Chapter 11 #2
He climbs from the car when the door is opened for him and walks around to my side as he adjusts his coat and cuffs as camera flashes go off all around him.
When my door is pulled open, he is there with his hand held out for me to take, and I do.
I climb from the car and let my wrap and tulle skirt fall around me and trail behind as he leads me down the red carpet, expertly turning me this way and that so that our photograph can be taken over and over and over again.
By the time we make it through the door and are escorted to the royal box, I feel safe. But that, like my dress, is nothing more than an illusion. With Rhys, I might be physically safe, but it’s just another pretense in regard to everything else.
“You’re not out of the woods yet, hen,” he rumbles in my ear, for only me to hear. Something about that emboldens me, heating me up from the inside out.
“Hmm…”
We’re shut in the box with a heavy curtain behind us, separating us from the door and the security officer behind it.
There’s an additional protection agent in the corner, watching as bodies fill the theater with the house lights illuminating everything.
We take off our overcoats and hand them off as we take our seats.
Rhys plays with my hand and the wedding rings on my finger.
When the lights flicker prompting the audience to take their seats, I watch from above as everyone files in. And then a woman in an elaborate costume and makeup steps onto the stage to announce us.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she says to the crowd. “We’re honored to welcome the King and his Queen to our performance tonight. Please join me in giving them our profound welcome.”
We stand and wave as people clap and cheer. Rhys is, and always has been, so loved. When we sit down the spotlight slides back to the woman on stage and she says, “Without further ado, please enjoy the show.”
The lights dim casting everything into shadow. Even from our box, I can see only the stage and what’s going on there. It’s almost like we’re in our own little bubble and it’s intoxicating.
“It’s so dark,” I whisper as Rhys traces a fingertip up my bare arm and then back down again, over and over.
“Aye,” he says. “I bet I could touch you in here and no one would notice. I bet I could make you come and no one would hear a thing.”
My heart beats faster and my skin heats as I think about all of the possibilities. “And what about me?”
“What about you, hen?” he asks. “I just said I’d make you come.”
“What about me?” I repeat softly, my voice barely over a whisper. “Do you think anyone would notice if I sank to my knees and made an earlier request come true? Do you think anyone would notice if I made you come here?”
“Hen, I have to warn you that seeing you in that dress is already doing my head in. But the thought of you in it here, sucking me off, is enough to make me come in my pants like a lad.”
“That’s not an answer to my question, husband. I asked if you thought I could get away with it.”
He doesn’t answer me, instead he grabs the velvet pillow from the empty seat beside him and drops it to the floor between his spread feet.
Challenge accepted.
I let my gaze sweep the room, looking for anyone who might be watching us, but everyone is focused on the scene on stage. I have no idea what’s going on. Between Rhys’s flirtatious advances and the Italian language, I’m lost. I might as well make good use of my time.
I slide to the floor, the velvet pillow cushioning my knees, and spread my skirt out around me so I don’t get tangled up in it. I place my hands on his thighs and look up at him. Rhys graces my cheek and chin with a soft sweep of his touch.
“Do you know how beautiful you look on your knees for me like this?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “Tell me.”
“I’d rather show you.”
“Then show me.” I watch as he unfastens his tuxedo pants and lets the material part to pull out his thick cock. Precum glistens at the tip as he grips himself in his fist and strokes.
“Do you want this?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“Then ask me if you can suck my cock,” he demands.
“Can I please suck your cock, husband?”
“Aye,” he says, holding the shaft pointed toward me, watching to see what I’ll do.
He probably thinks I’ll chicken out, but little does he know that the idea of teasing him, pleasing him, and making him come here, surrounded by all these people who have no clue, has a burning desire building deep inside me, slicking my thighs with my arousal.
I lean forward and lick the head of him, letting my tongue swipe through his precum before opening my mouth wide and taking him inside. His groan rumbles through me and I feel it deep in my pussy as I bob over him, taking him as fully as I can.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps. “I won’t be able to last.”
Good. I don’t want him to. I move faster and faster, letting saliva pool in my mouth because he likes it wet and fast. He grips the back of my head in his hands, and I don’t even care whether he’s careful of my hair as he pulls me down onto him.
