Snickering from behind the counter, I watch as Ricky goes to work on someone I can’t see on the other line. You would think, listening in and keeping my eyes on him while he works would arouse me, at least a little, but all it does is make me want to laugh. And when I do, I can count on him to glance over and glare until my hands go up in defeat. 

It’s not my fault. Some of the things that come out of his mouth while he’s working are just so… Ridiculous. And it is absolutely not a matter of judging the clients calling –– people have the freedom to like whatever they want. I’ve heard him talk to those with food fetishes and pensions for flagellation and strangulation and about a hundred other ‘ations’ that I don’t even recognize, but you try seeing a man of his size call someone else your supreme highness in a baby voice… Actually, come to think of it, that’s not such a bad title. I might have to file that away for a later date. 

My eyes glaze over until I hear him slap a paddle against a pillow. I grin against the plum in my hand and roll the smooth skin against the inside of my wrist. He’s eaten fruits like these on the phone before, made to sound like the wet slurp of tongue to drenched flesh. It’s pretty realistic –– but I know well enough that that’s not how Ricky really sounds. He’s much more… Quiet between my legs. More intense than rabid. Dedicated may be a good word for it. 

I chuck the leftover pit into the trash and stand up, stretching. 

When Ricky’s at work is just about the only time when I have to hold myself back from touching him. The only time when my hands don’t rove somewhere on his body. Whether buried deep in his hair or running lines along the inside of his forearm, physical touch keeps us connected, always. It’s strange for us to be in the same room, alone, and not to touch. Almost wrong. But I respect what he does and keeping a distance is how I choose to show it. 

In fact, it is not even a sexual thing for us to be so deeply connected. It started that way, with lingering eyes and scalding touch, but now it’s an unconscious decision –– at least on my part. My hands itch to run track along his chest with no finish line, no goal other than to touch him, be with him. 

Come to think of it… I’ve always been an affectionate, touchy person. I kiss my friends and hold their hands and brush their hair when they’re tired, when they’re happy, when they’re drunk or sad and there’s never been a moment where I’ve found that odd. Of course, I’ve been chastised because that’s not how a princess behaves –– whatever that means –– but it doesn’t matter to me. I’m the princess, I make the rules, and what I say goes. What can anyone do? Take away my title because of how I express myself? These aren’t the middle ages –– please. 

But anyways, without anything to keep my hands busy, I feel bored and aimless, a spool of thread unravelling to no end. I could go for a walk around the neighbourhood, maybe? Perhaps visit The Rusty Record down the road, or call Melody up… But I’m suddenly anxious and tired all at once. Maybe I should lie down. Sleep a little until Ricky’s done working and maybe we can go for a walk together. Or fuck. Or something. 

I catch his eyes. Silently, I gesture at the bedroom, miming laying down. And when he nods, his lips turning up at the corners, I smile. 

He takes a sharp intake of breath, struggling visibly to keep his eyes off the girl whispering in his ear. Their relationship had never spared any physicality, the sex being what brought them back to each other time and time again. They communicated through touch and it was a fact anyone that had spent any time with the two of them together could attest to. Ankles grazing, hands fiddling, fingers combing through hair, it was extremely rare to find the two as far apart as they were now, even in the midst of a disagreement or fight. But while Ricky would never admit to this outloud, it was apparent in his newfound demeanor how important it was to gain the King’s approval of their unorthodox relationship. Ricky and Priscilla never pretended to know each other through words spoken in between them, but the fact was, they didn’t need to speak for hours on end to have the deepest understanding of the other. And while it wasn’t news that her brother was important to her, he hadn’t needed to look at any news outlet to know that. 

He crosses his arms, failing to keep his eyes on the wall opposite them, glancing down at the short brunette by his side. He narrows his eyes at her, gritting his teeth when the desire to fuck her pins him deep. His eyes graze her pink lips, slowly lifting to meet the eyes he’d swum in countless times. “If you’re keen on giving your brother a show, I’ll have you pressed against the wall before you can say yes.” His arms fall from his chest and he turns, facing her while lazily hanging his shoulder on the wall. “But something tells me King Richard of Genovia wouldn’t take kindly to watching a commoner such as myself fuck his little sister on his throne.” He flashes her a grin, snaking his arm across her hip before pressing her closer to his body. Teeth grazing across her neck, he mumbles the last of his words against her skin. “But I’ve never shied away from PDA, especially when it means touching you.”  

       With the decorated chopstick that had once held her hair up fitting snugly between her teeth, Priscella shrugged, allowing the oversized sleeve of her top to fall off her shoulder. Her skin, creamy alabaster, was near perfect porcelain, save for a dark freckle here and there, and of course, the cluster of hickeys Ricky had left there the night before. Eventually, when she’d leave, she’d have to reach for her foundation –– travel sized, of course; handy for any occasion where a girl might need to hide her… liaisons –– but for now, she was more than happy to sit and look pretty. 

Every now and then, she’d catch him looking over at her, sprawled out across his kitchen table. Her legs were stretched out, and left slightly open –– a teasing glimpse at what he’d already seen before, but could see again if he just stopped working and came over to… Play a little. Dressed only in his shirt, and her now mangled panties, her hair rumpled with the scent of morning-sex and heavy sleep, there should have been no contest between her and work. Still, he was showing remarkable restraint for someone who the night before had made her cum three times before even getting her into his bed. 

Priscella admired a man with resilience. But not if that meant ignoring her. 

Humming around the chopstick, and hoping his gaze would linger on her her lips, slightly chapped but shiny with her own saliva, she dropped a shameless wink. “Well, if you come over here, you won’t have any trouble concentrating.” The chopstick slid out from between her lips smoothly, leaving a smile in its place, “That I can promise you.”