My Prince (12 page)

“Okay, I have a question,” Alex asked, stretching his arms over his head and enjoying the resulting
pop
in his back.

“Go for it.”

“What is it you actually do? I know you said you’re a design engineer, but you could be making toothbrushes or nuclear submarines for all I know.”

George grinned. “It’s really boring.”

“So bore me.”

“I design sports helmets.”

“For the big head or the little one?”

“Ha-ha.” George stacked the almost empty plates up and pushed them to one side. “The big one. I’ve been working mostly in the winter sports area for the past few years, but I’ve just signed on to a project to work on American football helmets.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Thanks. I actually designed some of the helmets they used in the winter Olympics.”

“No way!”

“Yeah. I have a very specific style that I use. Some athletes love it, some hate it.” He shrugged. “It’s fine. I’d prefer to divide opinions rather than be someone who no one has an opinion on.”

“So you’re, like, famous?”

“Absolutely not.” George shook his head. “No. I’m… notorious, maybe.”

“Renowned?”

“Not even that.”

“Do you have a patent name or anything?”

“Well, I work for a company. They own all the patents and stuff. But my particular style is known as a Maguire fit.”

“Are you serious?” Alex laughed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.

“Okay, before you start thinking that I’m the biggest wanker in the world, I didn’t start it. A couple of years ago people started asking for the style that I was responsible for, and since the only thing that distinguished it as one of mine was my name on it, that sort of stuck.”

“That’s hilarious,” Alex said.

“Thanks.”

“What do you want to do tonight?” Alex asked.

“Doug said something about you having plans?”

Alex laughed. “I just wanted to come meet you. Mostly to make sure Doug hadn’t scared you off completely.”

“No. No, he didn’t do that.”

“Good,” Alex said softly. “If you want to go out with your friends, just say. I don’t mind.”

George smiled at him across the table. The youthful chubbiness to his cheeks was so endearing.

“I don’t have plans. Can we go back to yours?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Chapter Seven

B
Y
THE
time they got back to Alex’s flat, neither of them felt like doing anything remotely sexual. Instead Alex had instigated his House Nudity rule and they’d both stripped off jeans that felt too tight around the waist after their enormous dinner. George had on his T-shirt and a pair of socks, along with his overly baggy boxers. It was far more comfortable like this. He was sprawled out on the sofa, one of his legs thrown over the back, balls practically hanging out of the side of his boxers. Alex wished the look didn’t turn him on so much.

“Hey,” he said easily. “Whatcha doing?”

“Reading,” George said. He was frowning in his own adorable little way, the unique expression that made him look like he was about to slaughter a bunny rabbit.

They’d watched a film on TV, then Alex had excused himself to clean up the kitchen and left George with his laptop, hoping George wasn’t the sort of guy to go through his browser history to find out his preferred type of porn.

“Whatcha reading?” Alex asked, squishing himself in between those obscenely spread legs.

“Gay history.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Doug said something to me—”

“Ah, Doug,” Alex sighed dramatically.

“And I didn’t know loads of this stuff.”

“Well, they don’t make you take a test before you come out, George. The only way you would know
this stuff
is by going to look for it.”

“They should teach it somewhere,” he grumbled.

“They do,” Alex said, amused. “There’s a lot of universities—here and in America—that have gay history courses.”

“Well, I didn’t know anything about them. Did you know gay sex was illegal here until 1980? That’s only thirty-five years ago.”

“Mmhmm.” Alex stroked a finger down George’s thick thigh, tracing the line between the muscles.

“And it wasn’t until ninety-nine that they made the age of consent the same for gay people as straight people.”

“My my, you’re learning a lot today. Angry yet?”

“Yes!” George exclaimed. “Ninety-nine, Alex!”

“I know.”

George snapped the laptop shut, his cheeks flushed with indignant anger. Alex leaned in and kissed one.

“This is ridiculous,” George muttered.

