Red, White & Royal Blue (18 page)

Even if he did want that, there are a million reasons why this will never, ever be possible.

Alex follows him to the door, watching him turn to hover there awkwardly.

“Well, er…” Henry attempts, looking down at his feet.

Alex rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night.”

Henry looks back up at him, his mouth open and incredulous, and he throws his head back and
laughs,
and it’s only him,
the nerdy, neurotic, sweet, insomniac rich guy who constantly sends Alex photos of his dog, and something slots into place. He leans down and kisses him fiercely, and then he’s grinning and gone.

“You’re doing
what
?”

It’s sooner than either of them expected—only two weeks since the state dinner, two weeks of wanting Henry back under him as soon as possible and saying everything short of that in their texts. June keeps looking at him like she’s going to throw his phone in the Potomac.

“An invitation-only charity polo match this weekend,” Henry says over the phone. “It’s in…” He pauses, probably referring back to whatever itinerary Shaan has given him. “Greenwich, Connecticut? It’s $10,000 a seat, but I can have you added to the list.”

Alex almost fumbles his coffee all over the south entryway. Amy glares at him. “Jesus
fuck.
That is
obscene,
what are you raising money for, monocles for babies?” He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. “Where’s Zahra? I need to clear my schedule for this weekend.” He uncovers the phone. “Look, I guess I’ll
try
to make it, but I’m really busy right now.”

“I’m sorry, Zahra said you’re bailing on the fund-raiser this weekend because you’re going to a
polo match
in
Connecticut
?” June asks from his bedroom doorway that night, almost startling another cup of coffee out of his hands.

“Listen,” Alex tells her, “I’m trying to keep up a geopolitical public relations ruse here.”

“Dude, people are writing
fan fiction
about y’all—”

“Yeah, Nora sent me that.”

“—I think you can give it a
rest.
”

“The crown wants me to be there!” he lies quickly. She seems unconvinced and leaves him with a parting look he’d probably be concerned about if he cared more about things that aren’t Henry’s mouth right now.

Which is how he ends up in his J. Crew best on a Saturday at the Greenwich Polo Club, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. The woman in front of him is wearing a hat with an entire taxidermied pigeon on it. High school lacrosse did not prepare him for this kind of sporting event.

Henry on horseback is nothing new. Henry in full polo gear—the helmet, the polo sleeves capped right at the bulge of his biceps, the snug white pants tucked into tall leather boots, the intricately buckled leather knee padding, the leather gloves—is familiar. He has seen it before. Categorically, it should be boring. It should not provoke anything visceral, carnal, or bodice-ripping in nature in him at all.

But Henry urging his horse across the field with the power of his thighs, his ass bouncing hard in the saddle, the way the muscles in his arms stretch and flex when he swings, looking the way he does and wearing the things he’s wearing—it’s a lot.

He’s sweating. It’s February in Connecticut, and Alex is sweating under his coat.

Worst of all, Henry is
good
. Alex doesn’t pretend to care about the rules of the game, but his primary turn-on has always been competence. It’s too easy to look at Henry’s boots digging into the stirrups for leverage and conjure up a memory of bare calves underneath, bare feet planted just as firmly on the mattress. Henry’s thighs open the same way, but with Alex between them. Sweat dripping down Henry’s brow onto his throat. Just, uh … well, just like that.

He wants—God, after all this time ignoring it, he wants it again, now,
right now.

The match ends after a circle-of-hell amount of time, and Alex feels like he’ll pass out or scream if he doesn’t get his hands on Henry soon, like the only thought possible in the universe is Henry’s body and Henry’s flushed face and every other molecule in existence is just an inconvenience.

“I don’t like that look,” Amy says when they reach the bottom of the stands, peering into his eyes. “You look … sweaty.”

“I’m gonna go, uh,” Alex says. “Say hi to Henry.”

Amy’s mouth settles into a grim line. “Please don’t elaborate.”

“Yeah, I know,” Alex says. “Plausible deniability.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”

“Sure.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Yep.”

“Enjoy your summit with the English delegation,” she tells him flatly, and Alex sends up a vague prayer of thanks for staff NDAs.

He legs it toward the stables, limbs already buzzing with the steady knowledge of Henry’s body getting incrementally closer to his. Long, lean legs, grass stains on pristine, tight pants, why does this sport have to be so completely
repulsive
while Henry looks so damn
good
doing it—

“Oh shit—”

He barely stops himself from running headfirst into Henry in the flesh, who has rounded the corner of the stables.

“Oh, hello.”

They stand there staring at each other, fifteen days removed from Henry swearing at the ceiling of Alex’s bedroom and unsure how to proceed. Henry is still in his full polo regalia, gloves and all, and Alex can’t decide if he is pleased or wants
to brain him with a polo stick. Polo bat? Polo club? Polo … mallet? This sport is a travesty.

Henry breaks the silence by adding, “I was coming to find you, actually.”

“Yeah, hi, here I am.”

“Here you are.”

Alex glances over his shoulder. “There’s, uh. Cameras. Three o’clock.”

“Right,” Henry says, straightening his shoulders. His hair is messy and slightly damp, color still high in his cheeks from exertion. He’s going to look like goddamn Apollo in the photos when they go to press. Alex smiles, knowing they’ll sell.

“Hey, isn’t there, uh, a thing?” Alex says. “You needed to. Uh. Show me?”

Henry looks at him, glances at the dozens of millionaires and socialites milling around, and back at him. “Now?”

“It was a four-and-a-half-hour car ride up here, and I have to go back to DC in an hour, so I don’t know when else you’re expecting to show it to me.”

