5. Xavier
Xavier
Ican’t speak. I can’t compute. The executive function of which I am so inordinately proud shuts down as if a plug has been pulled, although it’s likely a simple matter of displaced blood flow.
There’s just her, and her face, and her breasts, and her words, and all of it is such an intoxicating overload that I’m powerless against it. Useless.
It’s been a while, I’ll grant you that. A couple of months, maybe, when I was in Portofino this summer.
But it may as well have been a decade. It’s as if my brother has been starving me all year and has just wheeled in a strawberry- and cream-filled birthday cake and told me to gorge myself stupid on it, because that’s what this nameless, angelic woman is.
A human cream cake. And I want to suck on her mouth and stick my face between those tits, and stick other parts of me between those tits, too.
I’m reeling; my head is spinning; I can’t think straight.
She’s that inebriating, that stupefying.
I’m staring, I think. Staring and panting, my mouth opening and closing like a damned goldfish, and I don’t know what to do, because I cannot possibly touch this woman whose name I don’t even know, and I also cannot walk back out that door and leave her in here. Both options are equally unthinkable.
But she thinks for me. Acts for me. She keeps her limpid blue eyes fixed on mine as she reaches for my wrists, encircling them with her soft little hands and pressing my palms to her breasts.
At the first, heady hit of her, of warm skin and pebbled nipple, I let out a piteous moan.
There is a very real chance that I will cream my breeches simply from touching her, from the raw eroticism of this moment. My entire body is prickling with sweat.
I hinge forward and drop my forehead to hers. ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful.’
‘Happy birthday,’ she whispers, and I let out a little laugh. I’ve had maybe three glasses of champagne all night, but I feel hammered. High as a fucking kite.
‘Best present ever.’
She releases my wrists and rolls her forehead against mine. ‘Touch them, then.’
‘Christ.’ I press. I knead. Oh, sweet Jesus. I roll her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. So fucking tight. She makes a sweet noise in the back of her throat, and my dick hardens further at the sheer delight of it.
I’m still playing with her miraculous breasts when she closes her hand over my poor, aching dick and squeezes through the straining fabric of my breeches.
My reaction is to groan again and find her mouth with mine, sucking that delectable, deplorable upper lip into my mouth, and fuck.
I was right. It’s fucking perfect. I slide my tongue over it in awe.
With a gasp, she pulls away and drops to her knees.
I stare down at her in abject disbelief as she makes admirably quick work of the little buttons lining the flap of my breeches.
What the fuck we’re doing, I don’t know.
What the fuck I’ve just walked into, I don’t know.
The music is pulsing through the floor from the ballroom below, yet this feels like some parallel universe where only unearthly pleasure awaits me.
She has the flap open, and she’s found the slit in my modern boxer briefs, and she takes me out.
She takes me out. I’m rock hard and leaking into her palm.
I grit my teeth against the almost unbearable tease of her fingers on me.
And then she wraps one hand around me, moves her face closer to my weeping crown, looks up, and gives me a real smile.
A hungry smile. A smile that says I want this as much as you do. And I’m almost undone, almost, except—
Wait.
It’s with excruciatingly poor timing that my prefrontal cortex chooses to come back online.
‘Is my brother paying you for this?’ I bark.
‘What?’ She squints up at me, presumably confused as to why I’m forcing her into conversation instead of shutting up and taking the unthinkable pleasure that she’s so graciously offering.
I fist my hands by my sides, forcing myself not to touch her, no matter how much I want to slide my fingers through her hair as she wraps that succulent little mouth around me.
‘Do you work for that Alchemy place?’ I manage.
She shrugs. ‘Yeah. So?’
Jesus fucking Christ. I knew this was too good to be true. I’m so stupid, so mindlessly entitled, thinking I could waltz in here and enjoy the most salacious kind of ‘birthday present’ from some poor, exquisite creature who’s been exploited and strong-armed into this.
‘Take your hands off me and get up. Come on.’ My voice is rougher than I intended; my tongue feels thick and sluggish in my mouth.
She releases me and sits back on her heels, gazing up at me, a pornographic take on a porcelain-skinned Fragonard muse, bare-breasted and dishevelled, powder-blue silk fanned out around her on the floor.
I cannot fucking bear it. My cock is still out and impossibly stiff, but I studiously ignore it as I bend and slide my hands under her armpits, hauling her to her feet.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asks, and I’m lucid enough to notice that, of course, her accent is pure London. She’s an import to this event, not a guest.
