my sweet prince.
Author: biroid.
Title: My Sweet Prince.
Pairing: Saxon/Lucy, Lucy/Lucy's right hand.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Friday evenings without a hero. Trip down memory lane, anybody?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, you'd know about it.
Warnings: Language & sex. Read on.
Without Harry, Friday evening was just another long, wearisome night.
Lucy Cole, with her wispy blond hair and pale, porcelain complexion, looked like the kind of girl who was used to spending her Fridays alone. She was far too delicate to ever be allowed out of her glass case. For the most part, she adhered to the stereotype and wasted away the start of her weekend by sitting in the manor's library and flickering through a tome or two. When her mind implored her to give up the game and grant it some rest, she ascended the two sets of winding staircases and bid various family members a good night before finally slipping into bed herself.
It was so rhythmic, so monotonous. Harry changed all of that.
Although many a man might expect a girl like her to be content with solitude and reading, Harold Saxon had never been happy to simply let her sit. She was a slice of the upper crust and he was an up-and-coming politician, yet they never acted their class when they met. Harry always remained smooth and charming, but something deep in his eyes changed. It gave her the proverbial 'weak at the knees feeling', although she went weak at every joint. She just fell into his arms, willing to do whatever he wished.
Stretched out like a rather proper cat upon the chaise longue, Lucy Cole glanced away from her book and bit mischievously at the side of her bottom lip. Memories, slightly specked with the dust of precisely one week, flooded her prim little mind. It brought a faint color to her cheeks. Her father hadn't yet approved of Harold, forbidding Lucy to meet with him until he'd declared his certainty that Saxon wouldn't violate his little girl.
In retrospect, the measures he'd taken were simply too little too late.
Harry had taken her out. She should never have gone with him, but he was just so hard to resist. He spoke with such confidence from beneath the balcony, proclaiming himself as her modern-day Romeo before coaxing her outside. It had been dark, the sun long set, but that didn't matter. Harry always had the best ideas, no matter how awkward the timing. He'd taken her out, taken her dancing.
It wasn't the first time she'd experienced his love for flamboyant music. When she'd first arrived at his flat, clutching the loose-leaf sheets of his autobiography, he'd wrenched the door open and dragged her inside before treating her to a snippet of his moves. The previous Friday, however, had been on a completely different level. The beat of the drums throbbed through the floor and the sea of faces pushed her against Harry's chest. He'd held her there. She never struggled.
Along her bitten lip, the smile grew as she remembered the night, and Lucy forced a little composure upon herself. She was in the family library, reading Titus Groan. She was not in a gentlemen's club, free to relive exactly what had happened that night. Neither was she drunk. Seeing as the rest of that particular evening had taken place with her common sense battered into a corner by alcohol, it wouldn't be fair to try and imitate it. Would it?
It hadn't just been the alcohol, though. She'd been giddy on the music and the man, swinging on his hand as they navigated through the cold streets of London. He'd been so warm, though, warm enough to cancel out the bitter winds. Harry had become a true gentleman once more, offering her his coat as they finally hailed down a black cab. Lucy had nestled into the black lapels for the most part of the journey, releasing her grip on it only when she felt the weight of his hand on her thigh.
Duh-duh-duh-dum.
Drumming softly on the hem of her dress, a small, delicious smile had spread over his lips. He looked like the happiest cat, gorged on satisfied curiosity and proud to still be standing. That smile grew as they drew up to the manor; she could feel it widen against her neck as he pressed the ghost of a kiss against her collarbone. Up until that point in proceedings, she'd remained dignified, but composure soon slipped and a breath too ragged was drawn.
Up until that point in her memories, Lucy Cole had managed to refrain from getting too involved, but willpower soon slipped as she pressed the heel of her palm into her skin, the exact spot the drumming had taken place. The tapping seemed to have burnt into her subconscious as she could still feel tiny pinpricks of pressure in the beat Harry's fingers had made. It felt good. It felt like him.
As the cab had stopped fully, Harold Saxon had done the chivalrous thing, the thing that would have impressed her father if he'd been around to see. He'd walked her to the front door, kissed her once, briefly, on the cheek, then turned to leave. No silent propositions in his eyes, no hint of the desires he wanted her to fulfill. Ever the gentleman, Harry had simply strolled back along the grounds. Until she'd caught up with him, of course.