“Yeah. And we’re getting there. But there’s still a lot we need to do. We’ve made a lot of progress for people like us in Europe, but there’s plenty of countries around the world where they still hang gay men, or stone them to death, or decide it’s more humane to just imprison them for life.”

“When the Allies liberated Auschwitz, everyone was free to go except the gay men. They were sent to other prisons to serve the rest of their sentence.”

Alex nodded.

“It makes me feel sick.”

“My mum….”

“What?”

“She’s been pushing me to do charity work. For a LGBT charity.”

“You said no?”

“I say no to everything,” Alex said with a wry smile.

“You were at that event,” George said. “The fundraiser. At the museum.”

“I was,” Alex said. He took the laptop away and set it on the coffee table, then stretched out on George’s broad chest. “I’m quite pleased I agreed to that one, to be honest.”

George ran his hand down the expanse of Alex’s back and squeezed Alex’s ass. It felt too intimate, this lazy, sexy, lounging about together. It felt too soon. Alex didn’t give a flying fuck.

“You should think about it,” George said.

“Okay. I will.”

George squeezed his ass again, then rolled over to dump Alex on the sofa and got up, pulling his jeans on from where they’d been abandoned on the floor.

“Where are you going?” Alex asked.

“Home,” George said with a grin as he pulled his jeans on. “This has been great, but I have a game tomorrow.”

“A rugby game?”

“Yeah. Wanna come?”

Alex sat up, startled. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I mean, you don’t have to. But if you want to, you’re welcome.”

“Okay. I’d like that.”

George pulled on his shirt and leaned over to kiss Alex on the lips. “Don’t forget to put some clothes on before you leave, though.”

“Ha ha,” Alex deadpanned, then stretched his neck for another kiss. “Text me the address of wherever it is you play?”

“Will do,” George said, kissed him again, winked, and let himself out of the flat.

Rugby boys on a Sunday afternoon.

Alex grinned, stretched, and let his fingers drift down to his cock. The thought alone was enough to make him hard.

O
NE
OF
the first things George had done after he’d moved to Edinburgh was find a rugby team to join. Actually, he’d researched it some before he’d even decided to take the job. He was a football fan before he was a rugby fan; his dad had been taking George and Maggie to watch Manchester United play since they were little kids.

George was crap at football, though. Probably unsurprisingly, his kicking game when he played rugby was pretty poor too. He played defensive line, taking the hits, making the big tackles. He was light on his feet—for a bigger guy—and speedy with it.

Rugby wasn’t a passion, not like football was. It provided much-needed entertainment, a decent workout, and more often than not a fair degree of stress relief. George had started playing seriously when he was in school, first for the school team, then for a local side. Nothing serious, just weekly training and a match on the weekend.

Over the summer, when they stopped playing, he was forced to revert to running to stay in shape, which was nowhere near as entertaining. He remembered the frustration to get back on the pitch that started to niggle as the start of the season approached, that need to do something that challenged him, both physically and mentally.

So the thought of coming out to the team, and possibly losing his place on it, was making him nervous.

The match lined up for that afternoon was one everyone was certain they were going to win. It was against another seconds team who were mostly made up of teenagers—they’d had conversations at training on Thursday about how they were going to handle tackling them. George had seen the team play once before and he was fairly sure he was twice the size of some of them.

He knew he couldn’t wait until after the game to do it. Things got mad, especially after a win, and everyone was going in and out of showers, then dispersing to the pub. They had a couple of minutes of “team talk” before going out and….

“I’ve got something,” he said when Darren asked if anyone had any questions. George hadn’t listened to his captain’s motivational speech at all.

George clenched his fists and his jaw. The rest of the team looked at him. Some of them were frowning.

“Get on with it, then,” Darren said. He sounded annoyed.

“I wanted to tell you all… I mean, I wanted you to know… I’m gay.” George spat the words out and looked at the floor, not daring to meet any of his teammates’ eyes. “I’m gay. I was gay last week, I’m gay now, and I still want… I still want to be on the team. But if any of you have a problem with that, then let me know and I’ll leave.”

Silence.

