Page 98 of The Unlikely Heir
Along the hallway and up the stairs to the sanctuary of my room.
Once there, I try to run my hands through my hair and find myself clutching at the end of the strands like I’m trying to yank my hair from its roots. As if that will wrench these thoughts from my head.
Oh, holy fuck. Holy fuck. What the fuck am I going to do?
I can’t settle. I pace around. It feels like my skin is too tight. Or maybe it’s just that the feelings inside me are too big.
There’s a knock on the door.
My heart is in my throat.
Hope and panic wrestle for control of my body.
My legs tremble as I walk over and open the door.
I lean on the heavy oak door of Balmoral Castle for support as I drink in the sight of the Prince of Wales standing in the hallway.
I need…” His voice chokes off. His eyes are wide, pleading. “I need…this.” His voice is raw like his words are being ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
“I know.” My own voice is equally hoarse.
I open the door to let him in.
My knees buckle as an overwhelming sense of relief flows through me, and I shut the door behind him.
“Oliver,” he says.
And I kiss him.
Everything my mouth has done in life is irrelevant compared to this. All the words spoken, food eaten, lovers kissed.
None of it matters compared to this kiss.
This beautiful, soul-shattering kiss.
There is still no future for us. There can never be a future for us.
But there can be a now.
Callum kisses me desperately, hungrily, a continuation of the urgency from our kiss earlier.
Despite the need rising inside me, I force myself to slow down. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to make this unbelievable, epic mistake that could ruin us both, we will do it properly. I’m going to savor every sliver of each second, imprint it on my mind forever, memories to counter every moment of regret and recrimination to come.
But not doing it feels impossible. I can no sooner turn Callum away than I can summon the sun.
I push him back on my bed, and he goes willingly.
Then I touch him the way I’ve dreamed of touching him, trailing my fingers along his skin, eliciting gasps and shivers from him that rachet up my desire.
I kiss his collarbone, the indent at the base of his throat, and feel his pulse thrumming under my lips.
I press my nose into his neck, inhaling his scent, absorbing his warmth.
I slide my hands under his kilt, up his thighs, brushing my fingers across his hardening cock.
“Kilts are such amazing inventions,” he chokes out, and I pull back so I can laugh while looking at him.
The look in his eyes causes my breath to hitch.
