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“Take them off,” I murmur, my gaze heavy as it traces the waistband of Danny’s boxers, craving the feel of the naked cock captured behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”
His jaw clenches, as though my words alone have sent him rushing headfirst toward orgasm. His lips slam down together into a tight, narrow line, and beads of perspiration spring at his temples as he wrestles to get himself under control.
And as though throwing all caution to the wind, with a single desperate hand, he shucks off those blasted cotton blue boxers. It isn’t neat or steady. The fabric tangles tightly around the backs of his knees, the snap of his waistband loud as it comes undone.
I raise my hands helplessly toward Danny’s head, trying to feel more of him in my arms and clutch his soft brown hair. In the moonlight, the strands shine like copper. I want to frame this picture of us in my memory forever: two bodies, naked under the moon and stars, writhing together in the depths of a dark old art class like two needy glowing lights, the way moths hunger for a brightness they cannot touch.
But wecantouch. And every sensation is an exquisite scribble to my core.
Danny’s bare cock feels incredible against me. He grinds into me, drawing thready moans from my throat, tearing pleasure from my already blissed-out cunt. He wants me overpowered with bliss, wants me begging and writhing beneath his body. And as long as the heavy weight of his cock collides with such solid determination against my clit, then I know deep in my soul that I will be Danny’s for all eternity.
“I’m gonna—” He breaks off, blowing out a frustrated breath. He screws up his eyes. Danny’s teeth are still gritted, the pleasure in his face masked by the pain of self-control. His hair flops into his eyes with every staccato thrust of his hips, and he blows out a breath to shift it out of his sight. His naked torso is broad and unexpectedly powerful, the sweat trailing down his pecs enough to turn me on full blast.
Only moments ago, he’d been on the brink of something spectacular. But to my surprise, he manages to reel himself in and maintain control. I want to see my best friend lose himself completely but Danny’s restraint is on another level, and I watch in admiration as he manages to rein in his galloping heart.
Danny’s hand, slick with sweat, slides up the surface of the wooden desk beside me. Fascinated, I watch him grab a paintbrush from beside me and thrust the long wooden edge tight between his teeth, his mind focused on an unknown task. He snatches up the bottle of paint he’d retrieved from earlier and squirts a large dollop of royal purple onto a scrubbed palette. His other hand clutches my hip like it grounds him, like he could never let me go.
There’s no point asking Danny what he’s doing. He’s in the zone, a zone of bliss and love as we touch heaven with our bodies.
He dips the brush luxuriously into the thick squirt of paint, and then, to my utter shock, slides the wet paintbrush across my belly. My stomach convulses from the coldness of the paint. But Danny plows on, his brows knitted together in concentration as the paint scores my body, branding it his.
I try to peek past my breasts to see what Danny’s painting. I make out letters of the alphabet but it’s too dark to fully see.He’s writing, I think dazedly to myself.He’s writing on my skin.
My stomach quakes, ticklish with every line Danny draws. I close my eyes and try to trace the shapes of the letters in my mind, but they’re upside-down and I’m too far gone in my own ecstasy. Whatever Danny’s writing, it occupies two lines, and I quiver as the paintbrush dips lower and lower until it grazes the very top of my hair.
Danny drops the paintbrush with an abrupt clatter. It rolls onto the side of the desk, purple paint smearing the wood. “Stop me screaming,” he orders suddenly, in a tone so urgent and fast I’ve never heard it from Danny before. His eyes have turned wild. “Stop me screaming.”
I slam my palm against his panting mouth. His grip on my hips tightens like twin vises — and then he stops. Freezes. Above me he hangs like a god, in a moment of sheer frozen stillness, his face caught in permanent awe, his hair now haloed like gold. His gaze is searching as he meets my eyes, almost scared at the force of pleasure that’s about to engulf him.
Behind my palm, he unleashes an immense and powerful roar, his teeth scoring and scraping my flesh mid-scream. And then I watch my best friend come. He falls apart above me, lashes spurting from his oversized cock, his shuddering muscles ready to collapse from the weight of his all-consuming orgasm. He comes undone spectacularly, and his cock whips white-hot lengths of seed across the softness of my belly, like sugar had done once upon a time. Cum rains down on me like thick sleet, until both Danny and the purple words on my stomach are destroyed.
We breathe together, as though one. Danny crashes down next to me, his chest rising and falling and grazing my arm. I hear the thunder of his heart against my heated skin. I tilt my head to the side and meet his gaze. His flushed face is the very picture of debauchery, the expression on his face intense as he tries to reclaim his wayward breath.
And then his face splits into a broad grin, his eyes dancing, and we both descend into quiet, unstoppable giggles.
It’s an explosive sound against the light background jazz. Once we start laughing, it’s impossible to end. I laugh onto Danny’s shoulders, my lips caressing the freckled ball of his shoulder, and feel deeply content in a way I never knew I could be in Lochkelvin.
It’s inevitable, then, that the words slip out, cajoled by the magic of this moment: “I love you.”
Danny’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he glances down at my belly, where rich purple paint mingles with his wet, gleaming release, and murmurs, “I loved you first.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, not understanding his meaning. But Danny doesn’t elaborate, sinking back onto the desk and curling up to me. We listen to the soft, swooning jazz in comfortable silence until our breathing evens out, to the point that I begin to think I’ve drifted off in Danny’s arms.
I’m roused from my happy state by the existence of three sharp beeps from the radio. And then the announcer says: “In a speech to the House of Commons tonight, Prime Minister Oscar Munro has officially endorsed political campaigner Jamie Crieff in his bid to take on the role of king, following the alleged abdication of Lucas Milton.”
I sit bolt upright. Danny blinks, startled.
I’m convinced I’m hearing things.
“The activist, head of the prominent campaign group Antiro, has spoken of his delight at having the support of the Prime Minister via social media. Antiro, which campaigned successfully this year to oust the former House of Milton, has reportedly grown to a membership of over five million, following the alleged abdication of Prince Lucas. The role of king is believed to be a ceremonial position bestowed by the Prime Minister to make a point about the suitability of Lucas Milton as a monarch. Currently, the whereabouts of the ex-prince’s mother and sister remain unknown.
“Supporters of the Prime Minister, known as the Oscarites, have described the move as a much-needed act of progress, proving that his party is in line with modern-day values. However, the leader of the opposition has remained skeptical of the idea, accusing Oscar Munro of attempting to ‘cash in’ on younger voters while pointing out that his party has been staunchly republican since the referendum ten years ago.”
“This is so stupid,” Danny mumbles, his lips brushing against my shoulder. “The world’s gone mad.”
I’m staring up at the ceiling in shock, my mind whirling and thoughts scattered. “Kingisn’t a career. It isn’t a job you waltz into. What the fuck?”
“He’s doing it to make a point, surely. Being ironic to prove anyone can become king.” Danny’s mouth twists. “You can get away with anything under the guise of irony — ‘it was just a joke’ for grown-ups.”