Left on that step, she felt a swell of emotion at how romantic and old-fashioned he was capable of being but also a surge of emptiness. As soon as he'd left her side, she'd felt lost, and had immediately started after him. It was a daft thing to do, running down purposely crooked paving slabs in heels, but she hadn't been able to help herself. She'd never been able to help herself, not where Harry was involved.
That was why she'd taken him inside. It was dangerous, what with her father's current feelings about Harold Saxon, but she just hadn't been able to help herself. She'd taken his hand once more and tugged him around corners, finding his soft giggles absolutely infectious. Harry always laughed at the most inappropriate of moments, but this wasn't his usual riotous cackle. It was much milder, much gentler.
A similar giggle escaped Lucy's lips as she remembered his mirth. He'd been so genuinely happy to be creeping up the stairs, but it didn't make her want to order him out of the house. Laughter on anybody else's lips at such a moment would have been seen, in her eyes anyway, as vulgar. They would have been laughing because they knew they'd won themselves a prize. Harry, however, was different. He was different from anybody else she'd ever met.
“Lucy!” The sharp voice of her memories interrupted reality and the youngest member of the household jumped to attention, eyes snapping open and hands groping for the book she'd since discarded. But no, it was just a memory. A thought, a near capture that had been avoided, and nothing more. She relaxed again, sinking back into the pillows and into her thoughts.
He'd continued giggling as he was pushed through the threshold. She simply leant against the door frame, completely breathless from the close encounter. She'd yet to even remove the coat, but already felt drained. The moment Harry had pressed her back against the door she'd been leaning on, however, a surge of sparks shot through her. It gave her a boost, a buzz, and there'd been an unmistakable note of hunger in the sound she'd uttered into his mouth.
It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to kiss her before. While tapping away on her Apple Mac, Lucy had noticed just how close he stood, how he spoke into her ear and brushed away the loose strands of her hair. On any such occasion, she could have just turned a quarter of an inch into him and he'd have got his way. She, however, had resisted. It would have been improper, no matter how hard Harold Saxon's touches got her heart beating.
He was dangerous. He was willing to flirt openly in a room full of news reporters, willing to disobey the strict orders of a nobleman, the father he should have been trying to impress, without a care in the world. Such trivial things never bothered him, and he laughed them all away. It was a dangerous habit, and it made him a very dangerous man. Such a trait should have deterred Lucy from ever letting him near her, but it did quite the opposite.
She'd pushed him down before he'd had a chance.
Crawling over his slender, weakly shaking body, she'd listened to his snickers of laughter while pulling at that sleek tie of his. For such a proper young girl, she had a surprising weakness for things she shouldn't have. Like Harry. Dangerous, powerful and forbidden, she'd fallen under his spell from the moment they met, but her immunity had been strong then. Gradually, he'd worn it down, finally touching on what she craved. That moment, right then, she'd craved his touch.
And she received it.
The hand beneath her dress, between her thighs. His usually warm palm made her shiver as he stroked her inner leg. His giggles had died away about then, replaced by a smirk. She could remember exactly how his fingers moved, what he did, and found herself breathing shakily at the same moment her memory did. The novel slipped to the floor as she caressed her own thigh, reliving the night.
What did he do then? Her mind, slowly misting over, didn't know, but her body certainly did. Running a forefinger lightly over the front of her satin underwear, she found herself playing two roles. She moaned, the noise low and quiet, just as it had been a week ago, but she wore Harry's smirk all the while. His fingers, not hers, slipped the silky material down just an inch, making Lucy's head loll back and Harry's smile widen.
There was something pressing into her leg, a pillow-- no, no, it was him. His heavy breath fell on her cheek as he ground against her hip, but the only thing she was particularly interested in was the sound of a belt buckle being loosened. She desperately wanted to reach out, but the fear of everything shattering if she did kept her arms where they were. He was close to her, very close, but her eyes remained shut.
So how could she see him? In her mind's eye, there he was, grinning like a jackal as he slowly hitched up her dress. His palm grated against her thigh as he leant forwards, quietly taunting her. He looked good, with his shirt hanging off his chest and a silk black tie pooled by his shoulder. His lips were parted, yet still grinning, and he was slowly drawing himself out from beneath her. The empty feeling she'd felt on the doorstep rose through in the depths of her stomach as his hand left her thigh, but it was quashed as he kissed her jaw.
