Tiffany Reisz - The Prince

“You’re really going to carry me up the stairs? That’s so Gone with the Wind .”

“Never saw it.” Wesley mounted the wide, carpeted stairs.

“It’s a classic,” she chided. “Civil War stuff. Big dresses. Overacting. Hot nonconsensual sex.”

“It’s also four hours long. I got stuff to do.”

They arrived at the top of the stairs without incident.

“What stuff do you have to do that’s more important than watching the most legendary movie about the South ever filmed?” Nora asked as Wesley used his foot to push open the door to his bedroom.

He half laid, half threw her onto the bed, which was dressed in red-and-white sheets, and Nora sank deep into the covers.

Wesley met her eyes and slipped a hand into her hair. “Well, tonight I need to make love to you.”

Nora’s hands went momentarily numb at his words. The sweetness of them coupled with the look in his eyes crashed over her like a wave.

“Good excuse.” She ran her palms over his bare shoulders. He had such beautiful arms, such young, supple skin. For a moment she actually felt self-conscious of her thirty-four-year-old body.

“What?” he asked as she swept her fingers through his long, dark blond hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Your hair.”

Grinning, Wesley shook his head. “I’ll get it cut tomorrow. I swear.”

“Good. But that’s not it. You don’t have a single gray hair.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “Neither do you, Nora.”

“Yeah, and I pay three hundred dollars every six weeks to keep it that way.”

For a moment his smile faltered. “I didn’t know you colored your hair.”

She shrugged. “Have to. Trademark black hair. Not trademark black-with-more-gray-than-I’d-care-to-admit-to hair. I’m thirty-four. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know. I don’t care about our age difference. I was just … I didn’t know you colored your hair, is all. Can you go red next time? I have a thing for red.”

Nora grinned. “How about we trade? I’ll get blond hair and you can go black.”

“Would it bring out the brown in my eyes?” he asked, and playfully batted his eyelashes.

“Don’t do that,” she teased. “You look like you’re having a seizure.”

“Oh, sorry.” Wesley’s eyelashes started behaving themselves again. “Where were we? I think we missed talking to each other so much, it’s getting in the way of the … you know. Not talking.”

“We don’t have to do this tonight. If you’re tired or if you want to talk … I’m not leaving you. I’m here. I’m with you. I don’t care if your dad already hates me. I’ve been hated by the best. I can take it.”

“No. I want to do this. I’ve wanted to do this since the day I saw you at Yorke.”

Nora pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat.

“Okay. We can do this. If you’ve been waiting for two years now …”

“Two years? I’ve been waiting twenty.” Wesley grinned sheepishly at her.

For the third time that night Nora’s eyes went wide with shock and her mouth dropped open in surprise.

She pushed back against the bed and scrambled into a sitting position.

“Nora … what?”

“Wesley? You’re still a virgin?”

Maine. Kingsley hated Maine. The weather, the people, the absolute lack of … anything. Anything at all worth living for. Hated it. Loathed it. Could find nothing redeeming about the place at all.

So why could he not stop smiling lately?

Spring came early that year. The snow began to melt and the browns and greens of the forest floor proved their resilience again. After one week of not winter, spring fever hit the school and the entire student body—all forty-seven of them—poured onto the one flat patch of ground, bringing with them baseballs and footballs.

Footballs? Kingsley rolled his eyes. He would show these stupid American boys real football. From under his dorm bed, he pulled out his soccer ball and took it to the lawn. With the other boys tossing Frisbees and American footballs back and forth to each other, Kingsley stood alone off to the side and started juggling the ball with his knees. For fun he’d switch legs, switch from knee to ankle, left to right, and then back again. When a few minutes passed and the ball hadn’t stopped, hadn’t fallen to the ground, he began to acquire an audience. The audience of fellow students started to tease him, chide him, as they tried to break his concentration. But Kingsley could do this, had done this trick for over an hour once. For some reason he thought better when juggling the soccer ball. His mind cleared and everything he worried about disappeared—his parents now gone, his grandparents elderly and worried about him, his sister, Marie-Laure, a struggling ballerina in Paris. She wrote him letters constantly, tearstained letters he could hardly bear to read. Her grief, her desperation … she swore she’d go mad if she couldn’t see him again soon. He almost believed her.

But when alone with the soccer ball, she and everyone else disappeared.

Almost everyone else.

One face refused to dissipate from Kingsley’s mind. One infuriatingly handsome face that he noticed out of the corner of his eye, watching him along with every other boy at the school. Unlike the others, Stearns didn’t catcall him or do anything to break his focus. But the eyes alone, that simple stare of his, nearly caused Kingsley to drop the ball.

Left knee. Right knee. Right knee. Left knee.

Kingsley kept bouncing, kept breathing.

Just to elicit an “ohhh” from the audience and maybe to impress Stearns a little, Kingsley popped the ball into the air and bounced it off the top of his head and back to his knee. He popped it up again and let it rest a second on the back of his neck before sending it up again and back to his knee.

Right knee. Right knee. Left knee. Left ankle. Right knee.

“So can you actually play soccer, King?” Christian asked. “Or do you just play with your balls all day.”

“I can play,” Kingsley said without elaborating. He could do more than play. Back in Paris, he’d been the best in the school. He’d already been scouted by the Paris Saint-Germain Football Club and had every intention of joining them as soon as he came of age. But that was before the accident, before Maine. “The problem is, no one else here can play against me.”

“Sorry. We’re all Americans,” Christian teased. “We play real football.”

Kingsley laughed. Left ankle. Right ankle. “You should be sorry. I had an entire team on me once trying to keep me from the goal. Still made it.”

“Really?” Derek demanded. “A whole team?”

“Felt like it,” Kingsley said, grinning. “But what does it matter? None of you know how to play. So I’ll just play with myself.” He winked at Christian and for a few minutes the conversation was peppered with nothing but masturbation jokes.

Right knee. Right knee. Right knee. Left.

Oohs. Ahhs. Teasing. Laughter.

“I know how to play.”

In the shock of the silence that followed, Kingsley dropped the ball.

The twenty assembled students collectively turned their heads toward Stearns.

“You can play soccer?” Kingsley picked the soccer ball up off the ground. Stearns’s words had stunned everyone so thoroughly that not a single person teased Kingsley about dropping the ball after nearly ten minutes of juggling.

“I went to school in England.” Stearns slipped off his jacket and started to roll up his sleeves.

Kingsley could only stare at him, at his forearms he slowly unveiled with each turn of his cuff.