Chandelier (Tarnished Crowns Trilogy Book 1)

by Annie Dyer

  I turn off the shower, wrap myself in towels and hear the sounds of the other person in the cubicle next door, a low groan, familiar noises.

  Ben.

  Ben’s probably four metres from me. Ben with his broad back and thick legs. Ben whose hands I remember too well from when we were younger, little more than kids. I lean back against the tiles and listen, imagining what he’s doing, touching himself, and what he’s thinking about.

  My eyes close and I’m biting my bottom lip as I hear a long low moan. I’m trapped in here; either I leave now and he’ll hear footsteps or wait till he’s gone. But I want him to see me. I want him to know what I heard.

  The sweatpants are oversized, the hoodie thin and too tight around my chest. Outside the stall the room is cool, summer evenings are never warm, not near the loch. I drop the towels in the wash bin as Ben’s shower door opens.

  He’s naked and my eyes drink him in, parched for the sight. His shoulders are corded and heavy with muscle, his chest defined and firm and I daren’t let my eyes drop any lower.

  I should apologise, avert my gaze, but I don’t. I should leave and be embarrassed but I stay and I’m not.

  My nipples harden. I’m not a girl anymore. My virginity was taken a while ago by a person who wasn’t Ben and although my encounters haven’t been as many as I’d like, they’ve been intense.

  He says nothing. Makes no attempt to cover himself or even grab a towel from the shelf. Rain hammers harder outside and my heart drums along with it, a prayer to a god who has chosen to torture me.

  “You’ve gone bigger.” I know exactly how he’ll take the phrase.

  He smirks, his eyes stay focused on mine. “So have you.” And then his gaze drops to my breasts. “Princess.”

  The title makes me cringe. “I’m hardly wearing a tiara right now.”

  “You’ll always wear a crown.”

  His cock has hardened, no longer soft and I can’t stop from looking. I remember how it felt in my mouth, in my hand, against my stomach and I ache.

  “Why come back?”

  He rests his back against the shower stall. “What answer do you want for that? You want me to say it was you? I can.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  He reaches for a towel. “It doesn’t matter what the truth is.”

  And I know what he’s saying. We could never have been. Whatever reason he’s back here for, it’s irrelevant.

  “I’m glad you’re back.” This is my truth, whether he wants it or not.

  His expression softens. “Good. I wouldn’t want to work for someone who wants me gone.”

  He’s covered now, from his waist down. Perfect golden tanned skin, drops of water staying placed there, not wanting to drop and leave.

  I don’t want to leave either. My feet are rooted to the floor, my breathing heavy and I know my pussy’s wet. If I was Elise I’d have my arm round him by now and my legs wrapped around his waist, but I don’t have that luxury.

  “I should go.” The words are for me rather than him.

  “Why?”

  “Because looking never did me any favours.” I know his cock is hard under the towel. I’ve already calculated the marks the rough floor will leave on my knees if I was to get down on them in front of him.

  “I need to dry off, Blair. And find my clothes. I leave later for a few days.”

  I don’t know this and I feel rejected. “Why?”

  “Meeting someone in Madrid. I have some leave to take. But don’t worry; I’ll bring you back a present.” He smiles and the towel drops.

  I don’t even try not to look. He’s fully hard and he’s bigger than I remember, thicker. Back then, he was shy about his body, never keeping space between us, never being able to take in a full look, just glimpses and stolen images.

  Things have changed.

  “What if I was standing here naked? What would you think of me?”

  He lifts his arms and towel dries his hair, looking at me, all of me. “That you were fucking beautiful. And I’d kill any other man who saw you like that.”

  And suddenly it changes.

  Madrid is too far away.

  I walk away.

  Not for the first time.

  July

  July, that lovely hell, all velvet dresses and drapes

  stuffed into a hot little hole. – Laura Kasischke

  Chapter Six

  Twelve Years Earlier

  I haven’t seen him for two days and I don’t know why. The summer feels like it hasn’t even started and we haven’t had enough time together. There’s never enough time together. Stolen moments and whispered words in the shroud of shadows are all we can manage without anyone becoming suspicious

  What would it matter? I’ve asked him this. Lennox is allowed to go out with whoever he chooses and in public; only the media care and try to label him as another ‘playboy’ prince. But Ben wants us to stay hidden. Away from prying eyes and people’s judgements.

  I sit down at the oak tree with my book, unsure if he’ll be there today. Every holiday since last summer we’ve found time to be together, in the stables or the maze, or the barn when it was winter. Never where we’d be found, or questioned.

  The words on the page blur and become useless. I look at the sky, cotton puffs of clouds rolling across the pale blue and the same tightness in my chest that’s always there when I’m waiting for Ben.

  Footsteps echo through the maze just as I’m debating heading back inside to find something else to do. My father has told me to make the most of the summers as at some point my time will no longer be free and I’ll have to carry out more engagements. What he doesn’t understand is that I’m happy to do that, to have a purpose.

  To be more than just the girl who waits. Like now.

  “I didn’t know you’d still be here.”

