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After all, I know exactly what she sounds like when in the throes of passion. When she’s so overcome with pleasure she can barely contain herself and releases all her desperation in a lust-filled scream. When she fights it for as long as possible until her body loses all control, her cries echoing in the air.
It’s the last thing I should be thinking about right now. But every time I close my eyes, all I see is her flushed complexion. All I hear are those tiny whimpers that once drove me wild. All I taste is her essence on my tongue.
It’s been nine years, but the memory of how she felt, how she moved, how she tasted is so fresh it’s as if no time has passed.
I do everything to push it to the recesses of my brain, but the harder I try to focus on something else, the more she invades those thoughts. I shouldn’t be surprised. I learned years ago that there’s no erasing Esme from my mind or my heart. But I need to do something to silence this unmatched hunger slowly building inside me.
Storming toward the bathroom, I strip out of my clothes and turn on the shower. I should make the water as cold as possible in the hopes of shocking this increasing desire from my system. I doubt even a cold shower will work right now, though.
Instead, I step under the scalding hot water and succumb to my urges, feverishly working my erection. The entire time, I imagine Esme on her knees in front of me, her bright red lips sucking me off.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Esme
I’ve never wantedto disappear as badly as I did last night when Creed walked into my room. As if it wasn’t bad enough he heard me calling out to him, I kicked my bloody vibrator onto the floor as I attempted to turn it off with my foot, making it more than apparent exactly what I’d been doing that made me scream his name.
When I should have been screaming Tristan’s name.
If the tension between Creed and me was strained before, it’s even worse now. He’s barely looked at me today. Granted, I’m more than aware he’s not supposed to be watching me, keeping his gaze trained elsewhere as to remain hyper alert to any potential threat to my safety.
It feels like he’s consciously doing everything he cannotto look at me.
A part of me wants to pull him aside, bring up the giant elephant in the room.
Or, more appropriately, the giant vibrator.
But what do I say?
Sorry I screamed your name while I got myself off. I was pretending you were biting my nipples like you once did, making me feel that combination of pleasure and pain I’ve been desperate to experience for too long now.
I doubt that would go over well, especially with the stoic and borderline icy demeanor he’s treated me to all day. I just need to get through this week, then Creed and I can go back to whatever we are to each other, which these days seems more like sworn enemies than even strangers.
I hate everything about it. Hate how awkward I feel in his presence when it was once the only thing that brought me comfort.
I remind myself it’s for the best. We’ve proven time and again we don’t know how to be friends without crossing that line.
“While I endeavor to help those in need throughout the year, it’s most important during this season,” I say into the microphone as I stand on a makeshift stage set up in front of a local soup kitchen. “Unfortunately, many soup kitchens, like the one behind me, are only able to open their doors a few times a week due to a lack of donations and volunteers to serve those in need. In the past year, charitable organizations have reported a sixty percent decrease in the number of volunteers. I urge everyone this holiday season to find some time to give back to those in need. Even a few hours can go a long way. Thank you.”
I press my lips together, a practiced smile on my face as cameras flash around me. Then I turn from the podium and make my way down the stage, Creed casting his ever-present shadow behind me.
“Thank you so much, Your Highness,” a woman says as she approaches. “It means a lot that you took the time out of your busy schedule to be here today.”
I offer her a sympathetic smile, a complete change from the forced one I allowed the reporters to see seconds ago.
“I wish I could do more, Ms. Stewart,” I tell the director of the charity who operates several shelters and soup kitchens in the area.
“You’ve already done a great deal by bringing attention to the issues we’re facing.”
“Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” Thomas says politely, “but you’re scheduled for a luncheon at the Belmont Horse Society. We should be going.”
“Of course.” I return my gaze to Ms. Stewart. “Best of luck.”
She curtsies. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
I turn from her, walking with my team toward the waiting SUVs, reporters calling out questions. As I’ve grown accustomed to on this trip, most of them are about the referendum, with a few still asking about my brother and why I replaced him at the last minute.
Like I did all day yesterday, I ignore them.
