taps the window, the mechanical arm raises and Amelia jets off.
My phone rings again—or maybe that’s Amelia’s.
“Don’t answer,” she cries.
“Why?” My chest feels tight, my head hollow. “Amelia…”
“Hang on.”
She speeds through two green lights, setting us in the direction of my house. Then she slows the car and turns her wide eyes on me.