His Royal Secret by Lilah Pace
Ben turned him around then so they were dancing face-to-face. James tried to imagine him a stranger, sexy and exotic, those kohl-rimmed eyes a mystery.
They moved closer, Ben straddling one of James's thighs until they were grinding against each other. Ben's hands gripped his ass, and he whispered, "Every guy on the dance floor would want you."
"Not if they could see you."
"No. You'd be the one. Yeah, you've got the body--and you're showing it off for everyone to see"--Ben slid one hand between them, gripping the swelling of James's cock through the jeans--"but it's the eyes. No matter how fuckable you look, no matter how much you're clearly begging for it, there's something innocent about you. They'd know you hadn't been here before. Every single guy would want to be the one to show you how it's done."
"If they think I'm a virgin, they're in for a surprise."
"Trust me, nobody thinks you're a virgin. But you haven't been taken up against the wall in a club, have you?"
Ben ground against him harder, so James could only gasp, "No."
"I'm going to dance you into one of the back rooms. Into a quiet corner." Ben's tongue traced the outline of James's ear. "Nobody's in there with us. But there's no door. People can watch if they want to. And they want to watch me have you."
James kissed Ben, hard and wet. By now he was almost as immersed in the fantasy as Ben. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
"You've never been watched before, have you?"
"No."
Ben began pushing James backward, until his shoulders collided with the wall. When Ben placed his hands on either side of James's waist, staring at him with an arrogant smile, James knew if this were real--if he were just any other guy, if this were a nightclub--he'd let Ben take him in front of the world.
And he knew Ben would want to. Ben didn't give a damn that he was a prince; he just wanted James's body. What a revelation, what a joy, what a complete fucking turn-on to be wanted for only himself.
"What do you want me to do?" James said. "Anything."
The reply was a soft laugh. "You don't understand how things work in the clubs, James. You're younger than me. You're prettier than me."
Hardly, James thought, but he knew better than to interrupt.
"In the clubs, that means you're the prize. You're the one who gets sucked. And you're the one who gets fucked. Lucky boy."
With that Ben unzipped James's jeans, slowly, tooth by tooth. By the time Ben took hold of his cock, James was already close. "Wait," he said desperately. "Wait--"
But Ben took him in his hot, wet mouth, sucked hard, and within mere seconds James came. He sobbed out a breath as he clutched Ben's hair, and he would have slumped down to the floor, had Ben not risen to kiss him.
"That was fast," Ben whispered against his lips between kisses. "I think you like this."
"God, yes."
"Hope you're ready. Because I'm not going to finish with you that quickly."
Ben tugged his jeans down. Was this how it would go in the club? When Ben spun him around, face against the wall, James tried to imagine faces watching as Ben rimmed him, as he started working James with his hand, as James began to groan.
When Ben rose to his feet, the sound of his zipper made James quake. He couldn't get hard again so soon, not even for this, but arousal still dizzied him.
He'd daydream about this every time he needed to get himself off, from now until--
"Fuck," he breathed as Ben shoved inside. It was like the rest of the world fell away and he was nothing but pleasure, nothing but the ecstatic sensation rippling out from Ben's cock. Ben grunted in satisfaction as he took James, moving fast, pressing James against the wall with his own body so they were both splayed there together.
"Everyone would be watching," Ben whispered, breathless. "Every man in the place would have his fly open so he could jerk off while I fucked you. They'd all be pretending they could have you next, but they can't. Nobody else gets to touch you. Only me. Only--"
Then Ben's words vanished in the low groan of his orgasm. James reached behind him, capturing Ben's head between his two hands, as he slumped back against him.
Once they'd managed to stumble to the bed and collapse there, they lay side by side for a long time. James noticed that Ben's eyeliner was smeared, that he'd already rubbed glitter onto the sheets. God only knew what the cleaning staff would think. He'd have to move the glitter into Cassandra's suite tomorrow morning. (As he had for years, he would put some of the used condoms into that loo's bin.) But such subterfuge was a minor inconvenience.