He groans as he fills my mouth and I swallow him down.
After I slide his spent cock from my lips, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and then check my hair to make sure nothing is wildly out of place.
Then I slip back up into my seat and glance around.
No one is looking at me. Now that’s a rush.
Who needs skydiving when you can make your husband fall apart in a crowded theater and no one knows.
Rhys wraps his strong hand around the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, crushing his mouth to mine in a hungry kiss. When he pulls back enough to break the kiss, still looking in my eyes, he says, “Woman, you undo me,” and then kisses me again.
The lights flicker and I jump back making him laugh.
“It’s just intermission,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Would you like a glass of champagne, hen?” he asks, his voice skating over my heated skin. I look at him and he smirks. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He got to come, I haven’t… yet.
“Yes,” I whisper and he turns to an attendant who has come to service the box.
“The lady would like a glass of champagne, and I’d like a scotch, neat,” he says.
“Yes, Your Highness,” they say before dropping a quick curtsey and leaving.
“So, what do we do?” I ask. “Do we mingle? Do we take photos or meet with people?”
“No,” he smiles at me. “We just show our support by watching the show.”
“I showed my support,” I mutter.
“Yes, you did,” he laughs before gazing at me with a funny expression on his face. It’s not bad, it just makes me feel warm inside.
“What?”
“I just appreciate that you’re taking your duties as my wife, as Queen, so seriously,” he answers. “I appreciate you.”
“Well, thanks.”
The server comes back with our drinks, and we sit quietly together while we sip them.
We can’t talk or connect the way we would at home.
I realize how crazy that sounds after what I just did on my knees in this box, but we never know who might be listening.
The bubbles and Rhys’s gentle touches go straight to my head, leaving me feeling light and floaty.
The house lights flicker once again, and I watch as people mill back to their seats, eager for the show to continue.
My champagne is gone by the time the lights dim and the theater is dark all around us.
Rhys takes the empty glass from me and places it on a side table before curling into me.
He presses his face into the crook of my neck and kisses me there.
A shiver wracks up my spine when I feel the tip of his tongue press against my skin as he kisses me, tastes me, here in the dark of our box. We’re both hidden and exposed to anyone who might be watching.
The curtain parts, revealing the performers, and I watch them move about the stage as they begin to sing the next act. I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as he whispers into my ear, “Did you enjoy bringing me to my knees?”
“Yes.”
“Did it turn you on knowing that you could make me come so hard, so fast, like that?”
“Y-yes.”
“If I touched you now,” he says as he trails his hand down my thigh, gathering my skirt, slowly in his grasp, raising it up. If he keeps going, my center will be exposed. “Would you be wet for me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, feeling the cool air touch my heated flesh.
“How wet?”
“Soaking,” I admit.
“Lean forward against the railing for me,” he says, helping me place my hands on the wooden balcony railing of the box, my chin resting demurely on top of my hands.
To anyone watching, it looks like I’m enjoying the show when nothing could be further from the truth.
If anything, I have no idea what’s going on. “That’s my good girl.”
Rhys gathers my skirt in both hands after threading his arms under mine, embracing me behind the wall of the balcony.
When my hem is high enough, he slides his hand beneath the gauzy fabric, his bare palm gliding up my stocking-covered thighs, up my belly, until he can slip his fingers under the waist of my stocking and down.
I hear his muted hiss when the pads of his fingers touch the wet gusset of my thong.
“Open for me,” he hums. His fingers ghost through my slit, catching my breath in my lungs. “So fucking wet.”
One look at him and you’d think he was bored.
He’s made no effort to hide that opera isn’t his favorite.
It would be fair to assume he’s mentioned it in an interview somewhere, sometime during his life.
What the country would not expect is that this stoic king, even though newly married, is doing wicked, wicked things to me.
He swirls around my opening, again and again, before sweeping the tip of his finger around my clit, making me gasp, before tracing my slit again. I bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud and dig my nails into the wooden railing to keep myself from rocking against his hand, begging him for more.