Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Callum
“You’re not the real prince! You’re a pretender. A fraud. I should be the real prince,” Nicholas is saying.
My grandmother’s face is full of disappointment. “You’ve betrayed me. You promised you’d help save the monarchy, and instead you’re sleeping with the prime minister.”
“You just generally suck,” Cliff sneers.
I lurch up in bed, my heart racing.
Something flutters against my chest, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Oliver’s dog tags. The ones he gave me last night. The metal is warm from my skin, and I grab them, using the feel of them, the rounded edges, to anchor me in the present.
But my stomach continues to swirl.
I’m falling more and more in love with Oliver.
I’m trying not to think about what it means for the vow I gave my grandmother to help her save the monarchy.
But it appears my subconscious is not as forgiving in letting me forget the contradiction.
“You okay?” Oliver’s voice is scratchy.
“Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” I settle back into bed.
“Bad dream?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Definitely not a nice one.”
His arm reaches out to pull me to him. He strokes my arms, and I close my eyes.
I have never felt as treasured as Oliver makes me feel.
I lie there, just feeling Oliver’s smooth palms rubbing up and down my arms. He moves forward and his breath raises the hairs on the back of my neck before he deposits a soft, feather-like kiss to the back of my neck.
The gentleness of his touch makes me blurt out something I’ve been mulling over.
“Do you feel differently about royalty now that you know me?” I ask.
Oliver stills. “What do you mean?”
“Walter Bagehot, an English essayist, wrote: Above all things, our royalty is to be reverenced, and if you begin to poke about it, you cannot reverence it…its mystery is its life. We must not let in daylight upon magic.”
“Your magic thrives in the daylight, Callum.” He places a gentle kiss on my shoulder. “The more I know of you, the more I revere you.”
“I guess the British public will never get to know me in quite the same way as you do,” I say.
He laughs softly against my skin. “I should hope not. Besides, your mind still remains a mystery to me sometimes.”
“It’s sometimes a mystery to me too,” I say.
He laughs again, and I turn over to face him so I can kiss him properly.
Why does it feel like Oliver’s tongue belongs in my mouth? That this sleepy kiss is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing right now?
Sleepy kisses lead to hands wandering, lazy stroking to fit our slow kisses that eventually ramp up as Oliver works me over the edge.
I shimmy down his body and take him into my mouth.
I don’t have as much finesse as Oliver at oral activities, but I’m all about the whole “practice makes perfect” mantra. And Oliver doesn’t seem to mind my efforts to improve myself.
“Callum.” His body arches back, and I can’t help my smile. I love seeing Oliver come undone. Seeing my usually buttoned-up man lose control.
I can’t get enough of touching Oliver, of having him touch me. I’m addicted to all things Oliver.
And I’m back to kissing him, and we kiss and kiss until our kisses turn languid and dreamy, until I drift my lips down his jawline and neck, tucking myself into the space between his neck and shoulder.
“I love sleepovers,” I murmur against his skin, and Oliver laughs his deep chuckle.
And I drift back to sleep with Oliver’s arms around me.
I’m woken the next morning by Herbert’s discreet knock on my door.
“Your Royal Highness?”
“Mmph,” I mutter, keeping my eyes scrunched.
There’s the noise of the door opening, as apparently Herbert has taken my mumbling as permission to enter.
It’s only when I hear the sheets crinkle next to me that I realize it’s not quite business as usual this morning.
“Oh shit…hold up…give me a second…”
But it’s too late.
Herbert has eased his way into my room.
He stops still, holding my breakfast tray, his gaze drifting to where Oliver lies beside me, facedown on the pillow. A very male torso in bed with the future king.
Herbert’s unflappable mask stays firmly in place. “I’ll just leave your breakfast by the side of the bed, Your Royal Highness. Would you like some breakfast brought up for your visitor?”
Oliver rolls over, squinting his eyes in confusion at Herbert.
And I see the exact moment when Herbert realizes the identity of my overnight guest.
He drops the tray. Its contents shatter all over the floor in a cacophony of clanging.
“I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness. Uh…Prime Minister,” he stammers, scrambling around to clean up the mess.
“It’s okay, Herbert,” I say, sitting up abruptly. Watching Herbert scramble to clean up the mess, I can’t help but feel it’s a premonition.
Oliver and I are creating a mess that will leave a lot of people scrambling.