Page 36 of The Thing About My Prince

“The greatest ever.”

“Tell me I’m the best fucking prince you’ve ever had.”

I grab onto the sink to prevent my suppressed guffaws from toppling me over.

“Oh God.” Those two words are genuine and hopefully sound more like the throes of passionate abandon than uncontainable laughter. “You’re theonlyprince. The best fucking prince ever.”

“And I am giving you the best royal rogering of your life.”

I gather myself enough to look up at him and whisper,“Rogering?”

He gives me a quick nod, like of course that’s a perfectly normal word to use. Guess there’s a whole world of British slang I need to study up on.

“You are,” I cry. “So much…rogering.” Whatever the hell that is.

I rest back against the wall to catch my breath and take in Oliver, who’s standing there, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head, thrusting his hips.

Is that what he looks like when he’s having sex for real? It is quite the sight. In a good way. But that also makes it a bad way. I could probably be locked in a dungeon for the heat that’s growing between my legs just from watching him.

And the fact that I can’t drag my attention from the outline of the package in his jeans each time his hips move, would probably warrant beheading.

“Oh, my little Yankee Doodle.” He groans. “I want you to yank me while I doodle you to the end of time.”

A laugh flies out of me that I try to turn into a cry of pleasure, but it somehow morphs into a weird squeal.

He’s all the hotter for how hilarious he is. Hm, yeah, I need to wrap this thing up.

“I’m coming,” I cry. “Coming in a castle.”

“And I’m going to fill your moat.”

I just about quell a snort at that one.

Oliver’s eyes remain closed as his ridiculously sexy thrusts continue and we both groan and cry and yell our way to our fake climaxes.

If those are the noises he makes when he actually comes, it’s one panty-meltingly delicious sound.

Not that my panties are melting. Nope. They might be a bit warm, and not exactly dry, but they are fully intact.

Being turned on by a member of the British royal family would go against every principle I’ve ever had. So that is definitely not happening. After my experiences with so-called American royalty at school, I vowed to stay as far away from that sector of society as possible.

It’s just that Oliver’s groans and sighs are, objectively, hot.

When he opens his eyes and looks at me with that broad, devilish grin of his, I give it one more “Oh my God” and sink to the floor, my back against the hideous black marble.

“That was a great idea,” he whispers. “Hopefully whoever’s listening will be thoroughly appalled.”

He joins me on the floor with a sigh. “Although I had no idea fake sex could be so bloody exhausting.”

And we sit here, side by side, with our heads tipped back against the cold stone and our arms wrapped around our knees, saying nothing, almost as if we really did just bang the living daylights out of each other and need a moment to catch our breath and return to reality.

And what a bizarre reality it is.

One where the light fixture in the center of the cracked bathroom ceiling is a mini chandelier, for God’s sake.

But there is something relaxing and comforting about sitting here in relative silence, with the shower water still running and Oliver right next to me, only a couple of inches between our arms.

“It was nice that you kissed me outside,” he says with a softness that oozes intimacy. “I mean, nice that you thought so quickly to do that.”