His Royal Secret (11 page)

“You make it sound like espionage.”

James smiled. “Only makes it more exciting.”

“It’s exciting enough. Or didn’t you like that, before?”

“I did,” James whispered as Ben stepped closer again. “I loved it.”

“Me too. You’re an amazing fuck.” Ben’s hand roughly palmed the side of James’s face before he smiled once more, fire in his dark eyes. “Your Royal Highness.”

They kissed, slowly. Then Ben stepped away, buttoning his jacket before he reached into one pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to James. Then he walked out without another word. Only after the door clicked shut, lock latching, did James allow himself to sink onto the floor, where he sat for a few long minutes.

Was this madness? Any indulgence brought the risk of exposure. His position might be more secure now that he was the regent—but the king improved steadily, if slowly, and could be expected to reclaim the crown at some point. If a sex scandal exploded when James’s position was more vulnerable . . .

It wouldn’t. They’d get this right. Nobody was going to go against their protocols. Nobody would get careless. Neither of them would get confused.

For a long time James sat in the hallway, breathing in the scent of sex, reading and rereading the card that bore the name
Benjamin Dahan
.

In the Dark

When the family met to discuss the institution itself, the business of it, they called it The Firm.

Meetings of The Firm occurred every few months or so. Richard often protested this—against any need to treat the monarchy as an entity that courted public opinion instead of steering it, against any admission that the royal family had to demonstrate its worth. But James’s father had successfully instituted these meetings fifteen years ago, and James himself saw the good of them. He intended to keep it up no matter what—even on days when he could hardly concentrate for anticipation. When eagerness thrummed inside him as constant as a heartbeat, and his every waking moment was spent counting down the hours until nightfall—

“The king’s comprehension is entirely recovered,” the queen reported from her place at the table, pulling James back into the here and now. They sat around a broad table in one of the vast staterooms, surrounded by thirty-foot-high columns of golden marble, broad panels of watered silk wallpaper, and a chandelier older than all the rest put together. “He understands everything said to him, I believe, as much as he did before the stroke.”

Richard smiled, triumphant, which left the difficult question unasked. James glanced sideways, exchanging a glance with Kimberley, before saying, “Forgive me for saying it, but was the king entirely lucid before the stroke?”

The queen’s glare would have frozen magma. “The king is eighty-three years of age. Some forgetfulness is only to be expected.”

“Grandfather has to do more than understand speech before he regains power,” James said. “He must be able to speak coherently. Believe me, I’ve no desire to prolong the regency beyond its natural course, but it is nonetheless my duty to make sure we don’t act prematurely.”

“He can’t—not as yet,” the queen said. She was back to being unruffled; the emotion was now all Richard’s. His face looked as though he’d bitten into a sour lemon. “The king attempts to speak, but the results are without meaning. The physician has been remarkably reluctant to hazard even a guess as to when we might expect further improvement.”

“You shouldn’t gloat, James,” Richard said. “This country wants its king back. They’ve had quite enough of ‘Lame James.’ Or are you sitting there hoping for your own grandfather’s death, like a ghoul? Pretending to be sorry all the while?”

“This from the man who rushed to Parliament with an Act of Regency before they’d even found my father’s body,” James shot back. “You hardly even mourned him, just knew you were one step closer to a throne you’re never going to have.”

Kimberley, who by now knew how this family worked, chose this moment to interject. “If I might—while polls indicate a great deal of affection for the king and hope for his recovery, His Royal Highness’s popularity has in fact risen sharply during the regency. The public seems to be responding to his higher profile, and to his attempts to further modernize the monarchy.”

“Modernization,” the queen sniffed. “Foolishness, if you ask me. Modernity would have done with us.”

“The monarchy survives because it adapts. If we don’t adapt, we become obsolete, and before you know it, we’re out of the government entirely.” James played his trump card. “Do you want us to wind up useless and vulgar like the royal family of
Monaco
?”

The queen actually shuddered. “There’s no need to be vile.”

His point made, James could continue more calmly. “Then we must learn from our predecessors and be a little more flexible. If you think about it, flexibility is as much a royal tradition as any other.”

From there they were able to segue into more or less useful conversation, ordinary stuff, until the queen once again brought up her matchmaking plans for Indigo. James felt sure his sister was in no shape to meet anyone new, and besides—“A Greek prince?”

“Prince of Greece and Denmark,” the queen corrected him. “Prince Zale is a descendant of Christian IX of Denmark as well.”

