Royally Not Ready(58)

I’m tempted.

I’m turned on.

My cock surges in my briefs, begging for more, begging for release from the pent-up tension I’ve been dealing with ever since I’ve met this woman. And given the lack of privacy, I’ve only been able to jack off once—in the shower—and it did nothing for the yearning I have.

I want to fuck her.

I want to see what it feels like to have her pussy wrapped around me.

I want to see her cheeks flush, her chest writhe as I pound into her, relentlessly.

“Uh . . . Keller, you kind of have this murderous look in your eyes. Now, as someone who finds that whole possessive murder look enticing, I’m okay with it, but you know, on the off chance that maybe you’re actually considering murder, can I ask what’s wrong beforehand?”

“You, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Ah, I see. Let me guess—naked woman, possible boob show, hard penis? Am I right?”

Once again, she knows exactly what she’s doing. I should’ve known.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“No. It’s not funny. If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be over there, growling under your breath, and I wouldn’t be over here, accidentally showing you my boobs. If I had it my way, you’d be pinning me against this muddy wall, sucking on my tits, while your fingers drive deep inside of me, fucking me until I come.”

I can practically taste her, the picture she painted like a 3D movie in my head.

“But you know . . . we’re not going there,” she says in a man’s voice.

She’s right, unfortunately.

“We aren’t going there. So, please keep your tits under the water.”

Smiling, she pops up out of the water and points to her breasts. “These tits?”

“Fucking hell, Lilly,” I groan, covering my eyes again. “Jesus.”

She just laughs. “Come on, they’re just boobs. It’s not like you haven’t seen your fair share of them.”

“They’re not just tits, Lilly. They’re your tits, there’s a difference.”

“I don’t know, they seem normal to me.” She floats toward me.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you how normal they are,” she says as she stands in front of me, lifting her chest up. She cups one of her breasts, letting her nipple piercing float by her fingers. My teeth pull on my bottom lip as I watch intently, my hand itching to touch my aching cock. “See? Normal.”

“They’re anything but normal,” I say, plastering my hands behind my back so I don’t touch her.

“Then what are they?”

“Let’s not do this, Lilly. It’s not going to lead to anything good.”

“Or will it?” She takes another step closer. “Just play with me a bit. It’s all innocent.”

“The thoughts in my head are anything but innocent.”

“Okay, how about this? For each thing I list off about proper etiquette at the table, you tell me what you like about my boobs. That way we’re both learning and having fun.” I look away and she pokes me. “Come on, we’re in this beautiful hot spring, surrounded by rocks and the coastline, not a soul in sight. This is what fantasies are made of.”

No, your tits are what fantasies are made of.

“Please.” She pouts.

Fuck. I can’t say no to her, not when she’s looking at me like that, with those doe-eyes.

“Fine,” I grumble.

“Oh, please, don’t sound too excited.” She chuckles. “Okay. I’m going to keep count on my hand of the things I list off. Ready?”

“Sure.”

“First thing’s first, we don’t sit down until King Theo sits down. Once seated, my napkin is picked up from the left and draped over my lap. Spine straight, shoulders pulled back, chin parallel to the table. Never talk about myself, always talk about the people next to me. Research whom I’m sitting next to beforehand and have insightful questions to ask. When the food arrives, don’t take a bite until King Theo takes a bite. When taking a drink, we silently sip and we always drink from the exact same spot to avoid lipstick getting all over the rim. When wiping my mouth with my napkin, I dab with one finger in the napkin and fold so no food shows on the cloth. Hmm, what else . . .” She smirks.

“I think that’s enough.”

“But I haven’t gone into the proper usage of spoons, forks, cutting, what to do when you don’t like something, how to sip soup—”

“I believe your knowledge of table etiquette is well-versed, and there’s no need to dive any deeper.”

“If you say so.” Her evil grin spreads across her face. “Well, from what I counted, that’s ten things you have to say about my boobs. Do you need to see them again so you can write sonnets about their beauty?” She lifts up one more time, and I watch as water drips down her chest, over her breasts, and back into the spring. They’re the breasts that men of years ago painted. Wrote sonnets about. And it’s why the poet within me has a plethora of words to describe them.

I wet my lips, and in a steady voice, I say, “They look luxuriously soft, like the finest cashmere. They’re full but small, a great fit for my palm. Pale, with the most addictively attractive nipples I’ve ever seen. Nipples that make my mouth whimper with need.” She heaves a heavy sigh as she comes forward some more, leaving very little space between us. And then she reaches out to my arm and tugs on it, loosening my hand from my back. When she brings my palm to her breast, I let her, because I can’t fucking stop her. I don’t want to. I want to feel her.