Asking for More (6 page)

So I pull myself together. I breathe in the soft scent of vanilla as I allow my hand to steal between my legs. Jonah takes good care of me in bed, but nobody ever said I couldn't get a head start.

As my fingers start to circle, I fantasize about all the things Jonah's ever done to me. Fucking me behind the velvet curtains of a stage. Tying me up in a remote cabin to be his slave for a weekend. Coercing me into giving him a blowjob in the back seat of his car. And always, always, that first time in the hotel room downtown, when he tore the dress from my body and took me like an animal.

My cunt tightens; the folds of flesh under my fingers swell. When my thumb brushes over my clit, it feels so good that it's all I can do not to moan. God, if I come this close to getting off just thinking about what Jonah does to me, I might explode the first moment we actually touch.

I turn off the water, untie the scarf that's kept my hair dry, and towel myself off. A few drops of baby oil in my palm help me massage myself all over, not to the point of slickness, just to where I'll feel perfectly soft.

All right.
I push aside the knowledge of what's to come so I can pretend this is like any other night.
Time for bed.

The bedroom lights have been turned off. I walk through the living room, belting my little satin robe as though I might be wearing it for a while. When I enter the bedroom, I cross as if I'm going to turn on one of the bedside lamps—

—which is when I'm grabbed from behind, two hands clutching my upper arms as firmly as chains of iron.

I gasp, pretend fear so real that it sends adrenaline washing through me. My hair stands on end, and I try to pull away. It's useless. He's too strong.

Jonah jerks me back and whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my throat, “Struggle and you'll only get hurt. You don't want to get hurt, do you?”

“—no—”

“Then this can be easy. You want it to be easy, right? You don't want to do it the hard way, where I make you hurt.” With one hand he holds my arm fast; with the other he reaches around, tugging open my robe so he can fondle my breasts. “Isn't this better? It can all be just like this.”

With that, Jonah shoves me forward so hard that I fall onto the bed, belly first. Before I can even push myself up on my elbows, he's on the bed, crouching over me, flipping me over to face him. He's completely naked, totally hard. Jonah gives me a feral grin as he straddles me and rubs his cock against my belly. Pre-come traces a hot, wet line beneath my navel.

“I'm going to give you a choice. See how easy this is? You can choose.” He reaches down to grab the satin tie of my robe and yank it free. “I can come in your cunt, your ass, or your mouth. You get to pick. I don't care where I fuck you, as long as you get fucked hard. So tell me where, huh? Tell me where you want to get fucked.”

I lick my lips, breathing fast in arousal that lies on the other edge of panic. “My mouth,” I whisper. The minute Jonah touches my cunt, I'm going to come. I want this to last longer than that.

Jonah cocks his head as he begins wrapping the satin tie around one of my wrists. “What's that? Were you asking me to do something? Ask me nicely.”

Sometimes he makes me beg. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck my mouth.”

Jonah laughs, a low, dangerous sound. “Easy.”

He pulls the satin tie around one of the bedposts, then ties the free end around my other wrist. His hand caresses my belly and breasts as he slides off the bed. I lie near the edge, near enough for him to clutch a fistful of my hair and turn my head toward him. With his other hand he grips his erection, stroking himself a couple times as he looks down at me as though he could devour me whole.

“Open your lips for me,” he commands. “You want me to fuck your mouth? Then show me. Open wide.”

I part my lips. Jonah brushes the head of his cock against my lips, then slowly, slowly, pushes inside.

“Don't just lie there.” Jonah's voice has gone ragged with the strain of holding back. “Make it good.”

So I start sucking. Start using my tongue. I take him in as deeply as I can, overcome with the need to please him, to play this game to its fullest.
Let go, Jonah. Let go.

His grip tightens in my hair. My eyes are closed, so I don't see what he's doing with his other hand until his fingers push inside my cunt. I gasp around his cock, and he shivers.

“Didn't want me to fuck you here?” he whispers. “Too damn bad.”

Then he starts fucking me with his hand, fast and hard. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing it with every single stroke. I was too hot for him already to endure much of this. My cry of pleasure is muffled around his cock, and he makes a low, yearning sound that seems to have been torn from him.

Dizzy, crazy pleasure races along my nerves, through my veins, upon my skin. I suck him harder, shamelessly, overcome with the instinctive need to have all of Jonah I possibly can. His fingers push in deeper, and I can hear the slick wet sound of him pumping in and out of me.

