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Chapter Fourteen
“You don’t know his friends / Late night texts / Tit pics on request / Look in the mirror and ask / Is any man worth that lack of respect?”
—Duchess, “Infinite Rage”
Jameson groaned and fell back onto the mattress. “Jesus, woman, what are you doing to me?”
Dani was wondering the same about his effect on her.
She kissed his chest and snuggled close, throwing her leg over his thighs. “If you don’t know then I must be doing it wrong.”
He gathered her to his side and trailed his fingers along her body. “No, you’re doing everything right.”
He bent his head and their lips met. His kisses were divine. Slow, languid, thorough. As if he had nothing better to do and nowhere he needed to be. As if discovering the planes, textures, and ridges of her mouth were his all-consuming life’s work.
“What I meant,” he said, when they’d finally pulled apart, “is that I don’t do this. I don’t make out in the old drawing room and I definitely don’t accost women while they’re taking a bath and have my way with them.”
“You don’t hear me complaining, do you?” she asked, stroking the hairs on his chest.
If someone had told her that several days into her trip she’d be loved up with a prince at two in the morning, she’d have asked them what cush they were smoking and whether they could procure some for her.
And yet, here she was.
Last night had been crazy good. And not because it had been so long, cobwebs had tried to reconstruct her hymen, but because she hadn’t expected what she’d gotten. Who’d known the prim and proper prince could do what he did? And say what he said? She’d thought it would be a little more... vanilla. More missionary, beneath the covers with the lights out. Which would’ve been fine. Instead, it had been flip her over, smack that ass, and make her scream his name.
She had loved every moment of it.
And while the “prince” part would be enough for some women to get off on, it did nothing for her.
What did?
His body.
He was tall with the kind of physique people wouldn’t expect when they heard its owner was a professor of philosophy. Jameson wasn’t ripped like many of the entertainers and athletes she knew. He spent his time teaching, not in a gym or with a professional trainer, but things were still tight, proportionate, and just yummy.
And her admiration wasn’t confined to the way his frame looked. She adored what he could do with it. He may say he didn’t do this often, but he knew what to do with his hands, his fingers, his tongue, his teeth, and his mouth.
And his cock.
He must’ve been blessed with natural-born gifts.
And she wanted to explore those inherent talents further.
She traced one gold-tipped fingernail around his nipple and smiled when he shuddered.
“When’s the last time you got some?”
“Excuse me?”
The shock in his voice tickled her. Despite his skills in bed, he was so prim and proper outside of it that a part of her got off on being crude.
“Fuck, Jay. When’s the last time youfuckedsomeone?”
He stared at her. “About five minutes ago?”
She hit his chest. “Before me?”
He sat up. “It’s been a while.”
