I tell her about him playing for the country’s polo team.
“Wait—you used to play too, didn’t you?” She shifts from her back, so she’s submerged in the springs again.
“I did.”
“You quit?”
I nod.
“Just tired of it?”
I nod. Liar.
“So this summer you guys traveled a lot.”
“Yeah. Everywhere.”
“And you’ve been chilling at the castle since then? By yourself? I swear, I always pictured you having a harem.”
I arch an eyebrow, making a mysterious face.
“I bet there has been one, at one point.”
“I prefer just one.” I grin.
She splashes me. “You flirt.”
“I thought I was a slut.”
She splashes me again. “You are. A slutty flirt.”
But I can tell she likes me. I can tell she wants me. I swim behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. “You like it.” I feel her backside wiggle against my cock and swallow back a groan.
Before I lose my shit and rub myself against her, I shift myself away, treading water while I work her pony-tail out of the hair it’s still holding. My hand covers her nape, and I lean closer to her ear.
“Go under, Luce.”
She does, and when she comes back up, her hair is floating all around her. I rub a palm over the plume of silk.
Then, before I find her mouth with mine, I swim around in front of her again and shift so that I’m floating on my back.
“Tell me something about you, Lucille Rhodes. Something no one knows.”
She treads beside me, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. “Hmmmm. Well. I rode my bike without training wheels on the first try.” She gives me a bright smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” She nods. “I was a very athletic child. Not sure what happened.”
Nothing. I watched enough Rhodes of Concord to know that. On this one episode, she was skateboarding, having never tried it before. Rather than ask about that and reveal exactly how many episodes I watched, I change the subject slightly. “What was it like to be the youngest?”
“Annoying. I wore everyone else’s clothes as a little kid, especially Celia’s—since we have similar coloring, and we were born a month apart.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“May twenty-fifth.”
“So you’re a…Taurus?”
She shakes her head. “Gemini. What about you?”
“You don’t know my birthday?”
“No.” She splashes me. “You bighead. Do all the other girls know it? Do they send flowers?”
“Of course.”
She rolls her eyes. “You get courted pretty hard, huh?”
I smirk, because I have a dick and she said hard.
“Oh, give me a break. But you really do, don’t you? I bet your whole life has been a long line of women throwing themselves at you. They probably know your birthday and your favorite color and your family history and all your old polo stats.”
“You know it’s true.”
“They want to be a princess or a queen.” She makes a face, in which her nose scrunches. “Blame Disney.”
I look at the veil of trees that fringe the water’s nearest edge, considering for not the first time who exactly is to blame—or what. Of course, the answer is no one and nothing. It’s just human nature to want what you can’t have. “I’m surprised so many people want those things to be part of their real life,” I finally say.
“I know, right. It’s so weird, how people see something like that—like royalty, or like a TV show—and want it to be totally real. As if it really is just some fairy tale. It’s a fantasy. We had our moments with the show—I think my family still does, for sure—but it’s got to be worse when you’re an honest-to-God royal.” She paddles on her back, and I stretch out and kick, so I can stay beside her. “How did your family come to power anyway? Anointed by the faeries?”
I can’t help smiling. “What do you think?”
She reaches out and thumps my bicep. “Tell me. I don’t know, you goose.”
“A war,” I tell her, smiling at the audacity of being called ‘goose’. “In 1494, the island was sparsely populated. A few dozen what you might call Irish lived here, descendants of those who came in the twelfth century. There were also several Scottish clans—war-like groups of people who had been here when the Irish arrived, run out of Scotland, most of them. But the Irish and the Scottish Gaels had made their peace, and even intermarried some. And then, in late 1494, the English came, under Henry VII. My family’s clan, the Gaels, was a mixture of wild Scots and the immigrating Irish, who’d intermarried. They were settled near Clary.
“The legend goes, my many-times-great grandfather, the leader of the clan, rode across a bridge on horseback, leading an army, and defeated the small group of English. Mind you, they weren’t necessarily here to fight.” I arch my brows, and Lucy shakes her head, smiling just a little like she finds all this amusing.
“There’s a volcano on the mountain range, don’t know if you noticed, but no one knew at the time it was inactive. My grandfather and his crew wailed on the English, then retreated—screaming about the volcano erupting. So the legend goes, it was a dark day, with very dark clouds. The English bought it, and they made a hasty exit. From that point forward, the other clans revered him. And so he became the King of Gael. His son perpetuated the myth by sucking up to the regional religious powers, which by the time of the fifteenth century did include some Catholics.”
“So that’s all you are then,” she says, smiling a little. “You’re the descendant of a clever warrior.”
“You’re telling me you’re not impressed?” I tease.
“Oh, I’m impressed. But not with your family tree.” She treads closer, swimming right in front of me. Her pink mouth is so close, it looks so soft. Her eyes are fixed on mine, unwavering and…interested. As if she finds everything about me worthy of her contemplation. As if she wants me to kiss her.
I can’t help leaning in and closing the distance between us.
My mouth on hers is soft at first, until I feel her hand glide up my shoulder. Then I can’t hold back. She feels so good. She tastes so good.
We kiss until we’re almost drowning, until our legs are tangled. Until I’m hard as fuck and want to bury myself in her. Christ, I need her.
But it’s me who pulls away. I’m aching, my cock pushed against the prison of my boxer-briefs. I can barely keep myself afloat.
Lucy’s cheeks are flushed, her dark hair tangled all around her face. She’s breathing hard. That’s all I hear as we float two feet apart, just the gentle lapping of the water at our shoulders and our heavy breaths.
I push a lock of my own hair out of my face and shake my head, trying to think of something that will get my dick deflated. A bead of water rolls down Lucy’s throat, and my cock twitches. “Fucking aye.”
She reaches for me, her hands closing on my biceps. “You floated away.” She laughs.
I laugh along with her, even though it’s strained.