by Emma Chase
She giggles, like I've said something silly.
"What?"
"I've never been called sexy a day in my life."
"Then you're sorely overdue."
Sarah closes her book and sets it on the nightstand, and a victorious feeling simmers in my chest. Like I've accomplished something.
"I've already said you can sleep in here. You don't have to butter me up."
I look into her eyes, smirking. "If I'm trying to butter up any part of you, you'll know it." Before she has time to flush, I ask, "If you're a hot librarian in your real life, what are you doing here for the next month? And don't say it's for Penelope. I've met Penelope--she's a wily one. She would've figured out a way to get here with or without you. There must be another reason."
Sarah crosses her arms and nods. "You're very perceptive, you know."
"Thank you. You're deflecting."
With a loud groan that goes straight to my cock, Sarah throws herself back onto her pillow, her head sinking in, partially obscuring her face.
"I was supposed to present at a symposium. In front of hundreds--hundreds--of people!"
"Ah . . . I'm going to take a wild guess and say public speaking is not your favorite thing?"
She turns on her side, tucking her hands under her cheek innocently. "It's paralyzing. I'm not an admirer of Edgar Allan Poe, but public speaking is my own personal "Premature Burial.""
I've never been big on Poe either--talk about a downer--but I understand what she means.
And I have the perfect solution.
"You should imagine me naked." I snap the waist of my sleeping pants. "I could take this off, if you like. The vivid image will heal all that ails you, sweets."
She shakes her head. "I believe the traditional strategy is to imagine the audience in their underwear."
"But imagining me naked is much more fun."
And we both laugh, even though it's true.
Sarah sits up and reaches over, plucking a string on my guitar. It's propped against the nightstand on her side of the bed. "So . . . do you actually know how to play this thing?"
"I do."
She lies down on her side, arm bent, resting her head in her hand, regarding me curiously. "You mean like, 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,' the 'ABC's,' and such?"
I roll my eyes. "You do realize that's the same song, don't you?"
Her nose scrunches as she thinks about it, and her lips move as she silently sings the tunes in her head. It's fucking adorable. Then she covers her face and laughs out loud.
"Oh my God, I'm an imbecile!"
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, but if you say so."
She narrows her eyes. "Bully." Then she sticks out her tongue.
Big mistake.
Because it's soft and pink and very wet . . . and it makes me want to suck on it. And then that makes me think of other pink, soft, and wet places on her sweet-smelling body . . . and then I'm hard.
Painfully, achingly hard.
Thank God for thick bedcovers. If this innocent, blushing bird realized there was a hot, hard, raging boner in her bed, mere inches away from her, she would either pass out from all the blood rushing to her cheeks or hit the ceiling in shock--clinging to it by her fingernails like a petrified cat over water.
"Well, you learn something new every day." She chuckles. "But you really know how to play the guitar?"
"You sound doubtful."
She shrugs. "A lot has been written about you, but I've never once heard that you play an instrument."
I lean in close and whisper, "It's a secret. I'm good at a lot of things that no one knows about."
Her eyes roll again. "Let me guess--you're fantastic in bed . . . but everybody knows that." Then she makes like she's playing the drums and does the sound effects for the punch-line rim shot. "Ba dumb ba, chhhh."
And I laugh hard--almost as hard as my cock is.
"Shy, clever, a naughty sense of humor, and a total nutter. That's a damn strange combo, Titebottum."
"Wait till you get to know me--I'm definitely one of a kind."
The funny thing is, I'm starting to think that's absolutely true.
I rub my hands together, then gesture to the guitar. "Anyway, pass it here. And name a musician. Any musician."
"Umm . . . Ed Sheeran."
I shake my head. "All the girls love Ed Sheeran."
"He's a great singer. And he has the whole ginger thing going for him," she teases. "If you were born a prince with red hair? Women everywhere would adore you."
"Women everywhere already adore me."
"If you were a ginger prince, there'd be more."
"All right, hush now smartarse-bottum. And listen."
