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Alex is. Well, Alex is probably losing his mind.
It’s 10:48. He’s pacing.
He threw his jacket and tie over the back of the chair as soon as he returned to his room, and he’s got the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone. His hands are twisted up in his hair.
This is fine. It’s fine.
It’s definitely a terrible idea. But it’s fine.
He’s not sure if he should take anything else off. He’s unsure of the dress code for inviting your sworn-enemy-turned-fake-best-friend to your room to have sex with you, especially when that room is in the White House, and especially when that person is a guy, and especially when that guy is a prince of England.
The room is dimly lit—a single lamp, in the corner by thecouch, washing the deep blues of the walls neutral. He’s moved all his campaign files from the bed to the desk and straightened out the bedspread. He looks at the ancient fireplace, the carved details of the mantel almost as old as the country itself, and it may not be Kensington Palace, but it looks all right.
God, if any ghosts of Founding Fathers are hanging around the White House tonight, they must really be suffering.
He’s trying not to think too hard about what comes next. He may not have experience in practical application, but he’s done research. He has diagrams. He can do this.
He really, really wants to do this. That much he’s sure about.
He closes his eyes, grounds himself with his fingertips on the cool surface of his desk, the feathery little edges of papers there. His mind flashes to Henry, the smooth lines of his suit, the way his breath brushed Alex’s cheek when he kissed him. His stomach does some embarrassing acrobatics he plans to never tell anyone about, ever.
Henry, the prince. Henry, the boy in the garden. Henry, the boy in his bed.
He doesn’t, he reminds himself, even have feelings for the guy. Really.
There’s a knock on the door. Alex checks his phone: 10:54.
He opens the door.
Alex stands there and exhales slowly, eyes on Henry. He’s not sure he’s ever let himself justlook.
Henry is tall and gorgeous, half royalty, half movie star, red wine lingering on his lips. He’s left his jacket and tie behind, and the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to his elbows. He looks nervous around the corners of his eyes, but he smiles at Alex with one side of his pink mouth and says, “Sorry I’m early.”
Alex bites his lip. “Find your way here okay?”
“There was a very helpful Secret Service agent,” Henry says. “I think her name was Amy?”
Alex smiles fully now. “Get in here.”
Henry’s grin takes over his entire face, not his photograph grin, but one that is crinkly and unguarded and infectious. He hooks his fingertips behind Alex’s elbow, and Alex follows his lead, bare feet nudging between Henry’s dress shoes. Henry’s breath ghosts over Alex’s lips, their noses brushing, and when he finally connects, he’s smiling into it.
Henry shuts and locks the door behind them, sliding one hand up the nape of Alex’s neck, cradling it. There’s something different about the way he’s kissing now—it’s measured, deliberate.Soft.Alex isn’t sure why, or what to do with it.
He settles for pulling Henry in by the sway of his waist, pressing their bodies flush. He kisses back, but lets himself be kissed however Henry wants to kiss him, which right now is exactly how he would have expected Prince Charming to kiss in the first place: sweet and deep and like they’re standing at sunrise in the fucking moors. He can practically feel the wind in his hair. It’s ridiculous.
Henry breaks off and says, “How do you want to do this?”
And Alex remembers, suddenly, this is not a sunrise-in-the-moors type of situation. He grabs Henry by his loosened collar, pushes a little, and says, “Get on the couch.”
Henry’s breath hitches and he complies. Alex moves to stand over him, looking down at that soft pink mouth. He feels himself standing at a very tall, very dangerous precipice, with no intention of backing away. Henry looks up at him, expectant, hungry.
“You’ve been dodging me forweeks,” Alex says, widening his stance so his knees bracket Henry’s. He leans down and bracesone hand against the back of the couch, the other grazing over the vulnerable dip of Henry’s throat. “You went out with agirl.”
“I’m gay,” Henry tells him flatly. One of his broad palms flattens over Alex’s hip, and Alex inhales sharply, either at the touch or at hearing Henry finally say it out loud. “Not something wise to pursue as a member of the royal family. And I wasn’t sure you weren’t going to murder me for kissing you.”
“Then why’d you do it?” Alex asks him. He leans into Henry’s neck, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin just behind his ear. He thinks Henry might be holding his breath.
“Because I—I hoped you wouldn’t. Murder me. I had… suspicions you might want me too,” Henry says. He hisses a little when Alex bites down lightly on the side of his neck. “Or I thought, until I saw you with Nora, and then I was… jealous… and I was drunk and an idiot who got sick of waiting for the answer to present itself.”