  Ben doesn’t apologise. He’s wearing army fatigues and a black tight T-shirt, his skin golden and hair the fairest I've ever seen it.

  “I was reading.” I wasn’t. I was thinking about him and what he was doing and who he was with. Never have we said we were only seeing each other. Never have we made any promises. Since that first kiss we’ve stayed friends, friends who sometimes kiss and touch and make each other come, but never fuck.

  I still have my virginity and he won’t take it from me.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He sits down next to me, smelling of musk and man, not boy, his arm going round my shoulders.

  I don’t want to fall into him but I do anyway, because each time I don’t I might be wasting our last time.

  “Where’ve you been?” When I’m at school or he’s away we communicate infrequently, brief messages, never a phone call. It’s as if we only exist in this maze.

  “Long story.”

  “Try me.”

  His hand settles on my waist, just under my top. In around twenty minutes he’ll have his face between my legs and then he’ll come on my tits. Never any further.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean? Leaving tomorrow?” I’ve gone straight into a world of red, panic, fear.

  “I’ve signed up to the army and I head out for training tomorrow.”

  He’s moving me onto his knee, pushing his hands under my top, towards my breasts because this is how he makes things better.

  But orgasms don’t heal broken hearts.

  “You’re joking.” But I know he’s not.

  His hands cup my breasts and his lips nip at my neck. I can feel the hardness of his cock against my back and I want to walk away and not need him, but I’ve become pliant under his touch.

  “I’ll be back when I’m on leave.”

  “You’ll meet other girls.”

  He sucks on my skin and I know he’ll leave a mark. “Not like you.”

  “Don’t go.”

  My bra is a front fastener and he undoes it easily, too skilled, and starts to play with my nipples.

  “If I stay, what do I do here? I b
ecome a gardener and work for my dad. If I go, I make a career. Become something.”

  “You are something.” I twist round and straddle him so I can see his face. He pushes my top off over my head, leaving me exposed to him from the waist up. My breasts have grown since I’ve last seen him, gone up by a cup size and I think he’s noticed.

  I wonder if he’s noticed enough to fuck me, something he’s refused to do.

  “I’m not something enough.” He pulls me closer to him and takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, then harder. His hand cups my other breast, teasing the tip and I know I’ve pressed my centre to his hard cock, wanting the friction.

  I want him in me. If this is going to be our last day I want to have it all with him.

  “You’re enough for me.” I manage to get the words out as my eyes roll back in my head. He knows how to take me to the edge, to push me closer and closer to breaking over him and then pausing, making me whisper his name to the trees.

  Ben says nothing, just swaps to my other breast, nipping and sucking, playing. My hands go to his trousers and undo his fly, grasping his cock and making him groan.

  “I want you in me.”

  He moves his head away and pushes my tits together, his eyes heavy with need making me feel like the most powerful being on earth.

  “We can’t.”

  “Why? I’m on the Pill.” A new addition. A hopeful addition. And no one wanted any children out of wedlock, not for a princess.

  “Let me make you come with my fingers.”

  “I want you to fuck me before you go away. I want you to be my first.” These are words I’ve said before, about being my first.

  “We can’t.”

  I slide my hands into his trousers and take hold of his cock. I’ve nothing to compare it to except the porn I’ve sneakily watched with Elise and that’s enough to tell me that Ben’s big. I know he’d hurt, but I want that pain. I want him to break through into me, to feel the burn with the stretch from something more than his fingers.

  His hands slip down to my jeans to undo them, finding my underwear and pushing it down my thighs with my jeans. I know I’m wet. My body responds easily, hungrily. I’ve had nights at school where I’ve brought myself to quiet orgasms thinking about Ben’s hands, his chest, his tongue. I’ve been ready for him for days, if not months.

  Heat palpates my body as he cups my sex, pushing a finger in the crease of my folds and onto my clit. I hold onto his shoulders, knowing what is coming and he pushes one finger gently into me, encouraging me to ride his hand.

  “Your tits have gone huge. They bounce when you move.”

  “They’re embarrassing.”

  “Beg to differ. They’re fucking gorgeous. I could come just looking at them.”

  “You can look at them and come inside me.”

  He groans, his eyes flitting between my tits and eyes.

  “Please.”

  He shakes his head. “Next time we’re together.”

  I come on his hand, and then with his mouth on my clit. He comes down my throat, not for the first time, holding my hair and fucking my mouth with a desperation I should’ve understood.

  Then we stroll back through the maze, kissing and touching and holding hands and I walk away, back home, leaving him to head back to his father and then away for time unknown.

  I walk away.

  And I won’t see him again for twelve years.

  Except in my dreams.

  Stamping.

  The thunder of a clap and a chant. Voices rise to the roof and fill the void.

  Then there’s silence. The stillness after a storm and everyone pauses, waits, as if it isn’t really over.

  A muted heartbeat before we breathe again.

  I join in with the applause and stand up, beaming. The line of girls turns to me and bows, their smiles wide and genuine and I don’t know why because really I’m just another person, just one with a title.

