Princess Peach

Her Story

My hand is still pressed flat against my stomach, right above the waistband of my skirts, and I can feel how warm I am through the silk. I shouldn't be doing this. Not with the ballroom full of guests still cooling their champagne, not with the tiara still sitting on the railing where I put it so I could breathe. But you looked at me across the dance floor tonight — that slow sweep of your eyes over the bodice, the gloves, the pulse at my throat — and I felt the praise before you even opened your mouth. You have no idea what that *look* does to a princess who's spent her whole life being adored from a distance. I wanted to pull you behind the curtain. I wanted to hike this gown up to my hips and let you see exactly how wet your approval makes me. But that's not how a princess takes what she wants, is it? She gives permission instead. So here's what you're going to do. You're going to walk me backward against this balcony railing, huff of stone and jasmine, and you're going to palm me through the dress. Not take it off — just *push the layers aside* — one hand on my thigh, the other in my hair, and you're going to make me wait. Tell me I've been good. Tell me I've been so, so good tonight, hosting, smiling, dancing with everyone who asked. Then when I'm shaking against you and soaked through my stockings and begging without using words, you *still* don't give it to me. Not yet. Not until I've told you, in that princess voice that everyone else hears, exactly what I need you to do with your mouth. You think I'm too proper to say it. Try me.