So distantly that his Danish title was dubious, but the point wasn’t worth making. James attempted to remain polite. “Forgive me, but isn’t the idea of royalty marrying royalty rather obsolete? Besides, the Greek monarchy was deposed four decades ago.”

The Queen shrugged. “Amelia might like Prince Zale as well as any other. He’s young, handsome, and eligible. And he comprehends something of the pressures of this life. Your sister will require a husband with considerable understanding.”

Which was her tacit way of saying Indigo was difficult. James controlled his temper as best he could. “I’ll mention the possibility to Indigo. But the decision whether or not to meet him is hers and hers alone.”

“You coddle the girl,” Richard said.

“I understand that she doesn’t do well when social obligations are forced on her.”

“It’s obvious you feel no rush to marry, but given the woman you’ve been seeing, who could blame you?” But then Richard went silent, no doubt wishing he’d never spoken. Obviously he dreaded the idea of James becoming more popular with the public; nothing earned more goodwill than a royal wedding, even to a “consort” as controversial as poor Cassandra had been.

Unfortunately the queen took up the idea. “If you’re determined to marry that awful Scotswoman, as it appears you are, you might as well set a date. Better if you were married as Prince of Wales than as king; then your queen can be crowned alongside you. The people always respond to that.”

Kimberley glanced sidelong at James. Although she didn’t know the truth, James could tell that she’d realized his relationship with Cassandra could not be precisely as it appeared. She made it a little joke: “No royal wedding is on today’s agenda.” James smiled at Kimberley in gratitude.

They went through the various upcoming charity events, parceling them out to the royal family members most interested or suited. This was utterly routine, so James’s mind was free to wander to his hopes for the night.

He hadn’t seen Ben since the Crimson Night nearly a week ago, and yet it seemed to him that he had spent every moment surrounded by Ben, consumed by him. Since Kenya, James had imagined a thousand conversations with Ben, from arguments to apologies; in the past week, all those imagined words had fallen silent. Instead he felt the curve of Ben’s ass firm against his pelvis, or tasted Ben’s skin between his teeth. Ben seemed to walk beside him in hallways, to wait behind every closed door. James couldn’t concentrate. He found it hard to fall asleep.

But yesterday he’d called Ben, and tonight—

“James?” Richard arched an eyebrow. “Am I boring you?”

As though he ever didn’t. “Not at all. But we’re ready to wrap up, aren’t we?”

“I should hope.” The queen swept out, leaving her silent, cowed secretaries to gather together the materials from the meeting. She insisted that they do all their work on paper, which they must have found maddening, though their faces remained as impassive as ivory cameos.

Meanwhile, Kimberley was already synching her online calendar with James’s. “If that’s all, sir, you have a meeting with the archeological society about the excavations at Whitehall in an hour. We should leave shortly.”

“One moment,” Richard said. He always tried to get in the last word. “Does your sister still insist on that ridiculous nickname? Or do you keep using it as a way of infantilizing her? So she’ll never stand on her own two feet?”

James wondered how his father had made it through a lifetime without ever punching Richard in the face. “Indigo has the right to be called whatever she wants to be called, just like anyone else.”

“It doesn’t suit her position.”

“This from the son of a man named Edward who chose to be crowned as King George IX.” The point was made, but James couldn’t resist one last dig. He looked at his watch and said, deliberately, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment in . . . forty-five minutes.”

Richard scowled and stalked off. Kimberley, who had been standing discreetly to one side, frowned. “I missed something there.”

“An old joke. A cheap joke, but sometimes he provokes me to it. You probably remember that my father and Prince Richard were fraternal twins. As fate would have it, Richard was born second, forty-five minutes after my father. Those forty-five minutes are what came between him and the throne, and trust me, he’ll never forget it.” It was cruel to needle Richard, really, but the man made it too easy. “Come on, then. Let’s go. I’m ready to get this over with.”

“But, sir, I thought you were looking forward to talking with the archaeologists,” Kimberley said, falling into step beside him as they went down the hall.

“I am,” he said, “Don’t mind me.”

It’s only that I’m looking forward to tonight so much more.

•   •   •

James hadn’t completely lost his mind, of course. He’d already decided to get Ben more or less naked before they ever reached the bedroom, just in case Ben had any idea of hiding a device and recording them. Not that James thought this was likely—but he had to be careful, so careful. He’d learnt that from Niall, and lust would never lead him to such depths of recklessness again. Unless Ben insisted, James wasn’t even going to turn on the lights.