Then I play "Thinking Out Loud." About halfway through, I glance over at Sarah. She has the most beautiful smile, and I think something to myself that I've never thought in all my twenty-five years: this is how it feels to be Ed Sheeran.
Sarah bites her bottom lip when I finish. And she claps. Her voice is quieter, scratchier with sleepiness. "You play beautifully, Henry."
I wag my finger. "Told you. Never doubt me."
She yawns big and wide. "Do it again."
And though I feel exhaustion tugging on me, I don't want to say no.
I think a moment. "Here's one of my favorites."
I play "Hallelujah."
"I love this song, too." Sarah smiles serenely and hums softly along as I play.
Afterward, I grunt out a yawn of my own. As I lay my guitar on the floor, I tell Sarah, "You have excellent pitch. Do you sing?"
She stretches, pushing her awesomely full tits against her dark navy sleeping shirt, and my mouth goes dry.
"Only in the shower."
Big mistake number two.
I groan.
Sarah puts her glasses on the end table, frowning. "Are you all right?"
"I will be. Some day. I'm just really tired."
"Sorry. You came here for rest and I've kept you up."
I grin as I lie back on the pillow. "I didn't mind."
Although she's at the other end of the huge bed, it feels . . . nice, comforting . . . lying here like this.
"Good night, Henry."
"Sweet dreams, Sarah."
WHEN I WAKE UP IN the morning, Sarah is nowhere to be seen. And the ghost of being blown off after a one-night hookup walks over my grave. But I brush the feeling aside.
Because today's the day that the fun really starts. I have a workout date with Libby Loutenhiemer down at the beach, which means sweat and panting and her in some tight, scanty spandex outfit. Maybe we'll have an after-workout cocktail . . . which will hopefully lead to an equally sweaty but different kind of physical exertion, off camera.
My morning wood is particularly persistent, probably due to the delectable scent that filled my nostrils as I slept and still clings to my skin. But I don't have time to rub one out, so I head to my room, quickly change into a sweatshirt, running shorts, and cross-trainers, and jog to the beach.
An hour later, I discover yet again that none of this is how I envisioned it.
And I'm not in nearly as good of shape as I fucking thought.
Because Libby is an animal, and I don't mean the doggie-style type. The woman is an Olympian, but still . . .
A three-mile beach run, rope-jumping, sit-ups, push-ups, and a hundred mountain climbers later, I think I may actually be having a heart attack.
Which means if Granny kicks it, the throne goes to dumb Cousin Marcus--the only person less suited to rule than I am. For that reason, I power through, but it's not easy. I may not give Libby the diamond tiara, but I'm having serious thoughts of giving her the position of being my personal trainer.
Finally, we stop to catch our breath. We're on the beach, both bent at the waist, hands on our knees, the cold sea blowing on our heated, dripping skin.
"This was so fun!" Libby chirps. "You're the first man who's ever been able to keep pace with me."
I give her
a thumbs-up. It's all I can manage, because my muscles and vital organs would very much like to lie down and die now.
She moves in closer and whispers in my ear, "I want to suck your big, sweaty cock, Henry."
Scratch that--not every organ is ready to die just yet.
"That's the best damn thing I've heard in ages."
She giggles, taking me by the hand, turning around . . . and walking straight into Vanessa Steele.
No.
"That was great, you two--hope you had a good time. Libby, we need you in hair and makeup for your after-date, hot-seat session."
Fuck no.
"And Henry, you have to be showered and dressed for your afternoon date." She taps her wrist. "We're on a schedule."
Talk about a royal cock-block.
Libby looks just as disappointed as I feel. She toys with the collar of my shirt.
"Later on, yeah?"
I nod, and she gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
Behind her, someone on the beach in the distance grabs my attention. I squint, peering closer. She's alone, in an oversized T-shirt and black leggings, doing what appears to be a martial arts routine, and looking very fine doing it. Just when I think I have this girl pegged . . .
Libby notices and turns around too.
"Sarah knows aikido," she says. "She's quite good."
