Page 8 of Undeclared Heir

“What do you want, James? I don’t think I can be clearer. None of this is real. You. Me. This palace-castle thing… None of it. Stop thinking with your dick and think with your other head for a minute. I don’t know what kind of spell you’re under, but don’t think that because you’re incredibly attractive I’ll just lift my petticoat and let you have your way with me.”

I’m a fucking liar. He could absolutely have his way with me. Wouldn’t even need to lift the layers of my skirt. The fact that I’m considering mediocre sex with a fictional man says far too much about things I need to discuss with my therapist… When I get one. I absolutely need to schedule an appointment after this.

“Tomorrow night, make no mistake, you’ll be my wife. However, it’s only fair that you know what you’re getting into.”

Without another word, he unfastens his pants, and his cock springs free. My eyes nearly pull from their sockets. It’s a fictional cock—ten inches, thick as fuck, and not a pubic hair in sight. Definitely a dick written by a woman. My mouth waters at the sight of it… Hell, so does my pussy.

No, he’s imaginary!

Can’t get knocked up if he’s pretend…

No! We can’t do this!

Or can we?

While I don’t exactly love that he just whipped it out, if he’s truly fictional, I’m guaranteed to come at least twice, especially with a cock that size.

If only he were from an Irene Bahrd book, he’d also be a bit… hungry.

Considering how many times I’ve had to break out my trusty vibrator while reading scenes with this man, the least I can do is take him out for a ride.

For science.

“Think you can just take out your perfect cock from your trousers and I’ll bend over?”

“You think it’s perfect?” James’ eyebrow lifts, and so does the corner of his lips. Cocky bastard wants to flirt, but little does he know how well-read I am.

“Too bad your tongue isn’t as impressive as the snake in your pants.”

James lifts me up onto the piano behind us and growls, “Is that a challenge?” As he stands between my legs, I fail to keep my composure and burst out in a fit of giggles. At least I didn’t snort. “Certainly nothing here is humorous.”

“This wasn’t in the book, James,” I laugh, unable to help myself. “It’s supposed to be the fountain, the library, the greenhouse, or the secluded cottage. There’s no piano.”

“So long as your cunt tastes as good as your lips, I don’t care where the fuck we are.” The skirt of my dress lifts as his hands slide up my legs. As he grips my thighs, he growls, “Lie down.”

His command takes me off-guard, but I do as he asks. Unfortunately, I can’t truly enjoy his potential tongue-lashing. All of this takes me back to my second year of university, where an overconfident footballer thought he knew what the hell he was doing. Spoiler: he didn’t. I silently pray that the fact that their names are both James is the only coincidence.

My dress pools around my waist as he rids me of my obnoxious undergarments. In a swift motion, he spreads my legs wide and licks up my centre, circling his tongue around my clit.

Definitely not the same James.

My hips buck against him as this red flag royal feasts on me like a clichéd starved man. I have nothing to grip onto except my dress, so I fist it on both sides and savour his beautiful torture. As he slips his tongue inside my pussy, I can’t help the moan that escapes me.

The vibration of him chuckling against my clit is nearly enough to send me over the edge. He must know I’m close, quickening his pace and replacing his tongue with his fingers, expertly curling them inside me. My back arches against the piano, and I’m desperate for more—his tongue and hand won’t be enough.

This fictional sex is the best I’ve ever had, so I do what any other sane woman would do: I grind my pussy against his mouth, chasing the first of what should be many orgasms. He may be a misogynist arsehole, but I’m loving how he’s significantly more skilled than any nonfictional man I’ve ever been with. In honour of all women who wish they were fucked by a fictional man, I let myself fall apart, grasping at his hair to pull him closer as I ride out my orgasm and come harder than I have in my life.

The author who wrote him definitely knew what she was doing…

Trying to catch my breath, I jest, “The man in my book did it better.”

“The man in your…? It doesn’t matter.” He pulls his fingers from me, sucks them clean, then sits on the piano bench and begins slowly stroking his cock. “Either I silence your nonsense with my cock down your throat, or you climb on top and claim what’s been yours since the moment I met you this morning.”

James

This is only supposed to be an arrangement; I shouldn’t enjoy the taste of her. There won’t be a single issue siring an heir with Anna. She might be insane, but my cock seems to want the vixen. Not just my cock… I want all of her. There’s something about her I can’t place that has me craving her even though she’s right in front of me. Perhaps it’s how she’s the only woman I’ve known who doesn’t shy away from me. There isn’t a demure bone in her perfect body. Every part of me calls to her like nothing I’ve ever known.

As I lazily fist my cock, she props herself up onto her elbows, her eyes falling to my hand. I can’t help asking, “What’ll it be? Which of your holes will I start with tonight?”

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