Page 12 of Crowned In Sin

I look down on the lands below me.

Other than a few more wrinkles in the sheets, there is no evidence of what I did last night. No one ever needs to know.

I never need to do it again, if I do not want.

But I do want. I stretch my toes against the far edge of the tub, feeling new heat gather between my legs. It is slightly different from the heat of the bathwater. I did not know I would be able to sense it.

I take another cloth from a low table on the side of the tub and watch as it becomes waterlogged and sinks beneath the surface.

My heart races right away.

Do I dare?

I glance at the closed door. Alice will not be back for several minutes. She has already washed my hair, and it is held up in a cloth made to encourage it drying faster. A larger towel has been laid on the lip of the tub in case I need to rest my neck.

That is something I do often enough.

I settle into the tub and tip my head back, letting the towel support my neck.

I have done nothing out of the ordinary. I might only be thinking of my plans for the day. I could write letters. There are two or three birthday messages I have not yet responded to as well as requests from those in the village. I may practice my harp so that the lessons my mother gave me as a child don’t fall away from my memory. I might take one of the horses for a ride on the grounds. If I do that, I would need to return with enough time left to bathe and be dressed for dinner. It will be a smaller affair tonight—my father and I and perhaps a few select members of court—but I’ll be dressed to match my station.

I stare at the blue sky outside the window and almost manage to convince myself that I’ve done it. That I’ve forgotten the way I moaned into my own pillow last night.

But then I sweep the bathing cloth into my hand under the water, almost as if I am not thinking about it. I lift it toward the surface, then let it float down until the cloth lands between my legs.

Then it is only a simple matter of touching myself. I start at one of my breasts, circling it as if I am only rinsing soap away, then slide my hand down until it meets the cloth.

It is a different sensation than touching myself with bare fingertips. The cloth is slightly rougher, and it takes even less pressure on that bundle of nerves. I let my legs fall open so my knees rest on the side of the tub and draw circles on my clit.

I breathe slowly and deeply, as if I am meditating. I keep the rest of my body relaxed, as if I am half asleep. I move my fingers only enough to get the pressure I need. I don’t create a single splash in the water.

It does not take long to bring myself to the peak. A minute or maybe less. I remind myself not to cry out at the last second, and sigh instead. I am certain it could be mistaken for a sigh of enjoyment. Of the hot water, not my hand between my legs.

When the waves have ended, I gather the cloth in my hand, bring it above the surface of the water, and squeeze out the excess.

I wait a minute more to be sure I am recovered. That my body is not giving any sign that I pleasured myself. One thing I know for certain now, I enjoy the act. Thoroughly. And I am curious to discover more.

I wait until I am sure that I will not seem satisfied, or giddy, because I have gotten away with taking pleasure in a place I have never taken it before.

The day proceeds as I expected it would.

It’s not until dinner that I feel someone watching. The prick at the back of my neck and the burning feeling of being hunted are consuming.

I try not to be obvious about searching for him, which unfortunately comes to a halt when I’m asked to tend to court for a moment. I carry on a conversation with a duke who is at least my father’s age about the fallow fields nearest his manor house, so it takes longer than I would like to find him.

But as I’m being escorted to dinner, I do. My heart races. I recognize his posture, his stance. In the shadows, in a room off the great hall—the third in a series of rooms that all connect. As the hall is not crowded, there is no need for it to be well lit. Still, my body knows his. There’s a heated pulse that runs through me.

The man leans against the doorway, his face mostly hidden once again. With Alice by my side, I cannot go to him, and given her expression, I straighten my own.

When dinner is finished, I take a long route away from the great hall, then tell Alice and Blanche to meet me in my rooms.

“I will be going to bed early tonight,” I tell them. “I need more time to rest. I will be up shortly.”

When they’re out of sight, I race back along a different route so I can enter that darkened sitting room through another doorway. Hopeful he’ll still be there.

“I know you’re here,” I say into the dim light. It seems even dimmer than it did when he was watching me during dinner. “Why didn’t you come to the table?”

No answer.