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At last he got his hand around his cock and Ben's both, right at the tip; Ben closed his huge fist at the base, though their slippery fingers overlapped. They thrust against each other blindly, slow then fast then slow again.
James was surprised to find himself groaning, then crying out. He'd always been quiet in bed before--always felt as though he'd had to be--but not here. Not today, with Ben, sealed away from the rest of the world.
"That's right," Ben murmured against James' shoulder, before nipping at the skin with his teeth. "Let me hear you."
Ben came first, and the sudden catch in his throat, plus the hot stickiness spurting through James' fingers, was enough to bring James to the edge. When he climaxed, he shouted it out--all of it, all the pleasure he'd felt and all he'd held back before. It was almost ridiculous to make that much noise. But when he was himself again, and could look Ben in the face, Ben was smiling. "That sounded good."
"Uh-huh." James grinned up at Ben, then pulled him close for a kiss.
For a few moments after that, they simply held each other as they tried to recover something like sense. James leaned his head onto Ben's shoulder and closed his eyes so that he would only feel Ben's nearness, only hear Ben's heartbeat and the constant rain.
Don't fall asleep, he told himself. Before long he'd have to excuse himself, get back to his own cabin, and tidy up for tonight's official function. But leaving Ben today meant leaving Ben forever. James only wanted to steal a few more minutes.
He opened his eyes. The linen curtains around the bed softened the light. Ben drowsed next to him, apparently as content as James felt.
Just a little while longer, James thought as he snuggled closer.
He never chose to close his eyes again. He simply did.
***
Ben awoke to the sound of James quietly swearing. He propped up on his elbows to see James at the foot of the bed, gathering his clothes.
The rustle of the covers made James turn. His cheeks flushed. "Oh. I--there's a dinner in less than an hour. I've got to go."
"Right. Yeah, of course."
Good God, he'd gone to bed with the Prince of Wales. No denying it. The smell of sex hung thick in the air (tinged with coconut lotion), and James himself was only a few feet away, struggling back into his damp clothes. Still, Ben felt more as though he'd had a very vivid masturbation fantasy. None of this could be real, could it?
James half-tucked his shirt, which was rumpled from having landed on the floor wet. "My shoes, my shoes--oh, yes, under the table." He dashed out, and Ben let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding.
Pleasant as the memory of their lovemaking was, Ben was eager for James to leave. He felt exposed to the point of being raw. Not because of the nudity or the sex.
Because of the secrets.
He'd made that ridiculous wager because he thought it was the best way to break down the barriers between them and possibly, just possibly, get James into his bed. The gambit had worked. That much Ben understood. What he didn't understand was why he'd felt compelled to tell James the truth. He could have made something up. Anything. Instead he'd poured out things he never spoke about with anyone.
Remember, Ben thought, you'll never see this man again. And he can't talk about this with a single soul. If he pokes so much as one toe out of the closet, he loses his money and his crown and all the other things he values more than the truth.
The sounds of James scrambling for his shoes stilled. No doubt he was now ready to go. Ben figured he should kiss James goodbye. Only polite, after all. He rose from his bed, slipped on one of the thick white robes of Turkish cotton supplied by the lodge, and stepped into the front room, expecting to find James waiting for him.
Instead James stood in front of the desk. The desk drawers were open. And in his hand he held Ben's press pass.
Shit.
"I don't--" James' voice broke off. "You can't be with Global Media Services. In Kenya, that's Sybil Warner. I've given her interviews before."
Once again, the damnable truth came spilling from Ben's mouth. "She's pregnant. I filled in."
"You said you were a novelist!"
"I didn't!"
James finally turned toward Ben. His face was white, his features drawn. He did not look boyish now. "You didn't, did you? I assumed. I said so. And you let me believe it."
A lie of omission was still a lie. Ben usually considered himself above that kind of thing.
Before he could begin to explain, James said, "So, all this was just a trick? Just a game to get your story?"