When Vanessa ushers Libby away, I stay right there for a while longer.
Watching.
Later in the afternoon I have a dog-walking, picnic date with Cordelia Ominsmitch.
We meet in the courtyard of the castle and while the other ladies and crew are several yards away, behind the cameras, if I keep my back to them, it feels almost normal. Cordelia walks up to me, smiling, carrying a well-fed white miniature poodle with beady, angry black eyes.
The cameras roll as Cordelia reaches me, wearing snug blue jeans, high brown leather boots, and a flowy, flower-patterned blouse with a revealing neckline. She's lovely. I stand straight, one arm folded across my lower back, and nod.
"Hello, Henry."
"How are you, Cordelia?"
"I'm very well now." She flutters her lashes coyly. "But I've been thinking, I'd like to get our first kiss out of the way. Then, I won't be nervous thinking about it, and I'll already know how magical we are together."
She's playing for the cameras--I've seen it done enough to know. But I don't care.
"I'm game if you are."
And I lean in, she reaches up--then the unpleasant mongrel in her arms growls and tries to bite my face off. Luckily, I pull back just in time.
"Oh! Walter, no!"
She smiles apologetically. "This is Walter."
I wave. "Good to meet you, Walter."
He snarls back.
Cordelia bites her lip. "Sorry. He's very protective of me." She gazes down at the dog and he starts to lick her chin. "Aren't you, precious?" she coos to him. "You love your mummy. You want to give Mummy a kiss? Okay, give Mummy all your kisses."
And then Walter plants one on Cordelia--with tongue. And she lets him. He licks her chin, her lips, and as she laughs . . . it looks like her teeth and tongue get a thorough cleaning too.
Then she puts him on the ground and turns to me, starry-eyed and smiling.
"Now . . . about that kiss?"
I look at Cordelia's lush, perfect mouth, and then down at the pudgy pooch . . . voraciously licking his own arsehole. And I grimace.
"Maybe later."
Or . . . not.
"Cut!" the director yells.
And Vanessa walks forward, with a clipboard in hand. "That was great. Lots of simmering, sexual tension with a tease for more to come. Love it. Let's freshen up and we'll get some shots of Henry and Cordelia in the convertible for the montage and voice-over piece. Then we'll move to the picnic area; it's almost ready."
But then, from behind the camera, someone knocks into the lighting tripod. It tilts over and crashes, the lens bursting with a loud pop and splintering shatter. A minute later, there's a commotion, the ladies crowding together. There are whispers and concerned looks, and Laura Benningson asks if someone should get a doctor.
"No," I hear Penelope answer. "No, she'll be all right in a few minutes."
I push through the crowd to the center, where Sarah stands unnaturally still. Her skin is ashen, her face is frozen in terror, and her eyes are flat and blank. And I feel like I've been punched in the gut, because I remember this. From last year at the pub, the very first time I spoke to her. When someone dropped a tray of glasses, and she froze up in fear.
Penny has her arm around Sarah's lower back, softly whispering words I can't hear. And it's like my heart stops in my chest and my stomach roils at the sight of her so still and afraid. I go to move closer but before I get to her, she comes to. Waking up gasping and blinking, reaching for her sister.
What the hell was that?
Penny catches my eye and shakes her head, telling me silently not to come closer. To pretend that everything is fine.
Eventually, everyone goes back to their tasks--the crew prepares for the next taping, the ladies chat and drink Champagne.
But Sarah remains off on the side. And she looks smaller somehow, like she's trying to sink into herself. Fold up and disappear. I don't like it. Sarah's too pretty to not be standing straight and tall so everyone can see. And she's . . . nice. Believe it or not, that's rare in my circle. She helped me last night. Even though it made her uncomfortable, she did it anyway.
And now I want to do something for her.
I want to see Sarah Titebottum smile. A brazen, bold, unselfconscious smile. But more than that, there's a small, selfish part of me that wants to make her smile. Be the one she's smiling for.