“More.” Jonah must mean it to sound like an order, but he's too close to the edge for that. His softest whisper betrays how much he wants me. “
More
.”

I take him in deep as pleasure arcs inside me, building until it drowns out fear, hesitation, doubt, or even thought—

When I come, it's like a lightning bolt, one pure surge of energy and heat that turns night to day. I tense and arch into it as orgasm sweeps through me, and that's all Jonah needs. Within seconds, he follows, his come filling my mouth until I swallow deep, drinking him down.

Afterward we remain still for a long moment. Then Jonah pulls out of my mouth; he takes his hand from my cunt, but not before stroking it once more, this time gently. I open my eyes to see him looking down at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen.

“Okay?” he says as he strokes the side of my face.

I smile up at him. “So much better than okay.”

He unties the satin sash binding my wrists, freeing me. I sit up as he sits beside me and folds me into his arms. Jonah rocks me back and forth, comforting me tenderly.

“I love you so much.” I kiss his shoulder and the curve of his neck between my words. “So, so much, Jonah.”

“I love you too.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “You've changed me. You've saved me.”

Jonah and I were both doing okay even before we met each other, but I know what he means. Together we found something that might otherwise have eluded us for a lifetime: complete, total, life-altering trust. I look up at him and smile. “How can I save you when you're the one who saved me?”

“It's a Mobius strip.”

“Love can turn two dimensions into one?”

“Maybe,” Jonah says. “Maybe it can.”

Jonah and I climb into bed together. We pull the covers over our bodies and curl against each other so that we touch from our foreheads to our feet. It's not even possible for me to be close enough to him. As I close my eyes, I imagine a Mobius strip, a single loop winding itself into an infinity symbol. Connection without end.

Keep reading for a special preview of the first book in an enchanting new series from Lilah Pace, HIS ROYAL SECRET, coming in July 2016 from InterMix.

Royal Ruckus

Randy Sandy Trades the Purple . . . for a Ginger?

Shocking new photos have surfaced of Lady Cassandra Roxburgh in the arms of a man who is decidedly not the Prince of Wales. Unconfirmed reports say it is none other than Irish telecommunications mogul Spencer Kennedy, but the paps focused on something other than the man's face! Can Sandy persuade Prince James to forgive her for yet another transgression? Will the people of Great Britain ever be able to accept her as queen after this? TEXT your vote to . . .

James' private landline rang. The butler would have answered any other call, even here in the private suite of Clarence House. However, this line was reserved for the most intimate of friends and family, so James answered it himself, reaching across the silver and china on his tea tray. Without waiting for the caller to speak a word, he said, “At least you look smashing.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha.” Cass sounded less wounded, more angry. She wasn't one to worry about the entire world seeing her topless, he knew. This wasn't the first time she'd appeared semi-naked in the tabs. Still, this was a bigger mess than usual. “The resort owners claimed the entire enclosure was
completely
private.”

“I know. They try. But the paparazzi get trickier all the time.”

Cass groaned. “How long do we do this?”

“Six weeks? No, two months or so. I've got to come across as really angry this time. Maybe you could hide out in Paris, get photographed without makeup like you're distraught, something like that?”

“James, no.” Her voice was quieter. “How much longer are we keeping up this whole charade?”

At this point, Lady Cassandra Roxburgh was one of only four people in the world who knew the heir to the English throne was gay. James had no intention of ever letting that number rise into the double digits. (Five sounded about right. If he could meet one man—the correct man, appropriate and discreet—everyone else could live in ignorance.)

Once, when he was younger and more idealistic, James had hoped to be slightly more open. He'd confided the truth to his father during his gap year, and Dad—known to the world as Edmund, Prince of Wales—had accepted it with better grace than James would have dreamed possible.

“You're not the first, you know.”

“I know.”

“I always thought you and Cassandra—”

“We're only friends. I haven't ever, you know, done anything with her.”

“You haven't been careless?”

“No. There will be nothing in the press. I promise you that.”

“You might find a girl who doesn't mind it, you know. Not as if she wouldn't have enough to console her. And that way at least you'd have children.”

“People don't live that way any longer.”

“We don't live like most people, James. You're not free to do whatever you like, no more than I am.”

“I know that. I want to do my duty. But—I can't see marrying someone under false pretenses. It would come out someday. Surely that would be even worse.”

“Perhaps so.”

How he remembered his father's heavy sigh, and the slight crinkling at the side of his eyes that hinted at a smile, and gentled the moment.

