42.3
Kev
Isabel excused herself from dinner early, feigning a headache and jet lag, obviously lying her sweet little ass off and trying to avoid a personal tour of the palace by yours truly.
I’ll give credit where credit is due – she made it nearly ninety minutes in the middle of the cousins and my grandmother Margaret, who’s still mentally stuck someplace around the turn of the century.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide open the screen to reveal a message.
You can’t keep avoiding me, Kev. I gave you enough time to play around after you got back. Call me.
I’m about to text back reflexively, a message to tell Erin to go fuck herself, just like the two other times I’d told her before. Erin is an ex-girlfriend, a friend of the family and a reminder that several years ago, for a couple of months, I was stupid enough to actually try out the whole having-a-relationship bullshit. The only reason Erin was with me was because of my position, the proximity to the throne.
Instead, I hit the delete button, and block her number.
I need to get laid, but not by Erin.
And not by Isabel either, not if I know what’s good for me.
Of course, when have I ever done what’s good for me?
I’m in the middle of texting a friend who’s always up for a night of partying and hitting on women, when she knocks on the door.
I know it’s her by the knock. It’s tentative and hesitating, not like Ben the valet or my sister Alex, who would already be in the middle of yelling, “Kev, you disgusting pig, open up!” before she even finished knocking.
No, it’s definitely Isabel.
So that’s why I don’t bother to put on a shirt.
I pull open the door and revel in the fact that her eyes immediately focus on my chest. And I try to hide my smile as she unsuccessfully attempts to look anywhere else.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I – um – can come back later,” she says. “You’re obviously in the middle of getting changed.”
“I’d could make you come now,” I whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“I stopped by because I wanted to tell you that I’m not interested,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Oh?” I ask, leaning against the frame of the door. “You’re not interested in what, exactly, luv?”
“In a tour of the palace,” she says. “In case you were getting any ideas.”
“Oh, I have lots of ideas.”
“Not those kinds of ideas,” she whispers, her hushed tone making her words sound illicit.
“Don’t act all shy now,” I say, my voice low. “We both know why you were late for dinner.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her jaw clenched. But her eyes are wide, and she takes in a short breath. The thought of her reaching between her legs and touching herself, being wet because of me, is enough to make my damn cock explode.
“So you weren’t late because you were busy thinking about my cock inside you?” I ask.
She laughs, but it’s forced. “Maybe that’s the only thing other women can think about when they’re around you, but not me,” she says. “Anyway, I came here because I wanted to ask about getting to the embassy to get a new passport.”
“Sure that’s the only reason you came here?” I ask. The way she’s looking at me, the way her eyes drop down to my chest, makes me wonder why the hell she’s even keeping up the pretense of not being attracted to me, when we both know it's not true.
“That’s the only reason,” she says. "I'm quite positive."