Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Callum
This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.
It’s up there with the time in second grade when I fed my half-completed homework to our dog, Anchor, so I could blame him for not handing it in, and he threw it up on our new couch.
When Raymond told me he’d found me a date, I couldn’t get the truth, “but I’m secretly in love with the prime minister” past my lips.
So now I’m sitting across the table from Rose, who, from our conversation so far, appears to be a lovely person.
She’s beautiful, funny, and works for a charity providing mental health services to young people.
But then, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s absolutely perfect.
She’s been through Raymond’s vetting process, after all.
This is not fair to her. It’s not fair that she got all dressed up in anticipation of our date, that she’s looking at me like I’m someone she’s interested in getting to know.
As I make small talk with Rose, I can’t help remembering the last date I went on. The aborted date with Emily, right before my life changed.
This is going much more smoothly than that date because Rose is laughing at everything I’m saying. The cynical part of me wonders if Emily would have found me more amusing if I’d been heir to the throne.
But I’m also better at small talk and keeping my hand expressions under control now, so perhaps it’s unfair to compare.
I keep the conversation focused on Rose, learning new things about mental health and her hobby of running half-marathons.
It’s not until dessert—lemon pie for her, Eton Mess for me because I’m still trying to enhance my Britishness, and a mixture of strawberries, meringue, and whipped cream is a delicious way to do it—that Rose turns the conversation around to me.
“I read today in the papers that your investiture as the Prince of Wales is coming up.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I can almost guarantee the article she read was the one complaining about how much money it will cost the British taxpayers, which seems to be the main focus of the media coverage at the moment.
“Are you excited about it?”
I fiddle with my wine glass. “Yeah, I guess. It’s an ancient ceremony where I pledge my allegiance to serve the people of Wales. But I’ve been reading more about it, and I can see why it’s controversial to some Welsh people.”
“How is it controversial?”
“Well, since 1301, the Prince of Wales has been the heir to the English throne. The title itself has a complicated history. The original native Princes of Wales were rulers of independent Welsh kingdoms. But then the title was usurped by the English monarchy after Edward I conquered Wales and named his son the Prince of Wales as a symbol of English dominance over the region. So I can totally understand why there is still resentment among the Welsh that the Prince of Wales title is held by the heir to the English throne.”
“Oh, right,” Rose says.
“The term for the Prince of Wales in Welsh is Tywysog Cymru. The last Welsh Prince of Wales, Llywelyn the Last, died in 1282. Although Owain Glynd?r did hold the title during the Welsh revolt in the 1400s.”
As I talk, I can see her eyes glaze over, and it causes me to have a sharp pang in my chest for Oliver. Oliver, who listens to this kind of trivia and asks me follow-up questions. Oliver, who never seems to tire of the random things I want to talk about.
This is why going on a date is so wrong.
I’m not looking for my other half, the person meant for me.
I’ve already found him.
I’ve bid Rose a polite farewell and barely made it into the waiting car before I’m on my phone, sending Oliver a message.
Can you come see me tonight?
We haven’t spent a night together for two weeks, although I saw him a week ago at the comedy charity night.
Out of necessity, I’ve had to overcome my cringe factor of messing around with him over video. It turns out Oliver does actually find my ramblings sexy, which is a very good thing in the context of our sex life.
But tonight, I need to see Oliver. To touch him. To remind myself of why we’re putting ourselves through so much agony.
He must sense my desperation, or perhaps he knows I wouldn’t ask unless I needed it because his message comes back almost instantly.
Of course.
I reply to his message.
I’ll arrange it with my security team.
It’s so sexy when you talk logistics to me, baby.
I huff a laugh and scrape my hand over my face. Because, yes, it is slightly ridiculous that something as basic as spending time with the person you love requires the logistic planning of D-day.
I ignore the pit in my stomach when I think about how many people already know about Oliver and me.
Herbert, both our security teams, and Oliver’s ex-husband.
Oliver assured me Garett won’t tell anyone, and I’ve got to trust him.
Oliver, that is. Every time my mind slides to Garett, I find myself fantasizing about medieval torture methods.
The rack would be a good one, or maybe that breaking wheel.
Although none of them feel quite painful enough for someone who hurt Oliver as much as Garett did.
