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“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“How long were you watching me? Creep.”
He laughs then, and I fight a smile off my face. “I like the way you treat me.”
“With insults?”
“Like I’m normal,” he corrects. A long sigh escapes his lips, and he pushes himself to his feet. He’s close now, his crotch right beside my leg. Yes, I notice the position of his crotch. I’ve thought about it more than once since the Halloween party.
Silas stretches, then downs the rest of his drink. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to go back to my room alone, staring at a laptop until I fall asleep. I want…
“You look beautiful tonight,” Silas says gently, reaching up to touch a strand of my hair resting near my breast. He tugs the bottom of it ever so gently, and I catch a gasp before it escapes. “You look beautiful all the time, but tonight… I like the jeans-and-tee look on you.”
“I…” I gulp. My jeans and tee feel particularly tight and scratchy against my sensitive skin. “Thank you. Are you drunk?”
“A little.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“You should go.”
“I know,” he says, but doesn’t move. His eyes stay on mine, finger slowly wrapping itself in that strand of hair. I want him to grab a handful and wrench my head back. I want him to devour my lips. Kiss me hard, right here. Drag me back to his room and fuck me senseless. Tug my jeans down around my thighs and bury himself inside me. I want to know if the rumors are true, if he’s really as perfect under those clothes as the tabloids have said.
I want… I want it all. All of him. Hands, mouth, cock. I want to hear him say my name with gravel in his voice. I want to see his body lock up with tension and ecstasy when he empties himself inside me.
I want so, so many things, and I can have none of them.
Tortured eyes stare back at me, and I wonder if he can hear my thoughts. “See you tomorrow, Jazz,” he says, then slips away without touching me.
I feel…cold.
10
Silas
The door to my hotel room is barely even closed behind me when I have my pants unzipped and my hand around my cock. It’s so hard it’s almost painful, the tip swollen and purple. I end up bent over the nearest piece of furniture—a console table—fisting my shaft like it’s my last day on earth.
It takes precisely zero effort to call up a thousand images of Jazz in various positions. That smart mouth of hers parted in bliss, back arching while I lick her from ass crack to clit. I bet she tastes divine. All I want to do is spread her wide and feast on her, feeling those thighs wrapped around my head.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I lean over the sink as I think of her in front of me, naked, ass pushing back against me with my fist curled into her black hair. There are a million ways I want to fuck her, and a million and one reasons why I shouldn’t.
But that doesn’t matter here, when it’s just me and my hand. I close my eyes and picture those red lips falling open, eyes full of fire, tongue sliding out to taste me—
I come in thick ropes, gasping, wanting her more than I did before.
We spend two days in Canada doing various vanilla activities where I can be photographed being a good, proper prince. Jacinthe publishes an article the day after my disastrous speech, but it’s nowhere near as scathing as some of the other press I’ve generated so far. I think she’s avoiding me, because the only times I see her during those two days are official events, and she usually ducks out before I can catch her eye.
I think about her all the time. All the fucking time. There’s something wrong with me. The closest I come to her is when we board the jet bound for Farcliff, a kingdom located between Canada and the United States, east of the Great Lakes.
From my suite on the top level of the plane, I watch her walk up the steps, wearing her usual black-suit-and-white-blouse combination. Today her hair is tied up in a high ponytail, swishing with every step. Halfway up the stairs, she looks up—straight at me.
My first instinct is to back away from the window. How many times have I jerked off to the thought of her in the past few days? I should be ashamed of myself.
But there’s no shame inside me as our eyes meet. Just a hardening of my shaft in my pants, because the mere sight of her is enough to make me turn feral. I turn to the flight attendant busying herself for takeoff and ask her to bring Jazz up here. The flight attendant nods and disappears through the door leading to the lower deck.
My heart thumps while I wait. I fidget in my seat, adjusting my tie, combing my hands through my hair, doing anything but sitting still. Minutes crawl by, and I wonder if she might refuse to see me. She could, after I showed up at her hotel the first night in Ottawa. Maybe I freaked her out.