Henry takes a beat, his eyes flickering to the cameras again before he switches on a stage smile and a laugh, cuffing Alex on the shoulder. “Ah, yes. Right. This way.”

He turns on his boot heel and leads the way around the back of the stables, veering right into a doorway, and Alex follows. It’s a small, windowless room attached to the stables, fragrant with leather polish and stained wood from floor to ceiling, the walls lined with heavy saddles, riding crops, bridles, and reins.

“What in the rich-white-people-sex-dungeon hell?” Alex wonders aloud as Henry crosses behind him. He whips a thick leather strap off a hook on the wall, and Alex almost blacks out.

“What?” Henry says offhandedly, bypassing him to bind the doors shut. He turns around, sweet-faced and unbelievable. “It’s called a tack room.”

Alex drops his coat and takes three swift steps toward him. “I don’t actually care,” he says, and grabs Henry by the stupid collar of his stupid polo and kisses his stupid mouth.

It’s a good kiss, solid and hot, and Alex can’t decide where to put his hands because he wants to put them everywhere at once.

“Ugh,”
he groans in exasperation, shoving Henry backward by the shoulders and making a disgusted show of looking him up and down. “You look
ridiculous.
”

“Should I—” He steps back and puts a foot up on a nearby bench, moving to undo his kneepads.

“What? No, of course not, keep them on,” Alex says. Henry freezes, standing there all artistically posed with his thighs apart and one knee up, the fabric straining. “Oh my God, what are you doing? I can’t even look at you.” Henry frowns. “No, Jesus, I just meant—I’m so
mad
at you.” Henry gingerly puts his boot back on the floor. Alex wants to die. “Just, come here.
Fuck.
”

“I’m quite confused.”

“Me fucking too,” Alex says, profoundly suffering for something he must have done in a previous life. “Listen, I don’t know why, but this whole
thing
”—he gestures at Henry’s entire physical presence—“is … really doing it for me, so, I just need to.” Without any further ceremony, he drops to his knees and starts undoing Henry’s belt, tugging at the fastenings of his pants.

“Oh, God,” Henry says.

“Yeah,” Alex agrees, and he gets Henry’s boxers down.

“Oh,
God,
” Henry repeats, this time with feeling.

It’s all still so new to Alex, but it’s not difficult to follow through on what’s been playing out in elaborate detail in his head for the past hour. When he looks up, Henry’s face is flushed and transfixed, his lips parted. It almost hurts to look at him—the athlete’s focus, all the dressings of aristocracy laid wide open for him. He’s watching Alex, eyes blown dark and hazy, and Alex is watching him right back, every nerve in both bodies narrowed down to a single point.

It’s fast and dirty and Henry is swearing up a storm, which is still disarmingly sexy, but this time it’s punctuated by the occasional word of praise, and somehow that’s even hotter. Alex isn’t prepared for the way “that’s good” sounds in Henry’s rounded Buckingham vowels, or for how luxury leather feels when it strokes approvingly down his cheek, a gloved thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

As soon as Henry’s finished, he’s got Alex on the bench and is putting his kneepads to use.

“I’m still fucking mad at you,” Alex says, destroyed, slumped forward with his forehead resting on Henry’s shoulder.

“Of course you are,” Henry says vaguely.

Alex completely undermines his point by pulling Henry into a deep and lingering kiss, and another, and they kiss for an amount of time he decides not to count or think about.

They sneak out quietly, and Henry touches Alex’s shoulder at the gate near where his SUV waits, presses his palm into the wool of his coat and the knot of muscle.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be anywhere near Kensington anytime soon?”

“That shithole?” he says with a wink. “Not if I can help it.”

“Oi,” Henry says. He’s grinning now. “That’s disrespect of
the crown, that is. Insubordination. I’ve thrown men in the dungeons for less.”

Alex turns, walking backward toward the car, hands in the air. “Hey, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Paris?

A
                3/3/20 7:32 PM

to Henry

His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Whatever,

Don’t make me learn your actual title.

Are you going to be at the Paris fund-raiser for rainforest conservation this weekend?

Alex

First Son of Your Former Colony

Re: Paris?

Henry
                3/4/20 2:14 AM

to A

Alex, First Son of Off-Brand England:

First, you should know how terribly inappropriate it is for you to intentionally botch my title. I could have you made into a royal settee cushion for that kind of lèse-majesté. Fortunately for you, I do not think you would complement my sitting room decor.

Secondly, no, I will not be attending the Paris fund-raiser; I have a previous engagement. You shall have to find someone else to accost in a cloakroom.

Regards,

His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales

Re: Paris?

A
                3/4/20 2:27 AM

to Henry

Huge Raging Headache Prince Henry of Who Cares,

It is amazing you can sit down to write emails with that gigantic royal stick up your ass. I seem to remember you really enjoying being “accosted.”

Everyone there is going to be boring anyway. What are you doing?

Alex

First Son of Hating Fund-raisers

Re: Paris?

Henry
                3/4/20 2:32 AM

to A

Alex, First Son of Shirking Responsibilities:

A royal stick is formally known as a “scepter.”

I’ve been sent to a summit in Germany to act as if I know anything about wind power. Primarily, I’ll be getting lectured by old men in lederhosen and posing for photos with windmills. The monarchy has decided we care about sustainable energy, apparently—or at least that we want to appear to. An utter romp.

Re: fund-raiser guests, I thought you said
I
was boring?

Regards,

Harangued Royal Highness

Re: Paris?

A
                3/4/20 2:34 AM

to Henry

Horrible Revolting Heir,