I pull Oliver’s dog tags out of my shirt, the metal warm in my hand. Can I vow not to hurt Oliver like Garett hurt him? I wouldn’t ever do it deliberately, but there are so many other factors conspiring against us.
When Oliver arrives in my apartment, looking every inch as sexy and handsome as normal, instead of releasing any of the pent-up sexual need between us, I decide to open with historical trivia.
“Did you know that the last Welsh Prince of Wales, Llywelyn the Last, died in 1282? He had a really interesting history, having fought an alliance of both his older and younger brother to get the title.”
“I’m assuming they didn’t title him Llywelyn the Last while he was still alive,” Oliver says.
I chortle. “No. I’m fairly sure that was awarded posthumously.”
“It’s probably better than Llywelyn the Cabbage,” Oliver says.
Happiness sparkles inside me. “You remember that random conversation we had?”
“I remember every one of our conversations, Callum,” he says as he pulls me into his arms and kisses me.
It’s a gentle, slow kiss. Not an “I want to rip your clothes off you right now” kiss, but a “Oh hey, I’m so happy you’re here, I’m here, and we’re together” kiss. We linger, lips moving gently against each other, before Oliver pulls back, touching his forehead to mine.
“I missed this,” he says.
“Me too.”
“The universe never quite made sense to me until I got to touch you,” he whispers.
Oh my god. I can’t help kissing him again. These stolen moments with Oliver are what I live for.
Just the two of us. When we go to bed together, it’s like we strip all our titles and positions, and we’re just Callum and Oliver. Two men who love each other.
He runs his hands over my skin, sending shivers everywhere.
I do the same, stroking every part of him I can reach as we kiss, our bodies pressed against each other.
Unlike me, Oliver can actually grow body hair, and I love the rasp of his chest hair against my skin.
I pull away so I can run my hands through it, and Oliver has a rueful expression.
“Sorry, I haven’t got back to my usual grooming standards since Garett and I broke up.”
“Are you kidding me? I love your body.” I tangle my fingers in his chest hair to make my point, then deliberately trail my hand south, stopping right before the fun zone because, yep, being accused of being a cock tease is exactly what I’m going for right now.
Oliver gives me that lopsided smile of his. “That’s all you love, huh?”
It’s now another standing joke between us, how I never say the actual words to him. I say everything but because it’s a fun challenge to think up ways I can tell him I love him without actually using the words.
I love all our in-jokes, which would be incomprehensible to anyone else.
It’s like we’re weaving our own private little world where only Oliver and I exist.
Sometimes I wish I could live permanently in that world.
“There are a few other things I love too,” I say.
“Such as?”
“I love…chocolate.”
He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “I love chocolate too,” he says.
I stretch up to kiss him properly, and we make out lazily, our tongues caressing each other gently, slowly exploring each other’s mouths.
My hands roam over his body, feeling his muscles tense under my touch.
I can feel his arousal growing, his hardening cock pressing against my thigh, and I can’t help but smile against his lips.
I love that I’m the only one who gets to see Oliver like this.
I get to see him when he gives up control.
This is making love like we have all the time in the world, like every second we spend together isn’t risking discovery, like we don’t have massive odds stacked against us.
It’s warm skin against warm skin and gentle touches.
It’s our breaths turning ragged and uneven as touches grow firmer.
It’s the incredible, indescribable sensation of his hot mouth on my neck, pressing kisses down my throat, his teeth grazing my collarbone, his tongue flickering over the skin he just kissed.
It’s his fingers pressing inside me, lighting me up from the inside.
It’s me straddling him, watching his face as I slide down on him, inch by inch. He moves in me in a slow rhythm, pumping my cock at the same speed, causing mindless moans to fall from my lips.
Oliver’s face is flushed, staring at me with those intense dark eyes, and I can see from the way he looks at me that he feels the same way I do.
This is so much more than just two guys hooking up.
Hell, this is more than just a standard relationship.
We’re in soulmate territory right now. When it feels like every beat of my heart is for him.
I never knew it was possible to feel this way about someone.
I can’t imagine my future without Oliver.
But equally, I can’t work out how Oliver and I will ever be able to fit our lives together in a way that makes sense.