  “That was amazing. How long have you been rehearsing for?”

  The girl who played witch number three looks at her co-stars. “About six weeks. But not full time. I was in Antigone at the beginning so I wasn’t free all the time.”

  “So you were learning one set of lines and remembering another?” I’m genuinely wowed by them; the passion they show and the enjoyment they have.

  She nods. “Pretty much. I love it though.”

  We’re in what looks like a school hall, a building that’s been commandeered by a charity to promote arts and drama with under privileged teenagers. It’s a jointly funded project between the English and Scottish Arts Councils and various fundraising efforts, and one of the charities for which I’m patron. Happily a patron.

  I have an affinity with people who play a part.

  “Who chose to do Macbeth?”

  “Our director.” She gestures to a man at the side of the hall, watching quietly. He’s about my age, long hair tied back and a skinny frame. I’ve no doubt that unbeknownst to him, a full background check has been carried out. He’ll have passed it; else I wouldn’t be here.

  He stands and walks round to the three women on the makeshift stage who have just performed a scene and all look like they’ve just received an Oscar.

  “I though the themes of ambition and regret were good ones to explore. We’ve made a point, for this production, of reaching out to some teens who’ve been involved with breaking the law.”

  I nod, listen as best I can, but I’m distracted by the door opening and Ben entering. I know he’s been out to check the place we’re going to eat, a few last minute concerns, but I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again, apart from when I closed my eyes.

  “I think it looks amazing. Are you performing in Edinburgh too?”

  There are nods and the looks of awe which make me feel uncomfortable even though I should be used to it.

  “I’d love to come see the full play. Macbeth is one of my favourites.” My accent sounds soft and very Scottish compared with the Mancunian accent I’m hearing.

  “How do we send you tickets?” The director looks like an enthusiastic puppy.

  “We’ll sort it.” I glance over at Franklyn, who’s decided he needs a trip to England although I suspect he wants to keep an eye on me for some reason. He nods. Doesn’t smile.

  He never smiles.

  He’s the man who has been my servant; the man I call at two am if I desire a snack or a lift or someone to talk to and he’s never resented this role. He’s been there. The way a father might if his first child wasn’t a country.

  “Do you want to see another scene?” The director needs to be taken home on a leash and given a basket.

  “I’d love to.”

  There are a few mumblings and a cast conference as to what scene to display and then the players ensemble, their modern day clothes and swagger in contrast to the words I know they’re about to speak.

  Stars, hide

  Your fires;

  Let not light see my black and

  Deep desires.

  The eye wink at the hand, yet let

  that be

  which the eye fears, when it is

  done, to see.

  The scene is from early in the play, before Banquo’s death. Before Macbeth is consumed with his ambition and need.

  The Scottish play.

  Too much resonates.

  Ben is close now, heading towards the seats at the front, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, trousers smart-casual. I’m meant to be unaware and immune but I know that my body is awake and remembering. Needing.

  He sits next to me; the first time we’ve been in this proximity since I saw him naked in the shower block. The memory is pressed hard on my brain; the image I see when I shut my eyes. Hard chest, the ladder of muscles then leads down to his large, heavy cock.

  I shouldn’t be thinking of it when he’s sitting next to me, when I’m an ambassador for my country watching the production of a Shakespearean play. But what are we if not human, with hu
man needs and drives.

  “The restaurant is ready when you are.” His words are low, quiet. But he knows I’m not focused on what is happening before us. The heat between our bodies is palpable. Toxic.

  I itch to touch him, just a nudge. Contact, any contact. Just something to cease the urge in every synapse.

  “They haven’t finished.”

  But they do and I applaud. Congratulate them. Make plans, tentative ones, to watch the full play when they’re in Scotland.

  Eventually I follow Ben outside, the cameras capturing the smile I’ve applied just for them, answering questions for which I no longer need prompting. More than a decade has taught me how to say what they want to hear without revealing a damn thing.

  Ben holds an umbrella over me as we walk, making it clear exactly who he is. There will already be articles about him, studying his build and his face; the firm jaw and the dusting of blonde stubble.

  We walk away from the media, the sound of clicks and shutters dimming with the noise of the rain. More security stops them from following us, although now they’ve had a piece of me, their appetite is whetted.

  “I should apologise.” It’s the first words Ben’s said to me since we were in the showers.

  “What for?”

  “The way I spoke to you. And acted. It was inappropriate. I had no right to do what I did.”

  He’s considered his words, I can tell. But they don’t ring true.

  “Apology accepted.”

  I don’t say any more. There’s no need because he knows damn well I haven’t accepted anything. Including why he fucked off with no communication.

  There isn’t time to breathe. I’m dressed simply: black designer jeans and a classy blouse that would cost more than most people’s weekly salary. My heels are higher than they need to be for the theatre and my make-up has been applied as if it’s me in the middle of the circular stage.

  We ate, went back to the hotel, showered, changed, met with the mayor of the city and then headed to the theatre in the middle of Manchester, the architecture and history of the place being pointed out to us by the mayor.