He’d never fully realized how tantalizing darkness could be.

For many minutes before he could expect Ben to arrive, James waited in the darkened hallway of the private suite of Clarence House. He’d stripped down to T-shirt and boxers. Was that too presumptuous? No, of course it wasn’t; this was only about sex and they both knew it. Maybe he should be waiting in the nude.

As the seconds ticked by, James envisioned what must be happening: Ben using the security code to enter the administrative offices at St. James. Glover typing in entirely different codes on the series of doors that led from the inner sanctum of Clarence House into the enclosure connecting the palaces in the complex, into St. James, where he could retrieve “the prince’s guest.” Then they would go, together, to the servants’ stairwell, the only one that led directly into James’s private suite. Was Ben walking through the hallways behind Glover? Was he almost here? Glover would leave him just shy of James’s private suite—James knew that much—but still he kept questioning every second, wondering whether this could work. It should, but would it?

A knock on the door made him go tense. Blood flushed his cheeks, stiffened his cock.
He’s here.

James hesitated one instant before opening the door to reveal Ben. Despite the darkness he could make out Ben’s form outlined by the white cotton shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up, collar already open. Their eyes met, and the intensity of Ben’s expression stole James’s breath from him. Stole everything but the need to touch and be touched.

Ben seized him, backed him against the wall. The door swung shut as they kissed each other in the dark. As James opened his mouth beneath Ben’s, strong hands found James’s ass, cupped him and tugged him closer, James pawed at Ben’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons, impatient with everything in their way.

Neither of them said a word.

James gasped as Ben licked his throat, then roughly tugged up James’s T-shirt and tossed it aside. When he pulled open Ben’s shirt in return, and they were at last skin to skin, Ben groaned. His hand pressed against James’s cock, warm even through the cotton boxers, and just that almost got him off.

Bedroom, we’ve got to get to the bedroom
—James managed to pull away enough to take Ben’s hand. With a tug he guided Ben through his personal sitting room into the hall. Still, halfway there they began kissing again, and almost before James knew it he had sunk down onto the Persian rug, Ben sprawled around him, their tongues entwined as they thrust blindly against each other.

Thank God this is one of the thicker carpets
, James thought as he grappled with Ben’s belt. That was the last time that night he had a thought that could even be put into words. The rest was all sensations, desires, wanting.

After a few minutes they were able to pull apart long enough for James to lead Ben through darkened hallways to his bedroom. Here the velvet curtains were drawn and almost no light could enter.

It didn’t matter. Already they knew each other by scent, feel, and taste, and they only wanted to learn more. Together they got Ben out of his underwear; Ben’s broad hands slid James’s boxers down his hips and thighs. At last they were naked together atop James’s bed, communicating only by touch.

James rolled Ben onto his back, licked his way down Ben’s belly, dipped into his navel, felt a thin line of hair against his tongue as he kept going. He teased Ben for a while—lapping at the head of his cock, then sucking at his balls, nuzzling him, breathing heat against his skin—until Ben made a sound that was almost a whine. Triumphant, James finally took Ben in his mouth and started to suck.

Even the taste of him was perfect.

As he sucked, slow but hard, James used one hand to slide a finger into his own ass. The stimulation felt good, but what he really wanted was to get ready for Ben even faster. He knew this time Ben would want to top him—exactly what James had been dreaming of.

Ben’s hips rocked back and forth, working with the motion of James’s mouth. It was exhilarating to have someone so powerful splayed beneath him, reacting to every move he made. And when he tasted pre-come thick on his tongue, James wanted to speed up, get Ben to the very brink.

Yet he pulled back. Ben swore beneath his breath. James grinned, took Ben’s hand in his own and guided it to his ass. Instantly Ben took the hint, and a thick finger pushed inside James.

It felt so good—so fucking good. At this angle James could just reach the bedside table, where he’d stashed the condoms and lubricant Ben had so thoughtfully brought last time. He squirted some lube onto Ben’s other hand, which instantly replaced the first. Two fingers now, or three, it felt like so much, and yet he didn’t care if it hurt. Didn’t care if it burned. It had been three years since he’d had another man inside him, and there had never been another man he’d wanted as much as Ben, so James could take it.

Ben flipped James onto his back, pushed his knees up to his chest. Christ, the man could get a condom on faster than James had even thought possible. James felt the thick head of Ben’s cock bump against his ass, then push more insistently, then thrust—