"I don't screw people to get ahead at my job," Ben shot back. Anger blossomed red and hot within him. Did this high-and-mighty prince think he could insult anyone who threatened his hiding place in the closet?
James took a step back. "Then it's about money."
"Fuck you and fuck your money. You want to live like a coward? You want to live a lie? Have at it. Punishment enough for the likes of you."
"The likes of me? I'm not the one who lied about who he was--who told me it was all right, you swore it was all right--" James' voice broke off. He looked almost pathetic there in his rumpled, damp clothes. The press pass fell from his fingers, as if he couldn't even hold onto it any longer.
But Ben was too furious for pity. "What were you doing, going through my desk?"
"You're accusing me of invading your privacy? You're media, Ben! You're here to report on me, and you lured me into this! How could I have been so stupid? Tell me, was it all a lie? All of it? Every secret you told me?" The pain in his voice cut through Ben's rage for just an instant, until James added, "I bet your parents are alive and well."
Ben snapped. "Get the hell out of here before I take your picture and post it to the worldwide news feed. I could do it in an instant. So go. Run, if you know what's good for you."
James grimaced as though in disgust, but he went. As he slid open the door to the veranda, a breeze blew through the room, stirring up papers and ruffling Ben's hair. Without once looking back, James ran down the steps out into the rain. The twilight mingled with the downpour to blur his form almost immediately, and then he vanished. But for the rumpled bed, Ben could almost believe it had all been a dream.
His anger remained, though, stoking higher and higher until he paced the room like something wild and caged.
The worst of it wasn't James' arrogant assumptions. It wasn't even the horrible thing he'd said about Ben's parents.
No, the worst part was remembering the betrayed hurt in James' eyes.
***
You idiot. You fucking idiot. You just slept with a reporter. For all you know he was recording the whole thing. Your sex tape's probably going to be on TMZ within the hour.
James ran into his own lodge, sopping wet again. With just over a half hour to go until his next official dinner, he needed to jump into the shower and make himself halfway presentable. Instead he braced his hands against the wall and fought back tears. If he gave into them now, he'd never be able to pull himself together in time.
Fear clutched at his guts like a cold, desperate fist. It was as though he could feel each and every blood vessel in his body as they burned from the adrenalin.
All those years. All that restraint and loneliness. All that caution. Once--just once in his entire life--he'd dared to seize a moment of pure pleasure, and his reward was immediate betrayal.
Maybe Ben won't publish anything about it, James thought, though the hope was feeble. He got so angry when you asked if he would. Maybe he won't do it, just to prove you wrong.
But money usually meant more to people than their reputations. Besides, the rest of the world would congratulate Ben on his "scoop," laugh at the naive prince who'd rolled over so quickly for a stranger . . .
His throat tightened, and James wondered whether he had ought to go on and get some of the crying out of the way before the dinner tonight. Sometimes that was what you had to do to hold it together. You let a little emotion out in a safe place--
You thought Ben's bed was safe, and that was just another lie.
Tinny music from across the room made James jump. That was his latest personal cell phone. He switched every few weeks to try and avoid hacking. Even so, he never discussed anything via cell that could be damaging, and only good friends and close family members ever got the number. He could do badly with a friendly voice at the moment. Fingers trembling, he answered. "Hello?"
"James?" It was Indigo. Her voice was thready and weak. "Oh, thank God I reached you."
His first terrified thought was that somehow the news had already gone public, but that was absurd. Even gossip didn't work that fast, and Indigo sounded truly terrible. Maybe she was having one of her episodes, oh God not now I can't be strong enough for us both but she needs me, she needs me--"What's wrong? What happened?"
"Grandfather's had a stroke."
James clutched at the arm of the nearest chair and lowered himself into it. "Oh, Christ."
"He's still alive, but it's bad. It's very bad. They don't know if--oh, James, you have to come home. Right away, right this moment."
This was about more than a family drawing together when its patriarch was near death. This was about the country's need to have the Prince of Wales close at hand. For all James knew, he might be king within the hour.