Beneath him, Lucy didn't squirm. She arched into him, yes, but didn't squirm. Just waited.
“Oh, Harry...” She murmured, fingertips cascading down her lower abdomen. Her thumb clipped something good and slipped downwards just as he slipped into her; it made her moan through a bitten bottom lip, her futile attempt to make sure her sister wouldn't be interrupting, but Harry had other ideas. He thrust deeper into her, grinding against her stomach and giving her no hope in Hell of silencing herself. Lucy, going against everything she'd been taught in life, swore viciously as she called out his name,
“Fuck, Harry!”
In its wake, she could hear his laughter once more. It pleased him to hear her like that, so vulgar, so common. As she grasped his shoulder blades, fingers beneath the soft folds of what part of the shirt and jacket remained on his back, she uttered it again for his benefit. He liked it.
She could feel his cheek rubbing against his as he lowered his head, whispering in her ear. He sounded neither flustered nor rapt, although his sniggers were still evident. Louder. That's what he wanted. He was telling her to moan louder, harder, and ignore the others in the house. They wouldn't hear. It was all part of Harry's charm. He could have drugged them into stupors for all she cared.
She was saying the 'p' word. She was begging him. It struck something in him, as her nails were soon forced to uncurl and bury themselves into his back. She couldn't feel a drop of sweat there. He was barely reacting to the situation, speaking as he would to a boardroom. He asked her, clearly and concisely, what she wanted, and Lucy replied in a rushed, messy haste:
/You./
The memories reached the base of a final crescendo, she could feel them ending, but struggled to keep them going. She wanted to say 'slow down', but instead heard herself begging for more. She grasped at him tighter, using strength she didn't even know she had. Lucy could taste the climax and simply stopped fighting it.
Against the pillows, the petite form of Lucy Cole jerked up violently into her own hand, crying out the name of the man she was forbidden to see and wearing his trademark grin all the while.
Harry. Harry Saxon.
With Harry, Friday evenings were guaranteed to excite her.
Title: My Sweet Prince.
Pairing: Saxon/Lucy, Lucy/Lucy's right hand.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Friday evenings without a hero. Trip down memory lane, anybody?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did, you'd know about it.
Warnings: Language & sex. Read on.
Without Harry, Friday evening was just another long, wearisome night.
Lucy Cole, with her wispy blond hair and pale, porcelain complexion, looked like the kind of girl who was used to spending her Fridays alone. She was far too delicate to ever be allowed out of her glass case. For the most part, she adhered to the stereotype and wasted away the start of her weekend by sitting in the manor's library and flickering through a tome or two. When her mind implored her to give up the game and grant it some rest, she ascended the two sets of winding staircases and bid various family members a good night before finally slipping into bed herself.
It was so rhythmic, so monotonous. Harry changed all of that.
Although many a man might expect a girl like her to be content with solitude and reading, Harold Saxon had never been happy to simply let her sit. She was a slice of the upper crust and he was an up-and-coming politician, yet they never acted their class when they met. Harry always remained smooth and charming, but something deep in his eyes changed. It gave her the proverbial 'weak at the knees feeling', although she went weak at every joint. She just fell into his arms, willing to do whatever he wished.
Stretched out like a rather proper cat upon the chaise longue, Lucy Cole glanced away from her book and bit mischievously at the side of her bottom lip. Memories, slightly specked with the dust of precisely one week, flooded her prim little mind. It brought a faint color to her cheeks. Her father hadn't yet approved of Harold, forbidding Lucy to meet with him until he'd declared his certainty that Saxon wouldn't violate his little girl.
In retrospect, the measures he'd taken were simply too little too late.
Harry had taken her out. She should never have gone with him, but he was just so hard to resist. He spoke with such confidence from beneath the balcony, proclaiming himself as her modern-day Romeo before coaxing her outside. It had been dark, the sun long set, but that didn't matter. Harry always had the best ideas, no matter how awkward the timing. He'd taken her out, taken her dancing.