“The royal line can pass through your sister's children—but we've time to discuss all that. After I succeed to the throne, you're likely to spend several decades as Prince of Wales. That gives us opportunities to make such arrangements as are necessary.”

James had not trusted himself to speak. He simply nodded, so grateful he had to swallow a lump in his throat.

“You must continue to be discreet for some time to come. More than discreet. If this becomes public before I take the throne, it will be harder for me to protect you. As for your grandparents—well. They're not modern, are they?”

Of all the adjectives in the English language, perhaps the one least likely to be applied to King George IX and Queen Louisa was
modern
. “No, sir.”

“But times change. Slowly, but they do change. If the public has long enough to get accustomed to the news, you might weather the squall. Come on, then. Shall we speak to your mother together?”

Even then, James had thought his father was being optimistic about public opinion. But neither of them could possibly have known of the tragedy that would crush them all only seven months later: A goodwill trip to Australia and New Zealand. A storm over the Coral Sea. A tabloid frenzy over every shard of wreckage that washed up. The horrible photos all over the Internet of a bloated corpse that had once been not only the Prince of Wales but also a loving father and a good man—and how even that was better than the horror of knowing his mother's body would never be found. Headlines screaming about Princess Rose's survival on undiscovered islands, her capture by pirates, or any other marine misadventure the tabloids could concoct, so long as they could milk a few more pennies' profit from her legend. James' investiture as Prince of Wales before he even left university. Indigo's ups and downs shifting from normal teenage moods to something far more difficult for her to bear. With Grandfather's increasingly ill health, more and more responsibility for James.

The lie he and Cass had lived for nearly a decade now seemed like the only option. The very hypocrisy he'd once tried to escape, he now had to create.

He said, “Don't suppose you'd change your mind about wanting to be queen.”

“Oh,
James.
” She'd never budged on this, not for one hour of one day.

“Have you taken a look at the jewelry you'd get to wear? We are talking about some serious bling . . . Do people still say bling?”

“No. And even if I did marry you, we'd both be trapped in this lie forever. I don't think I can stand it. Can you?”

James rubbed wearily at his temple. “I think I have to.”

“. . . you don't. I swear you don't.”

“I have to become Supreme Governor of a church that's leaning more strongly away from supporting gay clergy and gay marriage. I have to lead a country that's inching toward being progressive but is absolutely not ready for a gay king. My father—he was savvier about politics than I am and more beloved than I'll ever be. Maybe he could have smoothed the way.
Maybe.
When he and Mum died, any chance I had of making this work died with them.”

“Then abdicate. Leave the throne to your uncle.”

“You know as well as I do that I can't leave it to Richard. If I step down, the throne goes to my sister instead.” Princess Amelia Caroline Georgiana had been dubbed
Mellie
by the press; she resisted the label by insisting, since age 12, that her friends and brother call her
Indigo
. Queen Indigo. Not bloody likely. “That's the cruelest thing I could do to anyone.”

“No, James,” Cass said gently. “The cruelest thing you could do is shut yourself up in a lie forever.”

As always, this subject made him acutely uncomfortable. “Well, I can't do it now. They'll say you
turned
me gay through your—where is it—ah. Your ‘roving eyes and round heels.'”

“God, I wish I could just take them and slap—oh, I don't even know what.” The paparazzi were lucky Cass's station in life prevented her from acting on her anger, James thought. Even by the standards of Scotswomen, she was as hardy as she was hot-tempered, and possessed of physical strength that belied her petite frame. A fair fight against Cass would probably end poorly for her opponent. “I might not marry you for the crown jewels, James, but I think I deserve a tiara for this. At minimum.”

“A tiara you shall have. And my undying thanks.” He set aside his copy of the
Sun
, resting it on the edge of the silver tea tray. Glover had ironed the paper and placed it there without comment this morning. “For now, let's simply stick with the classic estrangement mode, all right? I've got the Africa tour coming up, so that buys us a while. We can ‘reunite' at Balmoral for the Highland Games, and after that, I promise, we'll talk about how to, you know, tie things up.”

“Really?” She sounded far happier than he would have thought. It wasn't as though James hadn't known this was a burden for Cass, but actually hearing the relief in her voice reminded him of how much she'd done for his sake.

“Really and truly.”

“I know this makes things harder for you, going ahead.”

He sighed. “It wasn't as though they were going to be easy in any case.”

