Page 113 of The Unlikely Heir

I have never felt as treasured as Oliver makes me feel.

I lie there, just feeling Oliver’s smooth palms rubbing up and down my arms. He moves forward and his breath raises the hairs on the back of my neck before he deposits a soft, feather-like kiss to the back of my neck.

The gentleness of his touch makes me blurt out something I’ve been mulling over.

“Do you feel differently about royalty now that you know me?” I ask.

Oliver stills. “What do you mean?”

“Walter Bagehot, an English essayist, wrote:Above all things, our royalty is to be reverenced, and if you begin to poke about it, you cannot reverence it…its mystery is its life. We must not let in daylight upon magic.”

“Your magic thrives in the daylight, Callum.” He places a gentle kiss on my shoulder. “The more I know of you, the more I revere you.”

“I guess the British public will never get to know me in quite the same way as you do,” I say.

He laughs softly against my skin. “I should hope not. Besides, your mind still remains a mystery to me sometimes.”

“It’s sometimes a mystery to me too,” I say.

He laughs again, and I turn over to face him so I can kiss him properly.

Why does it feel like Oliver’s tongue belongs in my mouth? That this sleepy kiss is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing right now?

Sleepy kisses lead to hands wandering, lazy stroking to fit our slow kisses that eventually ramp up as Oliver works me over the edge.

I shimmy down his body and take him into my mouth.

I don’t have as much finesse as Oliver at oral activities, but I’m all about the whole “practice makes perfect” mantra. And Oliver doesn’t seem to mind my efforts to improve myself.

“Callum.” His body arches back, and I can’t help my smile. I love seeing Oliver come undone. Seeing my usually buttoned-up man lose control.

I can’t get enough of touching Oliver, of having him touch me. I’m addicted to all things Oliver.

And I’m back to kissing him, and we kiss and kiss until our kisses turn languid and dreamy, until I drift my lips down his jawline and neck, tucking myself into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“I love sleepovers,” I murmur against his skin, and Oliver laughs his deep chuckle.

And I drift back to sleep with Oliver’s arms around me.

* * *

I’m woken the next morning by Herbert’s discreet knock on my door.

“Your Royal Highness?”

“Mmph,” I mutter, keeping my eyes scrunched.

There’s the noise of the door opening, as apparently Herbert has taken my mumbling as permission to enter.

It’s only when I hear the sheets crinkle next to me that I realize it’s not quite business as usual this morning.

“Oh shit…hold up…give me a second…”

But it’s too late.

Herbert has eased his way into my room.

He stops still, holding my breakfast tray, his gaze drifting to where Oliver lies beside me, facedown on the pillow. A very male torso in bed with the future king.