It wasn't the first time she'd experienced his love for flamboyant music. When she'd first arrived at his flat, clutching the loose-leaf sheets of his autobiography, he'd wrenched the door open and dragged her inside before treating her to a snippet of his moves. The previous Friday, however, had been on a completely different level. The beat of the drums throbbed through the floor and the sea of faces pushed her against Harry's chest. He'd held her there. She never struggled.
Along her bitten lip, the smile grew as she remembered the night, and Lucy forced a little composure upon herself. She was in the family library, reading Titus Groan. She was not in a gentlemen's club, free to relive exactly what had happened that night. Neither was she drunk. Seeing as the rest of that particular evening had taken place with her common sense battered into a corner by alcohol, it wouldn't be fair to try and imitate it. Would it?
It hadn't just been the alcohol, though. She'd been giddy on the music and the man, swinging on his hand as they navigated through the cold streets of London. He'd been so warm, though, warm enough to cancel out the bitter winds. Harry had become a true gentleman once more, offering her his coat as they finally hailed down a black cab. Lucy had nestled into the black lapels for the most part of the journey, releasing her grip on it only when she felt the weight of his hand on her thigh.
Duh-duh-duh-dum.
Drumming softly on the hem of her dress, a small, delicious smile had spread over his lips. He looked like the happiest cat, gorged on satisfied curiosity and proud to still be standing. That smile grew as they drew up to the manor; she could feel it widen against her neck as he pressed the ghost of a kiss against her collarbone. Up until that point in proceedings, she'd remained dignified, but composure soon slipped and a breath too ragged was drawn.
Up until that point in her memories, Lucy Cole had managed to refrain from getting too involved, but willpower soon slipped as she pressed the heel of her palm into her skin, the exact spot the drumming had taken place. The tapping seemed to have burnt into her subconscious as she could still feel tiny pinpricks of pressure in the beat Harry's fingers had made. It felt good. It felt like him.
As the cab had stopped fully, Harold Saxon had done the chivalrous thing, the thing that would have impressed her father if he'd been around to see. He'd walked her to the front door, kissed her once, briefly, on the cheek, then turned to leave. No silent propositions in his eyes, no hint of the desires he wanted her to fulfill. Ever the gentleman, Harry had simply strolled back along the grounds. Until she'd caught up with him, of course.
Left on that step, she felt a swell of emotion at how romantic and old-fashioned he was capable of being but also a surge of emptiness. As soon as he'd left her side, she'd felt lost, and had immediately started after him. It was a daft thing to do, running down purposely crooked paving slabs in heels, but she hadn't been able to help herself. She'd never been able to help herself, not where Harry was involved.
That was why she'd taken him inside. It was dangerous, what with her father's current feelings about Harold Saxon, but she just hadn't been able to help herself. She'd taken his hand once more and tugged him around corners, finding his soft giggles absolutely infectious. Harry always laughed at the most inappropriate of moments, but this wasn't his usual riotous cackle. It was much milder, much gentler.
A similar giggle escaped Lucy's lips as she remembered his mirth. He'd been so genuinely happy to be creeping up the stairs, but it didn't make her want to order him out of the house. Laughter on anybody else's lips at such a moment would have been seen, in her eyes anyway, as vulgar. They would have been laughing because they knew they'd won themselves a prize. Harry, however, was different. He was different from anybody else she'd ever met.
“Lucy!” The sharp voice of her memories interrupted reality and the youngest member of the household jumped to attention, eyes snapping open and hands groping for the book she'd since discarded. But no, it was just a memory. A thought, a near capture that had been avoided, and nothing more. She relaxed again, sinking back into the pillows and into her thoughts.
He'd continued giggling as he was pushed through the threshold. She simply leant against the door frame, completely breathless from the close encounter. She'd yet to even remove the coat, but already felt drained. The moment Harry had pressed her back against the door she'd been leaning on, however, a surge of sparks shot through her. It gave her a boost, a buzz, and there'd been an unmistakable note of hunger in the sound she'd uttered into his mouth.
It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to kiss her before. While tapping away on her Apple Mac, Lucy had noticed just how close he stood, how he spoke into her ear and brushed away the loose strands of her hair. On any such occasion, she could have just turned a quarter of an inch into him and he'd have got his way. She, however, had resisted. It would have been improper, no matter how hard Harold Saxon's touches got her heart beating.
