After that conversation, I don’t linger long at the event.
“I have some things to finish up before I turn in,” I tell my father, then make my way to the exit, stopping every few feet to say more goodbyes to the guests.
As soon as I’m outside the doors of the Great Hall, I’m rushing toward the elevator, my heart pounding against my chest, my hands shaking with dread and shame. At the reception, I swallowed it all back so I could accept condolences about my brother and shake hands with a neutral expression and pretend to pay attention to what everyone said.
Now I have to get to her.
I have to tell her how fucking sorry I am.
My heart beats so hard it hurts as I rush up to the third level of the palace.
Will she forgive me?
By the time the elevator arrives, I’m in a frenzy that’s completely fucking inappropriate for a crown prince. The hallway is empty. I sprint toward her door and pound on it with my fist.
“Jessica!” I cry, silently praying that nobody can hear the anguish in my voice. “Jessica, it’s me! Please come to the door.”
A moment later, as if she’s been waiting for me, the door swings open to reveal Jessica, her hair down and eyes red from crying. She’s wearing the purple silk robe that I had the staff hang up for her in the bathroom before she moved over from the Northern Crown.
“What do you want, Alec?” she says sadly, her voice trembling.
I step closer, cup her face in my hands, and look deeply into her eyes.
She doesn’t look away.
“What do you want?” she repeats.
“I’m sorry.”
I let the apology hang in the air for a moment, and at first her jaw juts out a little. I know she’s deciding whether or not to be stubborn.
Her shoulders relax just a fraction.
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” I press on. “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you at the reception. I shouldn’t have said anything like that to you ever. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do,” she responds solemnly.
I push her backward a little so I can close the door behind us. “What?”
“Now that you’re the crown prince, you have nothing left for me.” She cuts her eyes to the side, then turns them back to mine. “I’m not trying to complain, but damn it, Alec, we never see each other, and then when we do, you’re…you act like that.”
“I won’t be like that anymore. I promise,” I pledge, bending down to kiss her earlobe, then her collarbone, then her other cheek. “That’s not who I am anymore. I’m done fighting with my father, and I’m done fighting with you. I swear.”
“I don’t know, Alec…” She puts both her hands on my wrists. She presses on them, with the lightest touch, warning me…but without much enthusiasm.
“Will you let me remind you what we’re like together? What we’re really like? Who we are?”
She moves her head to the side, letting me drag my lips down the soft skin of her neck. I feel the goose bumps rise on her skin.
“You don’t deserve it.”
“I know. But will you let me? I’m sorry for being such an asshole. Will you forgive me?”
I flick my tongue out, licking the very edge of her collarbone, and she shivers, then twists toward me, her eyes shining with love and lust.
“Fine,” she says, and I hear the forgiveness in her voice.
Once the word is out of her mouth, I lift her up in my arms, carry her to the massive bed, and set about the most important task of the evening: worshipping every single inch of her creamy skin, gently, firmly, until she’s crying out my name from where she lies under my body, my hard cock filling her, the touch of my hands, my mouth consuming her, the two of us surrendering to our passion, her smile lighting up the room.
Chapter 35
Jessica
If there’s one thing I can’t deny, it’s that Alec touches me like no man ever has, and I’m sure no man ever will.
Literally.
His hands are God’s gift to humanity.
If all we had to do for eternity was touch each other, lick each other, fuck each other, we would get along perfectly.
Unfortunately, some of those other issues are still lingering when I wake up the next morning, tangled under the sheets with Alec.
While he’s still asleep, I take the opportunity to stare at him, his torso rising up from underneath the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each breath, every one of his ab muscles chiseled and defined.
How does he stay in such good shape? I wonder absently. He never seems to have time for anything else. Even meals are a rushed affair, unless they’re for formal receptions, and then they take forever.
I’m debating whether or not to run my fingers over the ridges of his abs and risk waking him up when he opens his eyes and looks at me, the brilliant green color of his orbs taking my breath away.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles, stretching his arms above his head, resembling a Greek god.