“That sounds like a challenge.” I smirk slowly. “I bet I could time it just right.”
Her mobile pings, alerting her to the text that her car is out front. She blinks and ducks under my arm, scooting away—and like the dog I am, I want to chase her.
“What kind of meeting?”
Sarah slips into her coat. “A club meeting.”
And I’m about to bring up the sex club again and ratchet up the raunchy—but then it all becomes clear.
“It’s a book club, isn’t it?”
Of course it is.
Sarah nods. “The bi-monthly meeting of The Austenites.”
And here I am, again, trying not to laugh.
She takes one look at my face and jabs her finger into my chest. And the small, sharp contact makes my cock grow thick and hard.
Celibacy is making me crazy.
“Don’t you dare laugh.”
I bite my lip and catch her gazing at my mouth.
“The Austenites,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “What do the Austenites do, exactly?”
“Character discussions, read-alouds, community events . . . sometimes we put on plays.”
“Sounds riveting. I’ve never been to a book club meeting. Seems like something everyone should try at least once.”
She crosses her arms, making her breasts squeeze and lift.
“You’ll hate it.”
I cross my arms, and her eyes fall to my biceps—she’s been doing that a lot lately, the naughty virgin voyeur.
“I’m getting the feeling you don’t want me to go. Are you ashamed of me? That hurts, Titty-bottum—I’m wounded.”
She laughs disdainfully. “No you’re not. And it has nothing to do with me not wanting you to go—you can’t go. There are about thirty Austenites. As soon as they spot you, word will get out that you were in Castlebrook.”
“Oh the horror, because Castlebrook is the hub of the social scene and media elites.”
That was sarcasm, in case you weren’t sure. Sarah is, which is why her eyes rolls behind her glasses. “It only takes one set of loose lips for the Queen to find out you were there when you’re supposed to be here. And the producers don’t want you going anywhere, anyway.”
“I could ditch?”
She blows a puff of breath up at her dark bangs, which have fallen too close to her eyes.
And now I’m thinking about Sarah blowing things.
“And then you’ll have to wear the monkey.”
“I fear no man or monkey. But it is sort of creepy, isn’t it?” I groan. “Fucking James.”
Sarah mocks me. “Right, fucking James is trying to keep you safe and alive and not kidnapped, like it’s his job or something. Bastard.”
Huh, look at that. Sarah can do sarcasm too. That’s sexy. And she said the word fucking—which makes me think about fucking her—on the bed, the sofa . . . Christ, in the nook. She would be absolutely wild in the nook.
Talk about a fantasy—that one’s going straight to the top of the wank bank.
“I’ll be bored here by myself,” I whine, just to see her smile. “I guess I’ll rub one out. Or . . . five. Because that’s how I roll. And how I rub.”
But the thing is, this time . . . Sarah doesn’t blush. She just looks at me, eyes glazing over like she’s seeing an alternate version of me. A me that’s whacking off. And judging from the way she swallows hard and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, she likes what she sees.
Fuck, that is so hot.
She blinks, snapping out of it, adorably flustered. “I . . . ah . . . I have to go.”
I wave.
Halfway through the door, Sarah stops and turns around. “Henry?”
“Mmm?”
She points her finger at me. “Stay.”
I smile and salute her.
With narrowed eyes, she backs out of the door, closing it behind her.
And I sit on the uncomfortable sofa for five whole minutes, thinking. And then I get up.
Because I still don’t like doing what I’m told.
Two hours later, the car pulls up to Concordia Library—I’m assuming this is where the holy book club meeting is held. Sarah had a valid point about it not being good if word got around that I was in town, so I gave her a healthy head start and plan to slip in undetected in the back to see her in action.
She also had a point about the sodding monkey.
Which is why James is driving and good ole Mick is riding shotgun.
Out of the tinted SUV window, I glance up at the large ivory building. A library built for a queen. I can see her working here—I can see her loving it here. It suits her, this almost magical house of worship built for books.
The main roadway is nearly deserted and there’s not a single person in front of the dimly lit library. As I follow Mick up the ivory stone steps, for a moment I wonder, is this stalker territory? Does it cross a line? A boundary? But then—fuck it, I’m a prince, we don’t have boundaries—it’s one of the perks. Anyone who says otherwise is doing it wrong.