Tiffany Reisz - The Prince

“Non, pas du tout,” Kingsley said, exploding into a flurry of French. For some reason, he felt only in French could he apologize effusively enough. “No one hates you. I just said that out of … well, I don’t hate you. I just wish I hated you.”

Stearns came even closer. He sat on the bed opposite Kingsley.

“Why do you wish you hated me?” Stearns leveled a stare at him and Kingsley once again noted the dark lushness of his eyelashes and how they made his gray eyes seem even more impenetrable.

Kingsley sighed. He dropped the soccer ball on the floor between them. Gently, he toed the ball and let it roll toward Stearns. Stearns set his foot on top of it to hold it stationary.

“What are you?” Kingsley asked, not knowing what he meant by the question, but needing the answer.

Stearns seemed to understand the question even if Kingsley didn’t. He sighed and tapped the ball so it gently rolled toward Kingsley.

“Father Pierre, the priest who taught me French, he had a theory about me.”

“Was it that you’re the Second Coming of Christ? If so, I’ve already heard that one.”

Stearns said nothing, only glared at Kingsley with his lips a thin, disapproving line.

“I’m sorry. Seriously, tell me his theory. I want to know.”

“Father Pierre had a photographic memory. He had the Bible committed entirely to memory—French and English. He could recall nearly everything he’d ever read decades after one glance. Amazing.”

“So you have a photographic memory?”

Stearns shook his head. “No, not at all. It’s different for me. If I do something once, do it well, I know how to do it … completely, almost intuitively. If I kick a soccer ball, my body understands the game. I learned the scales on the piano and somehow knew how to play. Father Pierre believed I have photographic muscle memory.”

“Football involves your feet. The piano your hands. Father Pierre’s theory doesn’t explain how you’re so good at languages.” Kingsley tapped the ball and sent it back to Stearns.

“But it does. The tongue is a muscle.”

Stearns said the words simply. Of course. Of course the tongue was a muscle. But the implications of the words … That Stearns could use his tongue once for something—a kiss, perhaps—and would forever know the perfect way to kiss …

“I lied,” Kingsley said softly. “I do hate you.”

Stearns only smiled again. “Why?”

“You …” Kingsley stopped. “I think about you too much.”

“That is a problem.” Stearns rolled the ball to him once more.

“ Oui. Une grande probleme . I should be thinking about so many things … school, my sister in Paris, my parents, Theresa, Carol, Susan, Jeannine …”

“Who are they?”

Kingsley smiled. “Girlfriends.”

Stearns eyes widened slightly. “All of them?”

Nodding, Kingsley answered, “ Oui . Or were. Before I came here. They write me letters, though. Wonderful terrible letters. I could sell those letters at this school and make enough money to pay my own tuition here.” Kingsley wagged his eyebrow at Stearns. “These girls … they want me. I wanted them.”

“Wanted? Past tense?”

“Past tense. Oui . I can barely remember what they look like now. I want to believe it’s because of what happened that I forgot them. But it isn’t.” Kingsley glanced at Stearns and then back at the floor. He barely touched the ball with his toe and the ball rolled between Stearns’s feet.

“What happened to you?”

“The football team. American football, not real football,” Kingsley clarified. “I had this girl—beautiful girl. And she had a brother. A very large brother. He found out we were together, that I’d taken his sweet sister’s innocence….” Kingsley almost laughed out loud just saying the words. Theresa? Innocent? The girl had spread her legs for half the school before he’d gotten to her. But Theresa hadn’t just spread for Kingsley, she’d fallen in love with him. And when he’d slept with another girl the next night … then she went crying to her brother.

Kingsley told Stearns the entire story … the hand on the back of his neck in the parking lot behind the stadium. The seven football players who’d surrounded him … the knife that Troy had drawn on him … the deep slash to his chest that had ultimately saved his life.

“A knife? You were cut?” Stearns cocked his head to the side and gave Kingsley a long, enigmatic look.

“Oh, oui . You haven’t seen the scar?” Kingsley yanked his T-shirt off over his head. He moved to the other bed and sat next to Stearns. “Lovely, no?”

Angling himself toward Stearns, Kingsley displayed the wound on his chest. The gash had mostly healed, after careful stitching and treatment, but a two-inch-long white line of scar tissue still decorated the skin over his heart.

Stearns said nothing, only studied the scar. Slowly, he raised his hand and with a fingertip caressed it from tip to tip. Kingsey held perfectly still and didn’t let himself move or breathe. How could he? Stearns was touching him. The words echoed in his mind: Stearns was touching him … Stearns was …

Kingsley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Stearns’s mouth.

And for one perfect second, Stearns let him leave them there.

Once that perfect second passed, Kingsley found himself flat on his back, his hands by his head, his wrists pinned hard and fast into the mattress. Stearns gripped his wrists so tightly that Kingsley thought he heard something crack inside his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I don’t know what …”

He struggled against Stearns’s viselike grip, but no amount of pushing back could free him. Stearns held himself steady overtop of Kingsley, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, and pushed him deeper and deeper into the mattress.

Stearns’s face hovered only six inches from his own. The pain in his wrists, the fear in his heart, all threatened to send Kingsley into a panic. But underneath the panic he felt something else—a strange calm, a sense of surrender. As much as Kingsley wanted Stearns, he would be content letting him do anything to him, even kill him.

“I’m sorry,” Kingsley repeated. “I—”

“Stop talking.” Stearns spoke the words coldly, calmly, and Kingsley obeyed immediately. He pushed up again and Stearns pushed back down with even greater force.

“Stop moving.”

Kingsley froze.

Waited.

Realized he’d never been so aroused in his entire life.

Looking up into Stearns’s eyes, Kingsley noticed the pupils had dilated hugely. And Stearns’s perfectly pale skin had flushed slightly. The exertions on the soccer field hadn’t caused half the reaction that simply holding him down on the bed clearly did.

“You are playing a very dangerous game, Kingsley.” Stearns lowered his voice as he spoke the threat, and every nerve in Kingsley’s body tightened.

He remained silent as ordered. Stearns’s thumb moved to press into the pulse point on Kingsley’s right wrist. The touch was so surprising, so suddenly gentle, that Kingsley moaned with the pleasure of it. A soft moan, barely audible. But Stearns clearly heard it, for his hooded eyes widened once more.

“You aren’t afraid of me right now.” A statement, not a question, and yet Kingsley heard the question underneath the words. Why?

“There’s nothing you could do to me now that I wouldn’t want.”

Stearns looked Kingsley up and down, as if he realized an alien lay beneath him instead of a person.

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