Prince Albert(39)

The thought of bending her over in that conservative dress with the flirty skirt makes me want to come right now. I won’t pretend I don’t want to slide my cock inside her tight pussy, push her up against a wall and fuck the living hell out of her, because I obviously do. I want to do that, more than anything.

Almost anything.

I like the game we’re playing, the back-and-forth between her and I, the way she ups the ante each time I do something inappropriate. I like pushing Belle’s boundaries. I like the idea that I can make someone like her – so proud, stubborn, unyielding – even consider begging me to fuck her.

I want her to beg me.

The idea is thrilling.

The observatory is empty, completely deserted, and I wonder if she’s about to up the ante in the ultimate way – if she’s called me here because she’s giving in. Reaching into the pocket of my pants, I finger the condom I brought with me.

But it’s deserted, even of Belle.

I wander the expanse of the room, the moonlight from the glass ceiling bathing the room in an eerie glow. It’s the only room in the palace that’s more modern, the furniture reflecting the fact that this was an addition to the palace in my father’s time. It’s the only room he’s added onto the palace. Everything else dates back to the fifteen hundreds. In this room, the furniture is sleek, modern, navy and cream colors that are elegant but fitting for an observatory.

This used to be one of my favorite places to be in the palace when I was a kid. My father would bring me up here to look at the stars with the telescope.

I haven’t been up here in years, since before I left for the Army.

The phone vibrates in my pocket, and I open a text from Belle.



Look down.



She’s not in the room. I know immediately where she is. I walk across the observatory, where a set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooks the music room.

And there is Belle.

She’s sitting on top of the fucking piano.

She's sitting on top of the piano, wearing a red strapless gown, her breasts practically spilling out of the top. Her legs crossed, the slit in the side of the skirt falls open, revealing the expanse of her creamy thigh.

The dress is scandalous. It will be scandalous, if she shows up to the event in that. I’m sure it looked less scandalous on the rack, or on the runway, but on her is looks like sex. She looks like sex.

And she’s sitting there, her legs crossed, looking up at me.



Should we finish what we started?



I send the text, waiting for her to beckon me down and beg me to take her up against the piano. Or on top of the piano.

I want to lay her back across the lacquered surface of the grand piano, spread her legs, and devour her.



Depends. Are you asking nicely? Are you saying please?



The text makes me laugh. Even now, she’s refusing to bend. It’s such a small thing.

I shake my head, knowing that she can see the gesture from where she sits. When I call her, she answers, her voice breathy. “Ask me to come down and join you,” I say.

She just laughs. “No.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she asks.

“I think you want me to touch you,” I say. “I think that you want me to spread your legs, spread you out right there on the piano, and lick you until you come.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breath catch in her throat and then she exhales heavily. From the window, I watch as she moves, just slightly, her legs parting so that the red material falls down between her thighs. She’s a tease, obscuring what she knows I want to see.

“Are you wearing panties tonight?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. She looks to the side, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid of someone walking in, even though most of the staff and guests are far away on the other side of the palace right now.

Then she shows me she’s wearing nothing underneath that dress of hers. She pushes the fabric to the side, spreading her legs for me on the piano bench, and she’s completely bare.

Completely and totally bare.

And the expression on her face, the sly smile, says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me right now.

As if my raging hard-on wouldn’t be obvious from a mile away.

“I want you to touch yourself,” I say. There’s nothing in my voice that leaves room for discussion.

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breath get shorter on the phone, and she listens.

For once.

I watch as she slides her fingers slowly between her legs, then pauses. “Don’t stop,” I tell her.

“I’ve never done this in front of someone,” she says, her voice a whisper, so low I can barely hear it.