‘No,’ I mutter. ‘Not at all.’ But I nearly did. I clear my throat. ‘I can’t possibly exploit you if you’re being paid for this. It’s morally repugnant. No judgement on you or your choices, but I couldn’t live with myself.’
Jesus.
I almost let her put my dick in her mouth.
Have I been guilty, in the past, of relying on my looks and my title and my wealth to get laid?
Yes, of course. Many times over. But I would never, ever let a woman prostitute herself for me.
God knows, sex work is one of the most egregious ways that our society has created to exploit and abuse and debase women, and I will absolutely not be a part of it, no matter how badly I wanted to fuck this woman’s beautiful mouth just now.
No matter how ready I was to look the other way and take what was being offered up on a platter in my temporary, lust-fuelled insanity.
Her perfectly light blue eyes grow glossy with unshed tears. ‘But it’s fine! It’s more than fine—I want to!’
I frown and purse my lips in a way I hope communicates my extreme disapproval that she’s feeding me these trite lines, just as I try very, very hard not to glance down at her tits. Alas, they are very much in my peripheral vision.
‘Cover yourself up,’ I say brusquely. I make the mistake of glancing down again at the impossibly milky globes.
They’re basically on a shelf, supported by what looks like a porno corset.
I tug the sleeves up over her shoulders, but the rest of the neckline remains caught under her breasts.
Jesus. I’m not sure what I’ve done in a past life to deserve this level of torture.
Gingerly, I take hold of it, the backs of my fingers brushing over the silken undersides of her breasts, and attempt to pull it up.
It snags on her perfect nipples, and I blow out a breath as I finally get the damned thing over them.
‘With respect, sir, you’re being ridiculous. I want this, honestly. I mean, look at you. You’re so hot! And you have a very, very nice dick, let me tell you. You can do whatever you like to me. I’m up for it all. You’re not exploiting me. I really like sex.’
None of that is remotely fucking helpful. Because she will never know how much I want to shove my very nice dick into her wet little mouth and between those gorgeous tits and inside her sweet little pussy, which presumably looks like a fucking rosebud.
I actually—and I’m not proud of this—clamp my hand over my forehead like a visor to shield my eyes from the sight of her.
Because even dressed, she’s too much. Too tempting, too beguiling, too dangerous.
Too vital and sensual and willing and all the things that my fiancée is not.
And that is a major problem, because all of the arousal she’s whipped up inside me in the space of just a few minutes is threatening to erupt all down the front of her gown.
‘I don’t want to hear it. I will not take advantage of a woman who’s being paid to have sex with me.
It goes against every single thing I stand for.
I have values, and morals, and this is… this is unconscionable to me.
Unconscionable.’ My eyes still shielded, I point with my free hand towards the door.
‘Now for the love of God, get the fuck out of here.’
There’s a pause. A silence. She’s perfectly still for a moment.
She whispers something brokenly, a single, devastating sentence that has me rearing back as if I’ve been slapped, and then she’s moving past me, pulling the door open and slamming it closed behind her hard enough that the nearest lamp tremors on its table.
With an agonised groan, I stumble over to the bed.
I’m desperate for release, desperate, but I cannot and will not blow my load over this priceless lilac silk eiderdown.
It’s been in the family for far too long.
Instead, I bend with difficulty and locate from under the bedside table an antique porcelain chamber pot bedecked, inevitably, with garlands of lilacs.
I set it on the bed and shove my breeches and boxers down to my knees.
To think I could have been coming in her dangerous little mouth right about now, or bending her over this high four-poster to bury myself balls-deep in her lovely little cunt.
Instead, my hand is wrapped firmly around my dick, chafing be damned, and I’m aiming into a fucking vessel for our illustrious former guests’ piss.
It doesn’t take long. Less than a minute of servicing myself with rough, fevered strokes while imagining my dick disappearing between her bare cheeks, surely as milky white as her tits, as she writhes beneath me.
My cum hits the bottom of the pot with a series of splashes as I wring myself dry, my grunts sounding barely human to my own ears.
Nine hundred years of blue blood, and we’re still animals.
What a lonely, pathetic act that was. But I deserve it, because I’m a delusional, entitled fucker.
I knew it was too good to be true.
I didn’t even learn her name.
And yet, for a few lethal seconds, I seriously considered giving her everything she so convincingly assured me she wanted.