The thought stopped.
The jealousy hit first — the sharp, hot, particular jealousy of a woman who was watching a thinner woman ride the man she wanted and was calculating her own body's capacity. Then the hope — the particular, desperate, calculating hope that if a thinner woman could take him, then a thicker woman certainly could.
Then the shame.
The deep, burning, full-body shame of a thirty-nine-year-old princess who was hiding behind a tree, rubbing her nipples on bark, and calculating her vaginal capacity based on the body type of a commoner cook who was currently bouncing on her nephew's cock.
'What is wrong with me?'
She breathed.
Her hand went down.
Not consciously. Not with planning or intention or the particular, deliberate decision-making process that Evriana applied to everything else in her life. Her hand moved on its own — sliding from the bark, down her stomach, past the waistband of her trousers, into her undergarment.
Her fingers found her pussy.
'Wet.'
