Page 97 of King of the Crease

“Fuck me,” he cries out.

I slam into him so hard I’m afraid I’m going to hurt him, but he moans his approval, his voice echoing off the walls. He digs his fingers in just above my love handles and fills the narrow space between us with his ropes of hot come. I speed up, wanting to join him, my body shaking like a car going 100 miles per hour.

“Come inside me.”

He hisses in relief as I empty myself in his ass.

Afterward, we lie together, catching our breath.

“I wish it could always be like this,” I say.

“I know,” Nick answers quietly.

I fall asleep beside him, the rhythm of his breathing the last thing I cling to as I drift to sleep.

When I wake the next morning, he’s already gone.

30

NICK

Iwake to bells.

Cathedral bells—deep, resonant, impossible to ignore. They roll through the palace windows every morning at seven, announcing Ardenia to itself. Duty o’clock.

I lie still beneath heavy linen sheets and stare at the ceiling fresco I’ve known since childhood: painted cherubs and gold-leaf clouds watching me like witnesses.

For a moment, before memory catches up, I expect to smell coffee brewing downstairs at Millie’s house. Expect to feel Hank’s furry forearm across my stomach.

Instead, there’s silence.

I sit up slowly. My phone rests on the bedside table, dark and stubbornly empty. No new messages. Not that I deserve any.

I told myself not to text Hank after I snuck out. He deserved a clean break, so he can go find a guy who he can be around without paparazzi swarming. That doesn’t stop me from missing him so badly it feels physical.

Royal mornings move fast. Too fast to think. Even on Christmas Eve, the train keeps moving.

By eight, I’m dressed in a tailored navy suit while Agnes reviews the day’s schedule beside me.

“Council briefing at nine. Trade delegation at ten-thirty. Press photographs at noon.”

Her voice is efficient, calm, mercifully normal. Yet the look she gives me over the top of her reading glasses is maternal.

“We can cancel if you still need time…jet lag and all.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

My attention drifts to the window overlooking the capital. Winter dusts the rooftops in silver. Christmas markets fill the squares below—wooden stalls, strings of lights, families bundled together.

Everyone looks warm. Everyone looks like they belong somewhere. They have their people.

“Huh.” Agnes’s eyebrows jump at something on her tablet.

“What is it?”

“A meeting was just put on your calendar, Denizen and Associates.”

“Who are they?”