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Her words hit me like a sledgehammer. Betraying people’s trust is something I hate more than I hate losing. Whether or not that aversion is due to my childhood remains to be proven, but it is an undeniable fact.
Camille murmurs near my ear. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’re dying to discover the shape of my breasts. I’m feeling generous tonight.”
She takes my hands and guides them under the hem of her cami.
I undo the first hook at the back of her bra. “What about the color of your nipples and the areola?”
“You’ll never know,” she says. “Get over it.”
I unclasp the second hook. My first impulse is to cup her breasts, but I stop myself. Instead, I lift her up and sit her on my lap, but not sideways, like before. I have her straddle me, facing away, her back against my chest.
Pressing my lips to her neck, I finally reach over to her front, slip my hands under the loosened bra, and cup her breasts. Camille has small, firm jutting breasts. They’re perfect.Better than perfect.As if to greet my hungry hands, her nipples become engorged and rigid. I rub my palms against them. I pinch them lightly between my thumbs and forefingers.
She moans, pushing her breasts into my touch and turning her head to capture my lips. I caress, kiss and lick everything she offers. I knead her breasts and squeeze them for long moments. It’s crazy, but I feel as though my palms are made of memory foam, and if I hold Camille’s tits long enough, their uniquely erotic shape will remain imprinted in me.
My cock is rock-hard.
How far will she take this game?Will we end up in bed or here on this sofa, naked and getting it on in every way imaginable?
She lifts her arms and wraps them around my neck. Underneath my left hand, her heart is racing. She fidgets so that her center rubs against my cock. Her legs are moving, too, wrapping around my calves, squeezing.
I like her legs. I loved them around my neck last night and again this afternoon, with my hands clutching her thighs. When I told her she wasn’t holding on tight enough, and she stiffened the muscles of her midsection and her inner thighs around my head, I almost lost it.
On both occasions, but especially during the practice, with no public or rivals to distract me from my dirty thoughts, I struggled to stay focused. While I ran around the fitness room with Camille wrapped around me, I imagined us lying down with my head between her legs but facing her. My hands were on her breasts, like now, and my eyes were staring into hers, while I lapped her pussy.
I want to see it.
Ineedto see her, all of her.
“Let me take off the blindfold,” I beg.
She says nothing.
“Please, Camille, let’s quit this maddening game! Let me look at you.”
No answer. She must be hesitating.
“Remove your clothes,” I command, “and show me that sweet, tight body of yours.”
The squirming stops. “In your dreams, pirate.”
Her tone is drier now than the first time I heard that punchline.
I should back off, but I’m too far gone. “I know you want what I want.”
Her response is silence.
“Camille, what say you?” I grab the blindfold, ready to yank it down.
Immediately, she lifts herself off me. “I say, go fuck yourself, my lord!”
Surprised at how angry she sounds, I remove the blindfold and stare at her as she stalks to her room. Mere seconds ago, she was writhing on my lap, grinding herself against me, panting and moaning. If that doesn’t mean “I want sex,” then I don’t know what does.
What went wrong?
She opens the door and turns around. “I’d appreciate it if you’d use your influence to get a copy of the fire investigator’s report.”
“The palace fire?” I ask stupidly while my mind adjusts to Camille’s tangent.