Which meant Ben's "scoop" would go from being a huge news story to the biggest in the world.
He shuddered, but pushed the fear aside. James' entire life had been designed to prepare him for this moment, and he was determined to be ready. "Is the news public yet?"
"Any minute now."
"All right. Good." Canceling tonight's event would be easier if he could tell the truth about his reasons. "Tell the attache to contact my travel team. I'll be on the plane in three hours and hopefully back to London by morning."
First James had to shower, to rinse away what evidence he could. But minutes after that, his travel team went to work in his cabin, packing everything. He phoned each member of the MSF team to personally apologize for the canceled dinner. And when the driver brought the car around for his trip to Jomo Kenyatta, someone held an umbrella over James' head as he ducked inside.
He glanced backward as the car drove off along the waterlogged road. The rain had slowed enough for James to see the outline of the resort vanishing slowly in the distance. It felt as though he had crossed a boundary, between play and irresponsibility, between fantasy and reality. Ben's betrayal was still a raw, bleeding wound, but already it felt like something that belonged to his life before.
James turned. No more time for looking back. He had to face his fate.
Keep reading for an excerpt from ASKING FOR IT, available now.
Highway 71 stretched in front of my car, black asphalt scrolling beneath my wheels. Seven hours into my drive back to Austin, I was wondering why I hadn't just flown Southwest.
Sometimes I like taking a long road trip by myself--listening to my music, relishing the freedom of knowing I absolutely, positively can't work on my thesis for a while. I'd enjoyed most of this drive back from New Orleans, but now that the sun had gone down and I still had an hour to go, I felt restless.
Maybe if you hadn't left your car charger at home, where it can do you exactly no good--
I groaned, thinking of my cell phone in my purse, dead for more than an hour now. Instead of putting on my favorite high-energy playlist for the final leg of my journey, I was at the mercy of the radio. Every station seemed dedicated to putting me to sleep.
Then again, it was late. After ten P.M. Most people were winding down, taking it easy as they listened to mellower music, maybe snuggling up to someone they loved.
A sultry Latin number began, soft guitar and thumping drums suggesting sensuality with every beat--and reminding me how long I'd been alone.
My last breakup had taken place four months before. Sometimes I missed Geordie, even though I knew splitting had been the right choice. At age thirty, he's still in party-hearty mode, while at twenty-five I already feel more grown-up than he probably ever will. We'd always been more friends than red-hot lovers anyway. Our sex life--well, I couldn't blame Geordie there. Probably most women would have been more than happy with what he had to offer. I was the one who had longed for something Geordie couldn't provide.
At least you told him what you really wanted. You finally trusted someone else enough to tell, and that alone counts for something, doesn't it? He just couldn't go there with you.
But I'd felt so shamed. So exposed. I'd confessed my deepest fantasies to Geordie, hoping he'd play along, and instead he'd freaked out. Oh, he tried to be sympathetic, all "But why do you think you feel this way?" That's what I pay my therapist for. What I needed from him was something a whole lot dirtier. A whole lot scarier. And gentle, funny Geordie couldn't give it to me.
Maybe I was being the rigid one. I figured I shouldn't condemn a guy for not getting off on the idea of forcing a woman. So I reminded myself, Geordie gets to have limits too--
The steering wheel jerked in my hands. I managed to keep my Civic from spinning out, but barely. It wobbled violently, pulling hard to one side as I guided it onto the shoulder. The hum of tires against highway gave way to jagged pops of gravel under my car. Once I'd cleared the road, I put the car in park, turned the key, and sat there for a moment, one hand held over my wildly thumping heart.
Shit. I've blown a tire.
I stepped out of my car, my sandals crunching in the roadside grit, as I inspected the damage. As I'd thought, the passenger-side front tire was completely blown out; strips of blackened rubber had peeled away, and it was already completely deflated against the ground.
