Page 32 of Royal Crush

There was no reply.

Nine

CAMILLO

“Oh fuck.Fuck yeah. Camillo. Yeah, fuck me in half! Please, baby. Wreck me. Make me forget my name.”

It wasn’t that Roget was bad in bed, because he wasn’t. He was the person who taught me how to orgasm after my accident. I was a slightly gangly, slightly swollen, barely legal teenager when I set eyes on him for the first time.

He’d been this tall, imposing figure with two bulky leg braces, forearm crutches, and a cerebral palsy speech impediment, which most able-bodied people found off-putting. He was incredibly good-looking, with hair that had that naturally windswept look and not a single pimple on his face back then, even though he was only two months older than me.

He’d swaggered up to my chair, plopped his ass down on my lap, and kissed me at a party after a basketball game.

I didn’t see him again for years. At least, not long enough to speak to him. But after the incident—the one I refused to talk about. The one that threatened to define me and any relationship I could have after my accident—he was there. I’d been out for drinks with Erik, and Roget appeared like some kind of avenging sex angel.

He took one look at me, leaned in, and said, “You need a good orgasm.”

I would have been terrified if it wasn’t for the fact that he was both disabled and casually fucking half the basketball team. I wasn’t sure about my body. There had been a man who had gotten me to trust him. Who had convinced me to open up before systematically destroying my faith in humanity.

But Roget offered me the chance no one else had: the ability to reclaim something that asshole had no right to take from me. I was terrified at first, but Roget was patient, kind, and needy—just the way I’d always wanted a partner.

It had been a goddamned religious experience, and I understood for the first time what it meant to see God.

For a little while, I thought I was in love with him until I realized he would be the world’s shittiest boyfriend. But he genuinely loved his friends, and he was very charming and amazing in bed. My crush faded, but he was a great booty call whenever I was worked up.

He always knew how to take the edge off, even if his performance in the sack could get a little…over-the-top.

Normally, the dirty talk worked for me. I needed more than physical touch, and he was good at understanding that. But it all felt like a damn clown show now that I’d touched Aleric. Now that I’d tasted him. Now that his hands had rubbed against my most sensitive erogenous zone and almost had me coming right there on his sofa.

The moment had been shattered, almost like the hand of God coming down to metaphorically spank my ass for shitting where I ate. I took it as a sign, and I told myself to be grateful that Aleric was going to pretend like it never happened.

That’s what I needed.

What I wanted.

Wasn’t it?

Never mind that his words felt like an ice pick straight into my heart. I called Roget to come take the edge off, but right now, it just felt like he was wriggling all over my body. It wasn’t sexy. It was annoying.

“Cheri, what’s the matter?” He turned on his side and started to stroke my ribs, but I didn’t want his hands where Aleric’s had been.

Fuck, what was wrong with me?

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re worked up. An orgasm always calms you down.”

I shoved him off my lap and used my hands to pull my ass toward the headboard so I could rest my back against it. “Not tonight, apparently.”

Roget rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin up on his fists. “Talk to me.”

“No. That’s not a thing we do.”

He looked hurt. “I thought we were friends.”

“Friends do more than give each other orgasms, Roget.”

He snorted. “Special friends, then. But I can be the different sort if you need me to be.” His legs went through a series of spasms, which he promptly ignored, and normally, I did too.

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