Page 121 of The Unlikely Heir
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.
