Playing Dirty(102)

No…I’d royally screwed up.





Chapter 8

Andrew



As part of my mother’s new drive towards her sons, getting us to pull our socks up and assume some more of the responsibilities of our station, I’d spent the afternoon at a special school for blind children in West London. I’d been shown around classrooms, joined in with the choir and tried my hand at blind football, in which the ball had a bell in it and at which I’d been utterly useless, much to the amusement of the kids. I hadn’t been looking forward to it at all, but to my surprise, it had been a good day. No doubt this was not representative of all the duties a King—or King-in-waiting—had to perform, but it was still an eye-opener. All the stuff which I’d been shirking, skiving and hiding from for years was not as bad as it might’ve once seemed.

By the time I arrived back at Richmond Palace, I had a definite task in mind. During the ride back, and indeed during most of the day, the whole tone of the trip had made my mind turn inevitably to Keira. Now that I came to examine that thought, I wasn’t quite sure why I should regard it as inevitable. You’d have to go by a long and tenuous route to draw a direct line between Keira and a school for blind children in West London, and yet my subconscious had apparently drawn that line, as everything I’d done and seen during the day reminded me of her. I’d been visiting a school—Keira had presumably gone to school. I’d sung with a choir—choir sounded a bit like Keira. I’d played football—football was a game Americans referred to as soccer and didn’t generally like, and Keira was American.

See? The links were there as plain as the nose on my face.

It was as if the universe was trying to tell me something, and who was I to mess with the universe? It was much bigger than me. I also considered it notable that the teacher who’d shown me around today was absolutely gorgeous, and I hadn’t even thought about that except to think one thing: Keira was better.

Way bloody better.

The girl was firmly in my head, and as far as I could see, there were two possible reasons, each denoting a clear course of action. Firstly: in New York I’d planned to sleep with her and had been denied by pure bad luck. When a girl turned me down, then that was one thing; from that I could move on, but this was grossly unfair, and on both of us, too—Keira had been denied a night with me, which seemed totally unfair on her. That would explain my constant obsession with her and suggested an obvious course of action…

Sleep with her.

Get her out of my system by getting myself into hers. One night of passion and all this daydreaming would be behind me, and I could get back to other girls.

There were two problems with this first possibility. Firstly, it was a load of bullshit. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with Keira, but that wasn’t where my mind kept taking me. I wasn’t imagining her in bed, riding my cock or writhing under me as I fucked her senseless…instead I was imagining us chatting over a drink, going for long walks, and all that other crap that I’d never previously had any time for. I could pretend that all I wanted was a roll in the hay—and Richmond Palace’s stable block presented ample opportunity for that—but it just wasn’t the case.

Secondly, I didn’t want her out of my system. I treasured every wasted moment spent thinking about her. Far from wanting to get back to other girls, I found that I’d rather dream a conversation with an imaginary Keira than have raucous, animal sex with an actual woman. A few years ago, I’d had minor surgery, adjacent to my groin and the doctor had told me to abstain from sexual activity for two weeks. Within days, I’d practically been humping the furniture in frustration. But now…I felt barely anything. I was frustrated about how things were between me and Keira, but that frustration wasn’t sexual.

Okay, maybe it was a little bit sexual…but still, my point held.

So if the idea that I was obsessed with Keira because I still wanted to sleep with her didn’t hold water, then that left only option number two.

I had feelings for her.

There were people who had an almost allergic reaction to using the ‘L’ word, but I took that to a whole other level—I could seldom bring myself to even use the ‘F’ word. Feelings. Feelings were for other people, people who had given up on ever having sex again; pussies and pathetic daydreamers. I’d divided the women of the world into those I wanted to have sex with, those I didn’t want to have sex with, and those with whom I’d already had sex (and I seldom went back over old ground). My ‘feelings’ never went beyond that.