Part 9
I wake up the next morning with a hard—and extremely frustrated—cock in bed at the Westminster Royal. After an evening with family, I needed distance. The hotel is beginning to feel more like home than Buckingham. But the bed feels empty. Perhaps, because the last time I was here I shared it with her. I don’t know what this thing is between Clara and I. I only know that I haven’t been inside her for over forty-eight hours. My cock, it seems, is also keep tracking of the time apart.
Fisting it, I run my hands along the shaft trying to get up the enthusiasm to do it myself. The trouble is that it’s felt her beautiful cunt squeezing over it, and it’s less than interested in a pathetic stand-in. Still, thinking of how she responded to my touch—how her body submitted again and gain—is only making me harder.
Reaching for my mobile, I shoot off a text to her with one hand, my other still stroking myself. What else am I going to do today? My day is mercifully free of more official engagements. I’m merely a photo op waiting to be dragged to the next ball or state event or memorial day. Despite my father’s insistence that I need to learn about my future responsibilities, he keeps me away from the important meetings. I’m not king yet. I’m only expected to sit and wait until someone hands me the crown. At least, I know the best way to kill the time.
Clara responds almost instantly, but it’s bad news: Can’t. Shopping and lunch with my mom.
For a moment, I imagine tracking her down and slipping into a dressing room. It only makes me want to fuck her against a wall. She wouldn’t be able to stay quiet—all those hot, desperate noises escaping her full lips. Everyone would know what we were doing. Fuck, the thought makes me harder. I want them to know. I want them to hear how she begs for it. I want to enjoy the shocked looks on the other shoppers’ faces when I stride out practically holding her upright because I’ve fucked her so hard her knees are weak.
But that will bring the press to her door. It will destroy the few shreds of privacy she has left after our disastrous meeting at Brimstone. The speculation surrounding us remains high even though I’ve been careful to not be seen with her. It’s for the best. The media will eat her alive—or what’s left after my father gets through destroying her.
Still, that means I’ll have to find a more discreet way to see her. Dialing Norris, I touch base.
“Are you keeping an eye on Miss Bishop?” he asked.
“I have a man tailing her.” He sounds concerned, which is one of his three resting states. “She’s at a spa of some sort. Would you like me to meet her?”
“No.” There’s no point. I’ll have to tempt her away, and no matter who has his hands on her at the spa, I’m betting I can make her a better offer. “I was only checking in.”
“Very good.” Norris hesitates, and I know he wants to say more. It’s been off between us since I got back from the Middle East. He needs to know his opinion still matters to me. It does, but that won’t always mean I take his advice.
“Out with it.”
“Checking in on Miss Bishop belies a certain…”
“I’m not stalking her,” I tell him.
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” His voice is so dry the connection practically crackles. “I hope you’re being cautious.”
“I think that I am,” I bite out. What does that mean? No one saw us together at the hotel. I’m not copying any one on our text messages. I didn’t take her to a family dinner. “We’re being discreet.”
“I’m not concerned about when people find out,” he corrected me. “I’m concerned about your heart.”
“My heart?” I repeat, wondering where this came from. “My heart is the only bit of me that you don’t need to worry about.”
Silence stretches across the line before he finally clears his throat. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thank you.” I hang up the phone and glare out the window. Below me millions of people are leading perfectly ordinary lives going to jobs, shopping, meeting friends for a pint. I have to justify wanting to fuck my girlfriend in private.
Girlfriend. I let the word sink in. I don’t hate it as much as I thought it would. Mostly because it suggests ownership, and I want to own Clara Bishop.
I send her another text:
There’s a window in this room that would benefit from having your naked body spread across it.
It takes her a moment to respond, when she does I groan. Apparently, she’s going to tease me back.
I’m already naked.
I pop off another: Tell me more.
What I actually want is to tell her to get knickers on and tell whoever’s hands are on her to shove off. That body belongs to me.
There’s no response after a few minutes and my mind flashes to a muscular man kneading her tender, flawless skin. It seems prudent to remind her that I don’t share:
As long as no one else is touching you, poppet. That’s my job and I take my job very seriously.
Her response is frustratingly brief:
Noted, X.
I like her dirty little nickname for me almost as much as I like the one I’ve given her. Poppet—that’s what she is. She lets me play with her, lets me direct her, lets me pull her strings.
I want to see how far I can take that. I want to feel the vibration of my palm when it makes hard contact with the soft flesh of her ass. I want to tie up those slender wrists and fuck her mouth.
I want my hands on her.
But I have to wait until this bloody lunch date is over. I order room service, giving up on getting myself off. When you’ve had champagne, it’s hard to go back to water.
The game between us progresses throughout the day. I imagine her, stealing glances at her phone and trying to hide her blush. She can’t. I know exactly how pink flushes her cheeks when she reads them. It’s the same shade that lovely ass of hers is going to turn when I show her all the other ways I can pleasure her later.
Lose your knickers, I order her while she’s shopping at Harrod’s. She doesn’t know that I know exactly where she is, but she doesn’t need to. It’s all part of the fun.
Who says I had any on?
I know Clara Bishop is wearing knickers, but I get hard anyway. She’s not the type to wander around London with a bare cunt. It’s one of the reasons I’m going to enjoy teaching her to do just that. Because Clara Bishop is a very good girl, and I’m going to teach her how to be wicked.
I wait until I receive word that she’s at lunch before I unleash the next barrage of texts:
I need to have my mouth on you. I need to make you come.
I need to hear you crying my name as I fuck you.
She’s had enough time with her mother. It’s my turn now and I won’t wait much longer. I know exactly that table she’s been seated at in Hillgrove’s and if she doesn’t dine quickly, I might walk in and carry her out myself.
I’m especially tempted after her next text arrives:
But how can I scream your name with my mouth busy sucking you off?
Fuck. I need her. Now.
You won’t know until you’ve tried.
Christ, I’m so fucking hard for you.
Finish eating and get your pretty ass over to me.
I won’t wait much longer for her. She’s won this game and her prize is the rock-hard dick she’ll be riding all afternoon. It’s time for her to collect her winnings.
I need to see you now. The Westminster Royal.
There’s no response, but I know she’s on her way. I can already feel her coming.
|
