Page 27 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
“Right where we left off,” Eddie murmured, settling back into the couch cushions.
Except we weren’t where we’d left off, not really. Last night, we’d been pretending this was casual entertainment while dancing around attraction neither of us wanted to admit. Tonight, our cards were on the table. We both knew exactly what was happening here.
I shifted slightly, closing some of the space between us, and felt Eddie’s attention split between the screen and my proximity. On the show, Shane was backing Ilya against a wall, their argument dissolving into desperate kissing that mirrored exactly what had happened between us the night before.
“They’re good actors,” Eddie said, his voice slightly strained.
“Yeah,” I replied, though I was barely watching the screen anymore. My attention was entirely focused on the way Eddie’s fingers were gripping his tea mug, the way his breathing had changed, the way he kept stealing glances at me.
The scene on screen escalated, Shane’s hands tangling in Ilya’s hair, and Eddie tensed beside me. I reached over and took the mug from his hands, setting it on the coffee table alongside my own.
“Eddie,” I said quietly, and he turned to look at me with those impossibly green eyes.
“Yes?”
Instead of answering with words, I reached for him, my hand curving around the back of his neck to pull him closer. This time, there was no hesitation, no moment of surprise. Eddie came willingly, eagerly, his lips meeting mine with a similar hunger.
This kiss was different from the desperate, interrupted make-out session from the night before. This was slower, deeper, with the kind of deliberate exploration that came from knowing we had time. Eddie’s hands found the front of my shirt, fingers curling in the fabric, and I could taste the lingering sweetness of his tea on his tongue.
Christ, I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted this—wanted him. The way he made small, breathless sounds against my mouth, the way he arched into me when I nipped at his bottom lip, the way his whole body seemed to melt under my touch.
On the TV, forgotten but still playing, Shane and Ilya’s passion provided a soundtrack to our very real exploration. But I barely registered it because Eddie was shifting closer, practically climbing into my lap, and every rational thought I’d ever had was rapidly abandoning me.
“Is this okay?” I asked against his mouth, my hands finding the hem of his sweater.
“More than okay,” Eddie breathed, and something in his voice—want and wonder and complete trust—made my chest tight with emotion.
I pushed his sweater up slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, but instead of pulling away, Eddie raised his arms to help me get it off entirely. The sight of him—pale, smooth skin, sharp collarbones, lean muscle—made my mouth go dry.
“Your turn,” Eddie said, his voice rough with want, and I didn’t need to be asked twice.
I pulled my own shirt over my head, hyperaware of Eddie’s eyes tracking over my chest, taking in the scars that told stories I couldn’t share, the evidence of a life lived very differently from his. For a moment, I worried that the reality of my body, marked by violence and hardship, might shatter whatever fantasy he’d been building about us. Instead, Eddie reached out with careful fingers, tracing the scar below my left shoulder blade with the kind of reverence that made my breath catch.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.
“Not anymore.” The physical pain had faded years ago. The emotional weight of the memories attached to each mark was harder to shake, but with Eddie touching me like I was something precious, even that seemed less heavy.
“You’re beautiful,” Eddie said, and the sincerity in his voice nearly undid me completely.
I kissed him again, harder this time, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the connection between us. Eddie responded with matching intensity, his hands exploring the planes of my chest, fingers tracing muscles and scars with equal fascination.
When I pushed him back against the couch cushions, he went willingly, looking up at me with flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and an expression of complete trust. Eddie allowed me to see him vulnerable and wanting, trusting me with something precious.
I mapped his torso with my hands, learning the way he shivered when I traced his ribs, the soft gasp he made when I found a particularly sensitive spot. His skin was fever-warm under my palms, and every sound he made went straight to my head like good whiskey.
“Bash,” he whispered, my name sounding like a prayer, and I had to close my eyes for a moment to process the reality of this situation. Eddie—Prince Gregory Edward William Mountbatten-Windsor—was half-naked on our couch, asking for more with every arch of his body, every soft sound he made against my mouth.
On screen, the fictional hockey players were doing things that would’ve made me blush to watch, but the reality happening on our couch was infinitely more compelling. Eddie’s hands had found the waistband of my jeans, fingers ghosting over skin above the denim, and I felt every muscle in my body tighten with want.
“Can I…?” Eddie started, then seemed to lose his nerve.
“Whatever you want,” I said roughly, meaning it completely.
His hand moved lower, palm pressing against the obvious evidence of how much I wanted this, and my vision went white around the edges. I’d been hard since the moment we’d started kissing, but having Eddie touch my cock, even through layers of clothing, sent electricity straight up my spine.
“Christ, Eddie,” I gasped, and felt him smile against my mouth.
“Good?” he asked, sounding pleased and slightly amazed by my reaction.
