Red.
They called him the Red Knight. He was handsome, painfully so, and he had the women speaking about him soon enough. There was one story where he saved a girl from downing, down at Lahinch Beach, and another fisher's wife claimed she had seen him emerge from the Doolin Caves stark-naked, which made her believe he was nothing short of a young God. Dixie, the mayor's daughter, said he spent most of his nights at McGann's, just a short ride from the cliffs, and she and her best friends believed he rented a room above the pub. They weren't quite too sure, though, Dixie told everyone willing to listen quite sadly, because despite their best efforts, he had never invited either of them up. No one really knew where he came from, but all agreed they wanted to be where he went.
They called him the Red Knight and he drove a fiery, red Jaguar, but James had soon enough found out his name was simply Jasper Frost.
Eleanor let the syllables roll over her tongue and decided she liked it.
Jasper Frost.
She started venturing from the castle more often, seeking out this Jasper Frost but for all intents he evaded her and she quickly lost interest. Because Eleanor had other men to entertain and only one she needed to please. Besides, the roaring of the sea never faded away and eventually the waves drowned out the sound of his name.
Jasper Frost, Jasper Frost, Jasper –
Robbie, Robbie, dear brother.
But just when she had forgotten about him, he appeared into her life. Made a grand entrance through the wide open doors of her broken heart and ball room and everyone quieted, because this was the Red Knight, Jasper Frost, Jasper, Jaspurr.
'Princess,' he murmured, bowing as he took her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Liam eyed him, as did James, but they both considered him not a threat, this demure young man, who had all the girls' skirts in a twist and seemed the perfect gentleman, not even kissing, but just lightly grazing the Royal skin.
Not a threat.
'So you're the infamous Jasper Frost,' Eleanor purred. She was pleased to see the faintest of a blush creep upon his cheeks. And oh, how she liked them shy.
She linked her arm through his, pulling him along through the crowd. He stuttered a bit when she introduced him to her friends, looked bewildered when she pressed against him on the dancefloor and oh, dear Lord, how she loved her boys shy.
He let her lead him and she revelled in it, slipped a hand beneath his shirt, as they spoke with people they both barely knew nor would remember. He pressed a kiss to her nape and she grabbed his crotch through his pants. He was big, so big, and yes –
And his hand splayed over her stomach, held there by her own, and his sharp intake of breath when she grinded her ass against him.
She kissed him behind a marble statue, on the top floor balcony and against a tapestry. She fumbled with his zipper, almost broke a nail on the clasp of his jeans, but then her long fingers curled around his shaft – and he trembled, gasped – and teased downwards.
Stroking and teasing, rubbing and squeezing.
They were hardly hidden from view, but her fingers were nimble and her kisses possessed.
And he came in her hand, spilling his seed through her fingers, and it thrilled her – thrilled her immensely – when he moaned her name into her mouth and she swallowed his cries.
He was quiet as he followed her – meek, mild, modest – and he shielded her from the howling wind as she took him outside and up the cliff.
A black mask over his face and the crashing waves, the crying wind, that feeling of drowning – perfection.
But then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled hard and pulled her close.
'Princess,' he purred in her ear and the dark promise in that lone word made the hairs on her arms stand up.
'I don't need your mask.'
His voice was a bloody sin and fuck –
He had his fingers wrapped around her neck, his thumb almost painfully digging into her throat. She swallowed and pressed her hard nipples against his chest, and if anything, she knew she was already embarrassingly wet.
'I have enough disguises of my own,' he whispered against her throat, his mouth over a pulsing vein.
He bit down sharply and she whimpered.
'I own you,' he murmured.
His other hand moved down, fingers digging into her ass, kneading, releasing, kneading, releasing, and her throbbing clit followed its rhythm. She sighed against his touch, fisted her hands into his hair and he didn't have to touch her anymore, because his presence alone got her undone.
She shuddered against his hand and his lips, his brash and cocksureness.
And how had she ever thought him shy?
She did not remember much, all haze and colours and fuck –
She did remember lying there, a shivering, sticky mess.
Aching.
And later she would wonder why she let him go, with his swagger, his big mouth, and long fingers and – oh Robbie, I'm so sorry.
She stayed up the cliff all night, until dawn and James came to collect her.
He did not come to her nor her parties afterwards even though she sent invites. She did see him, though. At night. On top of the cliffs. He wasn't ever there when she went up, but she could see him, later on, from her bedroom balcony. And she knew James never saw him, but not once did she stop to wonder why.
Perhaps they were all fools, the Princess, the Bodyguard and the Red Knight.
END OF ACT I.