After he hung up the phone, he went into his sitting room and curled up in his favorite high-backed chair. Glover had built a fire in the fireplace before he even rose for breakfast; his late mother's elderly corgis dozed in front of it. Most people would have been surprised at the simplicity and comfort of the room; everything in it was the best of its kind, but unlike any other room in Clarence House, this one had been designed not as part of a palace, but as part of a home. A television stood on the shelves, shamelessly visible; instead of fine oil paintings, informal family photographs from his childhood hung on the wall. While other bookshelves in royal residences were stocked with leather-bound classics, this room housed what the family enjoyed reading—his father's historical novels, his mother's spy thrillers, Indigo's
Chronicles of Narnia
, and James' own popular science books. Some of the novels were even dog-eared paperbacks. It hardly mattered how the room looked, as no one ever saw it but family, very close friends and the most dedicated servants. Despite the 20-foot ceilings and the antique Persian rug on the floor, this was one of the precious few rooms in Clarence House that felt cozy. Comfortable. Not a place to show off things, but to shelter people.

That was the whole problem, James thought. He'd been born into a role that demanded he take his place in the museum, and would forever deny him a real home.

***

Two Months Later

The Heir Airs His Broken Heart On Safari

AND YOU'RE FOOTING THE BILL!

Benjamin Dahan frowned at the website headline. He wasn't thrilled at this latest assignment, but at least he could write something better than that tabloid rubbish. His editor back in Capetown would be on the alert for any sign of phoning it in, and had said as much when he sent Ben north to Kenya.

“You've got to be kidding. I cover economic policy, Roger. Not inbred aristocrats playing cricket on the veldt.”

“You've wanted this London transfer for nearly a year now, right? Well, show me you're a team player, and we can finally put it through. Because that's what a team does when their Nairobi correspondent falls pregnant and has to go on bed rest. A team pulls together to supply the inbred aristocrat news the world so craves. Besides, three days at a luxury safari resort? You've pulled worse duty than that.”

Two days in, Ben was inclined to agree, but mostly because the autumn rainy season had hung on a few weeks longer than usual. Instead of watching the Prince of Wales blab inanities at various distinguished visitors, he'd been more or less confined to his suite.

Yes, here, even a lowly reporter got a suite. The resort offered nothing less than this: two rooms furnished with enormous leather sofas, a broad palm-leafed bronze ceiling fan, an antique desk, a king-sized four-poster bed carved of mahogany, and any number of accouterments that made Ben feel vaguely like Hemingway. Which was the whole racket, and more fool him for buying into it on any level, but after two days of unceasing rain, his resistance was wearing down.

Thus far, his entire exposure to his subject had been a faraway glimpse at the initial press conference at Jomo Kenyatta. All Ben had been able to tell at that distance was that Prince James wasn't actually as short as political cartoonists made him out to be. Hardly story material—and circumstances had offered Ben nothing better. With all the planned outdoor activities canceled, apparently the prince was meeting with local dignitaries at private dinners instead. Ben had been peeved until he realized this was an opportunity. Rather than churning out the usual cut-and-paste text about royal appearances, he'd been writing bios of the people who had come to see the prince, summarizing what they thought British royalty could do for them that their own governments couldn't, and rather neatly (in his opinion) pointing out just how many aspects of society had to be broken for Prince bloody James to be someone's best hope.

With that mostly done, he could enjoy the luxurious suite. The sound of the rain.

Oh, what the hell, it was midafternoon, and he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Ben could go full Hemingway and enjoy a glass of rum.

He poured a couple fingers' worth from the lavishly furnished bar and stepped out onto the covered porch, heavy glass tumbler in his hand. From there he ought to have been able to see a few of the other huts in the resort, but silvery sheets of rain made it seem as though the rest of the world were veiled, as if it were there and not there at once. The solitude was both beautiful and lonely.

A breeze blew a shimmer of fine raindrops across his right arm, the side of his face. Ben closed his eyes and relished the coolness against his skin.

There but not there. Alone but not alone.

Then Ben heard splashing—someone dashing through the water in the courtyard, which was apparently deeper than he'd realized. When Ben opened his eyes, he saw a distant, drenched figure holding a broken black umbrella, in water up to his knees. Ben had to laugh, and he shouted, “Get in here before you drown yourself!” The unknown man hesitated one moment before sloshing his way up the steps. Ben called, “I think you need a drink. Hang on, I'll get you a glass.”