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“Hey,” Alex tells him, sliding his mouth closer to Henry’s ear, “you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I should warn you it’s probably in both of our best interests if you go back to your room before morning. Unless you want the PPOs to lock the Residence down and come requisition you from my boudoir.”
“Ah,” Henry says. He pulls away from Alex and rolls back over, looking up to the ceiling again like a man seeking penance from a wrathful god. “You’re right.”
“You can stay for another round, if you want to,” Alex offers.
Henry coughs, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I rather think I’d—I’d better get back to my room.”
Alex watches him fish his boxers from the foot of the bed and start pulling them back on, sitting up and shaking out his shoulders.
It’s for the best this way, he tells himself; nobody will get any wrong ideas about what exactly this arrangement is. They’re not going to spoon all night or wake up in each other’s arms or eat breakfast together. Mutually satisfying sexual experiences do not a relationship make.
Even if he did want that, there are a million reasons why this will never, ever be possible.
Alex follows him to the door, watching him turn to hover there awkwardly.
“Well, er…” Henry attempts, looking down at his feet.
Alex rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night.”
Henry looks back up at him, his mouth open and incredulous, and he throws his head back andlaughs,and it’s only him,the nerdy, neurotic, sweet, insomniac rich guy who constantly sends Alex photos of his dog, and something slots into place. He leans down and kisses him fiercely, and then he’s grinning and gone.
“You’re doingwhat?”
It’s sooner than either of them expected—only two weeks since the state dinner, two weeks of wanting Henry back under him as soon as possible and saying everything short of that in their texts. June keeps looking at him like she’s going to throw his phone in the Potomac.
“An invitation-only charity polo match this weekend,” Henry says over the phone. “It’s in…” He pauses, probably referring back to whatever itinerary Shaan has given him. “Greenwich, Connecticut? It’s $10,000 a seat, but I can have you added to the list.”
Alex almost fumbles his coffee all over the south entryway. Amy glares at him. “Jesusfuck.That isobscene,what are you raising money for, monocles for babies?” He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. “Where’s Zahra? I need to clear my schedule for this weekend.” He uncovers the phone. “Look, I guess I’lltryto make it, but I’m really busy right now.”
“I’m sorry, Zahra said you’re bailing on the fund-raiser this weekend because you’re going to apolo matchinConnecticut?” June asks from his bedroom doorway that night, almost startling another cup of coffee out of his hands.
“Listen,” Alex tells her, “I’m trying to keep up a geopolitical public relations ruse here.”
“Dude, people are writingfan fictionabout y’all—”
“Yeah, Nora sent me that.”
“—I think you can give it arest.”
“The crown wants me to be there!” he lies quickly. She seems unconvinced and leaves him with a parting look he’d probably be concerned about if he cared more about things that aren’t Henry’s mouth right now.
Which is how he ends up in his J. Crew best on a Saturday at the Greenwich Polo Club, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. The woman in front of him is wearing a hat with an entire taxidermied pigeon on it. High school lacrosse did not prepare him for this kind of sporting event.
Henry on horseback is nothing new. Henry in full polo gear—the helmet, the polo sleeves capped right at the bulge of his biceps, the snug white pants tucked into tall leather boots, the intricately buckled leather knee padding, the leather gloves—is familiar. He has seen it before. Categorically, it should be boring. It should not provoke anything visceral, carnal, or bodice-ripping in nature in him at all.
But Henry urging his horse across the field with the power of his thighs, his ass bouncing hard in the saddle, the way the muscles in his arms stretch and flex when he swings, looking the way he does and wearing the things he’s wearing—it’s a lot.
He’s sweating. It’s February in Connecticut, and Alex is sweating under his coat.
Worst of all, Henry isgood. Alex doesn’t pretend to care about the rules of the game, but his primary turn-on has always been competence. It’s too easy to look at Henry’s boots digging into the stirrups for leverage and conjure up a memory of bare calves underneath, bare feet planted just as firmly on the mattress. Henry’s thighs open the same way, but with Alex between them. Sweat dripping down Henry’s brow onto his throat. Just, uh… well, just like that.
He wants—God, after all this time ignoring it, he wants it again, now,right now.
The match ends after a circle-of-hell amount of time, and Alex feels like he’ll pass out or scream if he doesn’t get his hands on Henry soon, like the only thought possible in the universe is Henry’s body and Henry’s flushed face and every other molecule in existence is just an inconvenience.
“I don’t like that look,” Amy says when they reach the bottom of the stands, peering into his eyes. “You look… sweaty.”
“I’m gonna go, uh,” Alex says. “Say hi to Henry.”
