As the Former Elliot Spencer retired to his quarters for the night, he found himself thinking back on Kirsty Cotton, and her father and uncle.
He was never one prone to shock, but the ordeal had left him just that. Shocked. Repulsed. Mesmerized. He'd only ever dreamt that a human could be as depraved as Frank Cotton; being nearly outsmarted by him was an embarrassment.
Not to mention Kirsty, devoted daughter of the doomed Larry Cotton. He hated to admit it, but he admired her strength and cunning.
She had reminded him of a life that he'd thought was merely an old, forgotten dream.
And belonged forgotten.
The Prince wearily made his way to the bed of crimson and black that sat in the center of the room, and laid down slowly, his back sinking into the downy material. He sighed.
How far would he go, hypothetically; how much would he sacrifice, just to be held in her eyes again, and feel her timid kiss and release her from the moral chains that her God had shackled her with.
His stygian eyes closed, images of the girl dancing behind them like an erotic flame. Lost in the heat growing within him, he reached for the leather ties of his robes, untying them and relaxing as his tight garments fell to either side of him, revealing a chiseled stomach and narrow hips.
Before shame and doubt had a chance to change his mind, he grasped his hard member and focused on every detail he could remember; her feminine scent, supple flesh. Her sweet breath, breasts heaving freely in her nightgown.
His release came quickly, too quickly. Unsatisfied, angry and disgusted, the prince put his clothes in proper order and stormed from the room.