Finally, I shifted upward, bracing myself on my elbows until I hovered above him.The lamplight painted his skin in molten tones, his hair mussed and falling across the pillow.My throat tightened, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.
"I can't believe you, Prince Arthur, just made love to me," I whispered, almost in awe—fucked me like that, made me feel alive for the first timein years.
His eyes snapped open, sharp and bright despite the flush still lingering on his cheeks."Don't say it like that," he chided softly, but with unmistakable fire.He reached up, cupping my face in his hand."You didn't make love with a prince.You made love with me.With Arthur."
I blinked, stunned by the vehemence in his tone.
"And for the record," he added, a half-smile curving his lips, "I don't give a damn that you're the U.S.ambassador.You could be the bloody gardener for all I care.None of that matters—not here.Not with us."
Something inside me crumbled at that, the last shard of the walls I had built around myself.I scooted higher, pressing into him until our bodies fit together, the length of me curled against his side.He smelled of sweat and sex and lube and something ineffably him, a fragrance that would haunt me forever.
"Thank you," I whispered into the curve of his neck, my lips brushing his skin.
His fingers stilled in my hair."For what?"he asked, his voice low, curious.
I pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, my words coming out softer than breath."For giving me the best night of my life.For making me feel...everything."
His expression shifted—something tender, almost fierce, flickered across his face.He didn't answer immediately.Instead, he drew me closer, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was gentler than all the ones before.
And in that quiet moment, I knew I would never be the same.
ChapterSixteen
Arthur- Three Weeks Later
The morning light leaked through the edges of Eddie's curtains, casting pale streaks across the sheets.I lay tangled in them, propped on one elbow, watching Bryce button his shirt with a precision that made me grin.He could make putting on a shirt look like a state occasion.
I'd lost count of how many mornings had begun this way.Three weeks, perhaps more, since the first night we gave in to temptation.Three weeks of finding reasons to disappear together, slipping between these borrowed sheets like teenagers sneaking out of class.And somehow, it hadn't dulled.If anything, it had sharpened.Each night had been hungrier, more consuming than the last, until I felt like I was living two lives: the polished, curated one everyone saw, and this one, where I was nothing but a man mad for another man.
Eddie's flat had become our secret refuge.He'd pressed the key into my palm just before flying to Los Angeles, grinning in that conspiratorial way he had."Two months, darling," he'd said."Violet Hourwon't film itself.Put the place to good use while I'm gone."
He'd meant it as a joke, but I had taken it very seriously.It was neutral ground—neither Kensington, where the walls themselves seemed to sprout ears, nor Winfield House, crawling with staff and State Department watchmen.Here, in Eddie's haphazard kingdom of velvet cushions and crooked picture frames, Bryce and I could actually breathe.
We could be ourselves.
Bryce smoothed his shirt down, tucking it neatly into his trousers.My eyes lingered on the stretch of his back I'd been kissing only hours before.That contrast—ambassador in the daylight, undone in my arms at night—made my chest tighten with something I refused to name.
"Will I see you tonight?"I asked, letting a little whine slip into my tone.
He glanced at me over his shoulder, and his expression softened."Not tonight.I'm afraid I'm off to Sheffield.Firestone's opening a new factory, and apparently my smile is required to bless the tire industry."
I groaned and rolled onto my back, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead like a melodramatic hero."Tell me tires aren't more important than me.My kisses are far superior to vulcanized rubber."
That earned me a laugh, warm and real, the kind he never gave to cameras or diplomats."Careful," he said, slipping on his jacket."You're a dangerous man.Tempting me to ditch a ribbon cutting for you is reckless."
I pushed myself up on the pillows, the blanket slipping down to reveal the marks he'd left on my collarbone."Then be reckless.Stay."
For a heartbeat, temptation flickered across his face.His eyes lingered on me in bed, hair mussed, skin flushed.I could see him weighing it—diplomacy on one side, desire on the other.Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the spell.
He sighed."Driver's waiting."
I hated that phone.Hated the way the outside world could pierce our bubble so easily.But before I could sulk, he crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed me.His mouth was firm, but the kiss lingered, tasting faintly of the coffee we'd shared an hour earlier.
"Firestone has nothing on you," he whispered.
That at least, I believed.
I held his wrist for a moment longer, unwilling to let him slip away, then finally released him.He straightened, smoothed his jacket, and with one last glance—half smile, half ache—he was gone.The door closed, and silence fell like a heavy cloak.