More silence.

Someone coughed.

Someone else shuffled their feet, the sounds of studded football boots on the rough concrete floor suddenly very loud.

“Are you fucking serious?” Darren asked.

George looked up. Each of his teammates wore a similar expression of confused incredulity.

Slowly George nodded.

“You don’t look gay. And you don’t act it.”

“Yeah. I’m serious. Not every gay man is a big fucking fairy, you know.”

Darren laughed, a hard, loud sound. He looked at George, right in the eye, and shrugged. “So what? I don’t have a problem with it.”

One by one, the rest of the team muttered similar sentiments.

“You got a boyfriend?” Jason asked. He was the smallest guy on the team and played hooker.

“Why, you interested in him?” Darren said, elbowing him in the ribs.

“No.” Jason’s cheeks flamed red. “Just, you know, if he’s got a boyfriend, then he’s not gonna be looking at the rest of us, right?”

“Yeah, I’m seeing someone,” George muttered. He wondered if this could possibly get any weirder. “He’s out there. Wanted to watch today.”

Someone snorted, and George’s head snapped up.

“Problem?” he snarled.

“Joining the other WAGs, is he?”

The “wives and girlfriends.” George felt his jaw clench, the flush of humiliation crawling over his skin. He made to turn, to grab his bag and get the fuck out of there. Darren slapped a palm in the center of his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Fuck you, Johnson,” Darren said. “I’d kick you out before Maguire. Mandy’s brother is gay, and I’ve beat the shit out of someone for saying the wrong thing to him before. Don’t think I won’t do the same to you.”

“I don’t need you to fight my fucking battles for me,” George said, pushing Darren’s hand off his chest. “I can beat Johnson up on my own.”

From next to him, Jason laughed. It wasn’t vicious or taunting or sarcastic; it was real humor. George
could
kick Mark Johnson’s arse, and they all knew it.

“Alright, let’s go,” Darren said.

They all turned and started to shuffle out of the concrete hut they called a changing room. George looked up automatically as they emerged into the bright sunshine and biting cold. Alex stood over by the cars, maybe so he could make an easy escape. He was wrapped up in his long tweed jacket, a thick knitted scarf, leather gloves, and a Starbucks takeaway cup.

George lifted a hand to wave at him, then jogged out onto the pitch.

B
Y
THE
time the final whistle blew, Alex was
freezing
. The weekend had brought clear skies, the cloud cover blown away by wind so cold it hurt. He had no idea what the score was or who had won the game. There had been a lot of shouting.

During the half-time break, he’d climbed back into the car and put on the heating full blast for fifteen solid minutes. The day was deceptively cold, despite the weak spring sunshine. That sun had crept behind some clouds in the past half hour; his phone told him the outside air temperature was in the region of two degrees Celsius.

The team in dark green—George’s team—were all jogging back to their military bunker to change. Alex pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and when he looked up George was almost by his side.

“Hi,” Alex said, surprised.

“Hey.”

George didn’t hesitate, just leaned in and kissed Alex on the cheek.

He smelled like the cold, and like mud and sweat and grass and testosterone. Alex decided if he could bottle this smell he could use it to attract gay men the world over.

“Did you win?” Alex asked.

“Yeah. Fifty-two to six. We gave away those drop goals as well. Sloppy playing after we crossed forty points clear of them.”

“Well done. Shouldn’t you be going to shower?”

“Do you want me to shower?” George teased.

“No, I want you to take me home just like you are and fuck me hard,” Alex said evenly.

George’s grin spread. “I’ll get your car all dirty.”

“Which is why I’m going to send you to the shower.”

“Okay. I won’t be long. Wait in the car, yeah? It’s getting cold.”

“I intend to.”

George jogged off, and Alex decided those shorts were definitely coming out again when they got home.

Jesus.

He wasn’t normally such a pervert. There was something about rugby boys that he’d always found ridiculously attractive. The thick thighs, broad shoulders, tight arses; the gentle giant demeanor that most of them exhibited.