Page 73 of Heavy Crown

Don’t think. Just feel.

“There,” she breathes out, and she arches her back, pressing herself against me with each thrust. “I’m so… so close.”

We rock against each other, and she clutches onto my biceps, moaning.

“Oh my God. Oh, Alex.” Her words come out in a garbled rush, and her fingers dig into my arms. “I’m coming.” She curls into me, around me.

I press myself deeper into her, and while she contracts with her orgasm, I rush to my own release. The cliff is just in sight. No escape. No out. At some point I’ll hit the water below, but I don’t know if I’ll break or drown. These feelings building in me are fathomless. Impossible to determine. Break or drown. Break or drown. In either scenario, whatever is awakening in me will have to die. I cannot swim at this depth.

“Rory.” My voice is hoarse with need. I’m so close, but I’m keenly aware of the lack of protection.

She tilts her hips to meet me, and I thrust one more time. I grip her waist while I spill into her, overwhelmed by her warmth. We stay like that for a beat, breathing hard.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, my forehead pressed to hers. Never in my life have I experienced anything that all-consuming.

“Yeah,” she agrees with a sigh. “Bloody hell.”

A chuckle escapes me at the lilt in her voice, which breaks the tension in me. I feather kisses over her face before landing on her lips. “Your accent is no better.”

She giggles, and her knuckles graze my stubbled cheek. “Maybe I need a new tutor.”

I growl into her ear, and that makes her laugh harder. The sound is an arrow straight to my heart.

God, I should not be here. Shouldn’t have done this. What was I thinking? My chest is an aching, painful mess of emotions I can’t let myself absorb, or I’ll never leave this cottage.

I draw away from her to sit on the edge of the bed, my back to her naked form. I snatch my boxer briefs off the floor and put them on. “I should go.”

“Alex.” Her tone is full of warning, but she doesn’t sit up to look at me.

When I glance at her over my shoulder, she’s staring at the ceiling.

“It’s ridiculously late. The staff will talk.” It’s a stupid thing to say. I’ve been here later than this and never worried about palace gossip.

She rises on her elbows and stares at me. “If you tell me you regret this, I swear to God…”

“I don’t regret it.” But I do. A lot. Regret is a rising tide in my body, gaining traction one inch at a time. Though it’s only on paper, I’m engaged to someone else, and I haven’t told Rory. My selective honesty is shameful. She’ll hate me, and the fact that’s probably for the best causes the vise around my chest to tighten again.

“Are we sneaking around now? Is that what we’re doing?” she asks, and there’s a tinge of frustration in her tone.

No. We’re not doing this again. We shouldn’t have done this in the first place. I take a deep breath and force myself to get my emotions under control. Sneaking around is a stupid, horrible idea, but when I catch a glimpse of her downturned expression, the ridiculous ache in my chest comes roaring back. I run my hands down my face and brace myself for how bad this is likely to get between us.

“If you want to be with me, then yes. With the coronation coming and the referendum, Bellerive is in a fragile position. I can’t afford a misstep.” I tug on my sweatpants and reach for my T-shirt. Not to mention the wedding I’m being forced into. Emotions have no place here. Cold and clinical is what’s needed.

“I’m a misstep?”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, and I yank my shirt over my head. That’s exactly what I mean. “This is all I can offer.” And it’s far more than I should. What I’m offering is emotional suicide. The rational part of my brain realizes the danger—I’m off the cliff, and I still don’t know the depth of the water below.

“I get what I get, and I don’t get upset.” She gives me a wry smile. “Used to be my mom’s favorite line when we were kids. Always hated it.”

“I don’t have the luxury of doing what I want,” I say. Even though I am currently doing what I want. Soon, sooner than I’d like, I’ll have to allow reason to snap me back to reality.

“I get it,” she says, and she flops onto the bed. “Go. Just go.”

I understand enough about women to realize I should stay, that leaving is actually the wrong move here. But I can’t foster a real relationship with Rory, and insisting on sticking around when she’s told me to leave sends another message.

She doesn’t meet my gaze, and my chest develops a hairline fracture. Have I hurt her feelings?

Fuck it. I can’t leave like this.