"I enjoyed that," James said. "Maybe we could play other games sometime."
"Mmmm. Definitely." Ben kissed his shoulder; already his eyes were closed, and sleep was only a few moments away.
James wondered if Ben knew that he'd acted out this fantasy precisely because he hadn't slept with other men in the club casting James in the role let him live out that desire without actually straying. James would have been happier if he'd known it was a conscious choice on Ben's part, but either way, if this was the result, James didn't intend to argue. Not now that he finally had the perfect arrangement.
*
"Perfect? James, are you listening to yourself?" Cass tossed her napkin upon the table the way duelers must have thrown down gauntlets. Her bright eyes were ablaze. "Only a fool would believe that, and you're not a fool."
James sighed and leaned back in his chair. He and Cassandra were having tea in her suite, three days after his role-playing adventure with Ben. Within a couple of hours they'd fly north to Scotland. Six weeks earlier, they'd gone together to the Braemar Gathering, which was always one of his favorite days of the year: good beer, thunderous bagpiping, and hardy Scotsmen tossing around hammers and logs. It gave him another excuse to wear his kilt, which he always liked, and this year he'd been hailed as chieftain for the first time. But he and Cass usually went north again later in the fall for a quieter week at her ancestral home on the craggy, remote island of Gurness Holm. They'd shut out the world, go riding, or head out for some yomping in the moors so he could enjoy the scenery, the heather, fresh air, and some peace and quiet. (Security followed, of course, but at a discreet distance.) Already they wore thick jumpers and wellies, both of them eager to return to the Highlands.
This year, though, James would have to get through an interrogation first.
"Cass, he's not going to tell anyone. He's smart, he follows protocols, and he knows the media inside out, so I don't think he's likely to make any foolish mistakes. Ben can be trusted."
"Ben's not the one I'm worried about. Don't get me wrong--if you've forgotten he lied to you, I haven't, and I wouldn't trust him as far as I could toss him." Her frown softened slightly. "Though now that I've seen him, I understand why you've chosen amnesia."
"I told you."
"All right, all right, Ben's a stunner. But that's beside the point. I'm not afraid of what he'll do. I'm afraid of what you'll do."
James had to take a sip of tea before he trusted himself to answer her. "What was it you called me? 'Vulnerable to manipulation'?"
"You have it verbatim," she replied without hesitation. "Your parents raised you to think of duty first, which means you almost never prioritize your personal feelings. When you finally do, you haven't any sense of balance."
"Am I neglecting my responsibilities? Behaving carelessly?"
"No. You'd die before you'd put a foot out of line, James. I'm not worried about your bloody 'responsibilities.' I'm worried about you winding up with a broken heart all over again."
She could trigger his temper faster than anyone, which was why he sometimes forgot how sincerely she loved him. James covered one of her hands with his. "Afraid you'll have to put the pieces back together one more time?"
"I'd do it a hundred times over if I had to, and you know it. But I hate to see you get hurt."
"Ben and I have an arrangement. We have boundaries."
Cassandra's smile was almost sad. "Maybe Ben's the s
James gripped her fingers as he searched for the right words. "We do care for each other." Friends with benefits, Ben had called it once, and surely one could care deeply for a friend. "But I know what's realistic for us, and what isn't. I could scarcely forget it."
She sat still for a few moments, chewing her full bottom lip, obviously weighing her next words carefully. "You always speak as though coming out would be impossible. I simply don't know that this is true any longer."
"Things have changed a great deal. But I wonder whether they've changed enough." James poured them both more tea, buying himself a second, before he said, "Once I'm crowned, I might . . . reconsider the situation."
"Would you? Really?" A smile lit up Cass's face.