He was dangerous. He was willing to flirt openly in a room full of news reporters, willing to disobey the strict orders of a nobleman, the father he should have been trying to impress, without a care in the world. Such trivial things never bothered him, and he laughed them all away. It was a dangerous habit, and it made him a very dangerous man. Such a trait should have deterred Lucy from ever letting him near her, but it did quite the opposite.
She'd pushed him down before he'd had a chance.
Crawling over his slender, weakly shaking body, she'd listened to his snickers of laughter while pulling at that sleek tie of his. For such a proper young girl, she had a surprising weakness for things she shouldn't have. Like Harry. Dangerous, powerful and forbidden, she'd fallen under his spell from the moment they met, but her immunity had been strong then. Gradually, he'd worn it down, finally touching on what she craved. That moment, right then, she'd craved his touch.
And she received it.
The hand beneath her dress, between her thighs. His usually warm palm made her shiver as he stroked her inner leg. His giggles had died away about then, replaced by a smirk. She could remember exactly how his fingers moved, what he did, and found herself breathing shakily at the same moment her memory did. The novel slipped to the floor as she caressed her own thigh, reliving the night.
What did he do then? Her mind, slowly misting over, didn't know, but her body certainly did. Running a forefinger lightly over the front of her satin underwear, she found herself playing two roles. She moaned, the noise low and quiet, just as it had been a week ago, but she wore Harry's smirk all the while. His fingers, not hers, slipped the silky material down just an inch, making Lucy's head loll back and Harry's smile widen.
There was something pressing into her leg, a pillow-- no, no, it was him. His heavy breath fell on her cheek as he ground against her hip, but the only thing she was particularly interested in was the sound of a belt buckle being loosened. She desperately wanted to reach out, but the fear of everything shattering if she did kept her arms where they were. He was close to her, very close, but her eyes remained shut.
So how could she see him? In her mind's eye, there he was, grinning like a jackal as he slowly hitched up her dress. His palm grated against her thigh as he leant forwards, quietly taunting her. He looked good, with his shirt hanging off his chest and a silk black tie pooled by his shoulder. His lips were parted, yet still grinning, and he was slowly drawing himself out from beneath her. The empty feeling she'd felt on the doorstep rose through in the depths of her stomach as his hand left her thigh, but it was quashed as he kissed her jaw.
Beneath him, Lucy didn't squirm. She arched into him, yes, but didn't squirm. Just waited.
“Oh, Harry...” She murmured, fingertips cascading down her lower abdomen. Her thumb clipped something good and slipped downwards just as he slipped into her; it made her moan through a bitten bottom lip, her futile attempt to make sure her sister wouldn't be interrupting, but Harry had other ideas. He thrust deeper into her, grinding against her stomach and giving her no hope in Hell of silencing herself. Lucy, going against everything she'd been taught in life, swore viciously as she called out his name,
“Fuck, Harry!”
In its wake, she could hear his laughter once more. It pleased him to hear her like that, so vulgar, so common. As she grasped his shoulder blades, fingers beneath the soft folds of what part of the shirt and jacket remained on his back, she uttered it again for his benefit. He liked it.
She could feel his cheek rubbing against his as he lowered his head, whispering in her ear. He sounded neither flustered nor rapt, although his sniggers were still evident. Louder. That's what he wanted. He was telling her to moan louder, harder, and ignore the others in the house. They wouldn't hear. It was all part of Harry's charm. He could have drugged them into stupors for all she cared.
She was saying the 'p' word. She was begging him. It struck something in him, as her nails were soon forced to uncurl and bury themselves into his back. She couldn't feel a drop of sweat there. He was barely reacting to the situation, speaking as he would to a boardroom. He asked her, clearly and concisely, what she wanted, and Lucy replied in a rushed, messy haste:
/You./
The memories reached the base of a final crescendo, she could feel them ending, but struggled to keep them going. She wanted to say 'slow down', but instead heard herself begging for more. She grasped at him tighter, using strength she didn't even know she had. Lucy could taste the climax and simply stopped fighting it.
Against the pillows, the petite form of Lucy Cole jerked up violently into her own hand, crying out the name of the man she was forbidden to see and wearing his trademark grin all the while.
Harry. Harry Saxon.
With Harry, Friday evenings were guaranteed to excite her.