Biting my lower lip, I glanced up and down the highway. I hadn't quite made it as far as Giddings, which was the closest thing to a real town in this part of Texas. The next outpost of civilization was probably at least half an hour's walk from here . . . in the dark, without even a streetlamp to guide me. Why hadn't I brought the stupid car charger? I'd have given a lot to have my cell phone with me so I could call for help. I could've bought another one in any gas station along the way; it wasn't like they were expensive. But I hadn't. So I was alone, in the dark, totally on my own.
Of course, as a modern, independent woman, I'd learned how to change a flat tire. I'd practiced so I'd be able to do it in a crisis. Except that the last time I practiced was eight years earlier, when I was a junior in high school.
I squared my shoulders. Okay, Vivienne. You can do this. Let's make it happen.
As I took the jack from the trunk, I decided to ditch the little cardigan I wore over my red sundress. In Texas in August, the weather was too warm to work hard while wearing extra layers, even this late at night. Besides, I didn't want to get grease all over my entire outfit if I could help it.
A truck's headlights appeared on the horizon, heading toward me. I was torn. Wave for help or duck behind the car, so the driver doesn't see that I'm a woman out here alone?
My fantasies were one thing. Reality was another. I wanted help really badly, but I walked behind the car.
Not that it mattered--the eighteen-wheeler barreled past me so fast my compact car rocked in its wake. The breeze blew my hair in my face and whipped the skirt of my sundress. Once the truck was well ahead of me, I took off my cardigan and tossed it into the front seat, then got down to business.
Okay. Obviously the first step was jacking up the car. I knelt beside the flat tire, angled the jack--and heard another car driving toward me.
Slowing down.
And stopping.
Headlights bathed me in their brilliance. I held up one hand, unable to see for the glare. Fear prickled along my skin. I took the lug wrench firmly in my fist as I stood, still holding my other hand against the light, and tried to keep my voice steady as I called, "Hello?"
"Looks like you've got trouble."
The driver stepped forward, the headlights silhouetting his tall, masculine form. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness
, I could finally see his face.
Oh, my God.
All the adrenaline in my bloodstream changed. The fear was still there, sharper as I saw how broad his shoulders were, and the muscles in his arms--but now that fear was matched by excitement, raw and primal. This man . . .
He was tall, a couple inches over six feet. His jeans were slung beneath his almost impossibly tapered waist, which only exaggerated how muscular his thighs were. His black T-shirt clung to him tightly. Stubble shadowed his angular jaw, and his dark hair was cut almost military-short in a way that emphasized the strong lines of his face. His gray eyes raked over me, as I remembered why I'd worn the cardigan to begin with--my sundress was low-cut, and his gaze made it clear he'd noticed.
My hand tightened around the wrench.
"What seems to be the problem?" He took a step closer.
"It's just a flat tire. I've got a spare." I sounded breathless. Afraid. Would that encourage him to help me, or make it clear just how much power he had over me at this moment?
One of his eyebrows lifted. Clearly he'd picked up on the fact that I was nervous. It seemed to amuse him. "Can you change a flat?"
"Of course." That was possibly not the entire truth, but I figured I could manage if I had to.
"Do you have any help on the way? Triple A?" His gray eyes met mine again, but it was difficult for me to make out his expression with his headlights shining in my eyes. "A boyfriend?"
Is he trying to find out if I'm single, or trying to find out if anybody would know if something happened to me?
No one would.
I tried to smile; I probably failed. "Yeah. Triple A said they'd be here in--oh, another fifteen minutes or so." My voice sounded sharp, borderline rude, but I couldn't worry about that. All I could think was, Why did I say that? Fifteen minutes was too long. Fifteen minutes is more than enough time for him to . . .
His smile was a quick flash in the darkness, as hard-edged as a straight razor. "I can change that flat in five. That is--if you're not too proud to ask for help."
"Proud?" This guy had pulled over next to me in the dead of night, started interrogating me, and wanted to lecture me on my attitude? Fuck being afraid; I got mad. "Listen, if you think it's funny that I'd be worried about a stranger in this situation, I'm afraid you don't understand some very basic, sad facts of life."
