Chapter 14 #2
He doesn’t answer.
Shit. My chest feels tight.
I’m just starting to beat myself up when my phone flashes with a message.
I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.
The pressure in my chest eases slightly.
I don’t think clocks have ever been scrutinized as closely as my watch in the next five minutes. And twenty seconds over the five-minute mark, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
My fingers fumble as I press Accept. Oliver’s handsome face fills my screen.
“Please tell me you weren’t discussing important issues with the Chinese president, and I’ve just derailed world peace,” I say.
He smiles. “No. I’d actually just got out of the shower. I thought I should throw some clothes on before I accepted a video call.”
For some reason, my pulse hammers at the idea of a naked Oliver.
This is Oliver as I’ve never seen him. Hair damp and messy, wearing a light-gray T-shirt. I glimpse a neatly made bed behind him, and the idea that I’m seeing Oliver’s bedroom means my pulse refuses to settle.
“Bear with me. I’ll just head down to the living room,” he says.
There’s a tilt of his phone, and I get a view of his feet. Oliver’s feet are long and thin, and seeing them makes my mouth go dry.
“You need to cut your toenails,” I say because, you know, that’s an appropriate thing to say to the prime minister.
“I’ve been wondering why my socks are suddenly getting holes in them,” he says.
“I’m glad to help you solve that mystery.”
The phone tilts up, and I can see Oliver’s smile. It lights up something inside me. Like I’ve got a stack of kindling there, just waiting to be set on fire by the curve of Oliver’s lips.
He pads down the hall, and I get a glimpse through an open door into a fancy dining room before he comes to the living room and settles on a leather couch.
“So, this is Downing Street, is it?” I say. “Very nice.”
“I think if we’re having a contest on the grandest residence, I’m going to lose,” Oliver comments.
“I think we’re both living in quite different houses to the ones we grew up in,” I say.
He gives a half-chuckle. “Very true.”
For a moment, I’m caught up again in the magic of Oliver’s smile.
I clear my throat, making myself focus. “So, anyway, I had this amazing revelation today, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“That sounds slightly ominous,” he says.
“No, I mean it in a good way. The best way, actually. I decided to take your advice and just be myself. And instead of worrying about how the press or people will interpret things, I decided to just concentrate on other people and what I can do to help them.”
Oliver’s dark eyes study me through the screen. “What do you mean, help them?”
“I mean, whatever I can do to lift their spirits. To leave them feeling happier after seeing me than they were before.”
I explain about Amara and Ernest and all the other patients at the hospital while he listens carefully, asking insightful questions. It’s one of the things I like best about Oliver. And this is so much better than messaging because now I get to see his facial expressions.
We move on to talking about his day, but I’m not as conscientious as him because as we talk, my attention keeps drifting to his mouth. And it’s not just because I’m trying to classify his smiles.
His lower lip is fuller than his upper, giving his mouth a slightly pouty look even in neutral mode.
I try to get my attention back to what Oliver is saying, but instead, I move on from his lips to cataloging the rest of his face: strong brows, straight nose, chiseled cheekbones, and firm jaw that always has a dusting of stubble.
I realize suddenly that his handsome face has stopped talking, and he has two quizzical lines between his eyebrows.
Oops. It must be my turn to talk. It appears I’ve forgotten that replying is a fundamental part of being an active participant in a conversation.
“Sorry,” I say. “I zoned out there for a moment.”
“Nice to know I’m so riveting. Although, to be fair, I’d zone out of tax reform conversations if I had the chance.”
“Ha, you’re only saying that. I know you love it,” I say.
“Like I love root canals,” he retorts.
I smile at that, although it morphs into a yawn.
“You look knackered,” he says. “Go to sleep.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this you telling me what to do?”
“Let’s not try to unravel the complexities about which of us has authority over whom,” Oliver says, and I can’t help a soft laugh.
My laugh makes him smile. Then his smile fades as he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up.
“Goodnight, Callum,” he says.
I don’t want to end this conversation with Oliver, even though he’s right that I’m tired.
“Talk to you tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes. Definitely. Tomorrow,” he says.
Despite my epic level of tiredness, I don’t fall asleep easily. My brain is whirring with so many things—memories of the people I met today, my conversation with Oliver.
When I finally do go to sleep, my brain doesn’t give me any peace.
Instead, I’m thrown into a vivid dream.
I’m at a club in California, standing by myself on the dancefloor when, suddenly, someone taps me on the shoulder.
I turn around, and it’s Cliff.
Cliff, with his perfect hair, his handsome face contorted into his normal sardonic smirk he reserves for me, the smirk that I now know masks the disdain he feels.
And despite that smirk, despite his betrayal, I find myself stepping forward.
And I kiss him.
I’m screeching inside because I know I shouldn’t be kissing him. He betrayed me. He doesn’t even like me.
But I really, really want to kiss him.
The knowledge hits me like a hammer, and it pounds through my veins like some kind of truth elixir with every beat of my heart.
But suddenly, I realize it’s not Cliff under my lips but Oliver Hartwell.
Discovering this makes me relax. I can trust Oliver. Oliver would never do anything to hurt me.
It turns out I want to kiss Oliver more than I ever wanted to kiss Cliff because my kiss with him turns wild and frantic, a mess of teeth and tongues.
I wrap my arms around his waist to pull him closer, pressing my body against his.
The lower half of our bodies lock together, and suddenly I feel a firming in my groin…
Holy shit.
My eyes fly open.
I lurch up in bed, my chest heaving with my breaths, my heart thumping.
It takes me a minute to orient myself.
I’m the Prince of Wales. I’m in Buckingham Palace. I’ve just been dreaming about kissing Oliver Hartwell, the British prime minister.
And I have a raging hard-on.
Holy, holy shit.
I lean over to switch on the light, and the room is flooded with brightness, making me blink.
I pull back the covers because my brain needs to see the evidence that one part of my body is extremely happy about what happened in my dream.
Yep, my erection straining against my pajama pants is not a figment of my imagination.
I flop back on my pillow.
My hand drifts down almost against my will, and suddenly, I’m stroking myself.
My mind drifts back to what it was like to kiss Dream-Oliver, how our bodies had pressed together, and my imagination takes over, and I’m kissing him again.
He’s pressing me up against a wall, his body firm and unyielding against mine, and my cock is hard against him, and I can feel him firming up against me, and we’re grinding against each other…
And I’m suddenly coming harder than ever, with Oliver’s name on my lips.
Holy shit.
Oliver.
Holy, holy shit.
My breath comes in frantic gasps as I clean myself up, my mind racing back over my dream.
Cliff. Kissing Cliff. How much I wanted to kiss him, despite what he did to me, spilling my secrets to the whole world.
Oh my god.