"If I could be absolutely sure the burden wouldn't fall on Indigo, that would change a lot. I worry about the Commonwealth--"
"Yes, I know, blah blah blah Uganda. Well, sod Uganda! They couldn't keep calling for the death penalty for gays if the head of the Commonwealth was gay, could they?"
"They could just leave the Commonwealth, if they decided not to accept that."
She gave him a look. "If you never come out, you're making that decision for them, aren't you?"
This caught him short. James had never thought of this before--that he might be usurping choices that rightly belonged to the countries and churches involved. "Maybe I am."
"At least you're thinking about it, finally." Then her smile faded. "Oh, no. Is this about Ben? Coming out as a way of holding on to him?"
"No, it isn't. Ben's an intensely private man. He values his independence. The last thing he'd want is to be in the center of a media circus. If I ever came out, it would be the end of us--assuming we were still together whenever I took the throne. I doubt he'll be around that long."
James had meant to say it casually, because he'd understood this instinctively since the beginning of the affair; by now he was used to it, or so he thought. But something must have crept into his voice. Cass leaned close and gave him a kiss on the cheek. For a moment they smiled at each other, sadly, knowingly, before she shoved up the sleeves of her Fair Isle jumper and became brisk once more: "Right, let's be on our way. I've told them to have lunch ready for us on Gurness Holm, and I for one don't intend to miss it."
He felt a brief pang at the thought of a week away from Ben. Yet he reminded himself that Ben had felt no such qualms. When James had mentioned the trip, Ben had only said it would give him a good chance to work on his book.
I know what we can have and what we can't, James reminded himself. Best to be grateful for what he could have and learn not to mind the rest.
*
The week James was in Scotland, despite all the work Ben had to do, he found himself oddly at loose ends.
It wasn't as though writing couldn't occupy the hours. As The Corporation: A Biography progressed, Ben was learning that books expanded to fill every free moment, every nook and cranny in your life. Already his flat was a nest of note cards and library books and Post-its in neon colors. He was supposed to hand in his first draft to his editor before Christmas; that time frame, which had seemed laughably generous when he signed the contract, now seemed recklessly brief.
Besides, Fiona de Winter remained his boss, and she would no more consider letting him slack off for the book's sake than she would consider wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt to work. (Always designer wrap dresses for her. Always bold colors and patterns. It was almost eerie. Diane Von Furstenberg would either be flattered or feel as though she were being stalked.) A couple of weeks ago, Fiona had told Ben that while his in-depth reporting was excellent, he needed to try producing simpler, more popular pieces once in a while.
"Like that thing about the Prince of Wales earlier this year," she'd said. "That was so unlike you, but it was excellent. Exactly the kind of thing that draws page views . . . are you blushing?"
"Of course not." He really had to work on his reaction to any mention of James.
Fiona had frowned. "I never took you for the modest type."
Ben had excused himself as swiftly as possible and given her suggestion a try. Topping the best-seller lists was a popular-science book about sociopaths, which suggested sociopaths were everywhere, rarely truly evil, but always operating without any true sense of human emotion. So Ben had read the book over a couple days' commute on the Tube, then written an article arguing that, by modern business standards, a sociopath would make the ideal CEO.
Global Media circulated the piece on Thursday. By midday Friday, Ben had received more e-mail about that article than all the others he'd ever written combined. This included a generous helping of hate mail, but Ben always found that strangely invigorating. He knew better than to respond.) People, mostly CEOs or wannabes, wanted to argue that he was absolutely wrong. Those lower down the corporate ladder wrote in to tell Ben he was 100 percent right. A few sociologists who didn't agree with the pop-science book wanted to dicker about precisely what sociopathy was in the first place, and one deeply creepy letter from a Fortune 500 head said Ben was righter than he knew. Ben mentally made a note never to interview this man, or if circumstances demanded it, to make absolutely certain the interview was a phoner rather than in person.
Amid the buzz of attention, Fiona practically glowed with satisfaction, taking as much credit as if she'd written it herself. Ben used the opportunity to ask for Monday off, the better to immerse himself in the book.