I glance around the set--everyone is buzzing like worker bees getting ready for the shot. Cordelia's getting primped and powdered by a makeup girl, Vanessa is speaking with a few of the cameramen, and the convertible I'm supposed to drive is just sitting there . . . all by its lonesome.
And look at that--someone left the keys in the ignition.
Stealthily, I sidle up to Sarah.
"Have you ever driven in a convertible?"
She looks up sharply, like she didn't see me approach. "Of course I have."
My hands slide into my pockets and I lean back on my heels.
"Have you ever been in a convertible driven by a prince?"
Her eyes are lighter in the sun, with a hint of gold. They crinkle as she smiles.
"No."
I nod. "Perfect. We do this in three."
Now she looks nervous. "Do what?"
I spot James across the way, eyes scanning the crowd--far enough away that he'll never get over here in time.
"Three . . ."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Two . . ."
"Henry . . ."
"One."
"I . . ."
"Go, go, go!"
"Go where?" she asks, loud enough to draw attention.
So I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her off her feet, carry her to the car, and swing her up and into the passenger seat. Then, I jump into the driver's side.
"Shit!" James curses. But then the engine is roaring to life. I back out, knocking over a food service table, and the tires screech as I turn around and drive across the grounds . . . toward the woods.
"The road is that way!" Sarah yells, the wind making her long, dark hair dance and swirl.
"I know a shortcut. Buckle up."
We fly into the woods, sending a flurry of leaves in our wake. The car bounces and jostles, and I feel Sarah's hand wrapped around my arm--holding on. It feels good.
"Duck."
"What?"
I push her head down and crouch at the same time, to avoid getting whipped in the face by the low-branch of a pine tree.
After we're past it, Sarah sits up, owl-eyed, and looks back at the branch and then at me.
I smirk. "If you wanted me to push your head down, love, you could've j
ust said so."
"You're insane!"
I hit the gas hard, swerving around a stump. "What? You're the only one who gets to make dirty jokes?"
We have a sharp turn coming up ahead. I lay my arm across Sarah's middle. "Hold on."
And as quick as that, we emerge from the trees, up a steep slope, and onto the smooth asphalt of the highway. I check the rearview mirror, and the coast is clear.
Sarah blinks at me. Her glasses are crooked, so I fix them for her.
"I get the feeling you've done that before."
I tilt my head up, enjoying the feel of the sun and breeze--like a dog on a joyride. "Ditching security is one of the thrills of my life."
She shakes her head, flabbergasted. "Why?"
"Because I'm not supposed to."
And then she smiles. Just like I wanted her to. Big and shamelessly. And my chest goes warm and my heart beats hard.
I flick the knob on the radio, and "Setting the World on Fire" by Pink and that country bloke comes from the speakers.
"This is a good song," Sarah says.
"Then turn it up," I tell her.
She does, then she holds her hands out, trying to catch the wind.
We both decide we're hungry. And though Sarah's hometown, Castlebrook, is the town nearest to the castle, there's no Mega Burger in Castlebrook. So, we head in the opposite direction, because Mega Burger is worth the extra forty-five-minute driving time.
When I pull up to the order window, the lad in the pointy paper hat jumps.
"Holy fuck!"
I glance at Sarah. "I get that a lot."
"Damn, man . . . you're Prince Henry."
I nod. "Good to meet you."
"Hey, can I get a photo?"
"Sure."
He leans out the window and I lean out of the car, and he snaps a selfie.
"Do me a favor," I ask, "don't post it on social media. I'm supposed to be working and if the Queen finds out I'm slacking off, she'll be angry. You wouldn't like her when she's angry."
He laughs, nodding.
After the boy brings our order and I pay, I slip him an extra wad of cash. "Use this to treat as many cars as possible that come after me. If there's any left over, it's yours."
His head bobs. "Awesome. I always thought you were cool."
"I try." We bump fists and then I pull out.
I feel Sarah watching warmly as I drive.
"That was very nice."
"That was easy." I shrug. "My mother used to say that kindness is contagious. It only takes one person to start the best kind of epidemic."