Besides, James would return Monday afternoon, and it seemed likely he would ask Ben to the palace that night. The more work Ben could get done before then, the better.
As he was putting things in order at the end of the day, preparing to grab one quick congratulatory pint with Roberto and the gang before going home to read a new source for the book, Ben stole one last glance at his e-mail. Someone else had written him about the sociopath article. Just as he was on the verge of hitting delete, however he saw the sender's address, which began W.Clifton@.
Hesitantly, Ben clicked on the envelope. Was it that W. Clifton?
It was.
My beautiful boy--
How I laughed when I read this. Not that it isn't well-written; all your articles are. (At least, the ones I've seen. Every once in a while I check in on you, you know. Did you ever think I wouldn't?) But as I read it, I imagined you casting me as the textbook sociopath, working out your adolescent angst anew.
Just because I didn't feel what you wanted me to feel doesn't mean I don't have emotions, my boy. I wouldn't like to think of you hating me just because I don't do well on collar and leash.
Congratulations on your stellar career. To think it all came about because of Bangkok. Reason enough to remember that time fondly, surely?
Every once in a while I travel to London for business. Maybe I'll look you up sometime. We owe each other a drink, at least.
Warner
Ben gaped at the note for a few long seconds. Warner had always been good at pushing his buttons, but to work in so many ways of being infuriating in just a few lines--it went beyond rudeness to become almost a work of art. Vile art, but art all the same.
"Hey, you coming?" Roberto called. "The pub's calling our names. At least, it's calling mine. So get a move on."
"Be right there." Ben hit delete, shut off his computer, and headed out. But Warner's words rang in his ears, every line of the letter already locked in his memory.
The part that bothered him most was what Warner had said about "collar and leash." Ben had always thought that was his line. He must have picked it up from Warner instead, without realizing.
Chapter 6
Cover Stories
Ben wound up realizing he needed to poke around in the royal archives for real. No history of corporations could be written without paying attention to early mercantilism and the royal chart
So he found himself in an entirely different area of St. James's Palace on a rainy Thursday afternoon, surrounded by the delicious dichotomy of a top-notch, sophisticated, searchable database and thousands of leather-bound, pleasantly musty old books. It was the perfect place for research, but Ben's mind kept wandering, traveling through the corridors seeking the door that would bring him to James . . .
Who is in Wales until the weekend, Ben told himself sternly. Put your libido aside and get back to work.
His imagination had other ideas, however. The solid days of writing he'd done over the past week seemed to have tapped his store of concentration. He found himself dawdling at one of the computer terminals, following links further and further from his original task. What began as research into the South Sea Company led to the king who had given that company its royal charter, namely George I, founder of the House of Hanover that still ruled the United Kingdom. How odd, to look at a portrait in oils of a bewigged figure in stockings and ribbons and realize this was one of James's ancestors.
Ben hadn't bothered going into the history of James's house for that long-ago assignment in Kenya, but now he became intrigued. At first it was mostly a matter of looking at picture after picture of long-ago kings and queens, wondering when he would start to recognize some of James's features in their faces. Yet no writer could ignore words for long. Slowly Ben became absorbed in the narrative of James's family history.
It turned out the survival of the House of Hanover had been very much at risk in the early nineteenth century, when King George III had only one legitimate grandchild, Princess Charlotte. The fragility of the royal line had become even more apparent when the princess very nearly died giving birth to her one and only son. But thanks to the use of forceps--then a newfangled medical device distrusted by many--both she and her son survived to become Queen Charlotte and King George V, respectively. Ben was amused to realize that, technically, the House of Hanover should have been considered over and done with right then; such things were determined through the male line, and every ruler from George V on ought to have belonged to another house, one determined by Charlotte's husband, a German prince. But he had died in his son's infancy, and when the time came for Charlotte to ascend to the throne, the English government wordlessly but firmly kept referring to the House of Hanover.