Dearly Despised (Calluvia's Royalty 5)

Their days went like this:

Samir usually woke up with Warrehn’s cock already inside him, ploughing him hard. He lay there, half-asleep, luxuriating in the feeling of being taken by a virile male in his prime and being pumped full of his seed. When he came, they sprang apart, avoiding each other’s eyes, and retreated to the opposite ends of the vehicle until it was time for their first stop of the day.

It was incredibly jarring to put an impassive, polite mask on his face around Warrehn and call him His Majesty, as if he hadn’t had Warrehn’s cock in him a short while ago—as if he wasn’t already eager for more. Not that Samir was eager for more. It was the drug, not him.

After all the smiling and baby-kissing, they were back in the car. By that time, Samir was trembling with impatience and want, but they didn’t fuck unless absolutely necessary—which was usually when one of them couldn’t stand it anymore and gave in. To Samir’s embarrassment and annoyance, more often than not, he was the desperate one. It was utterly unfair, because Doctor Jihan had said the concentration of the drug was higher in Warrehn’s system. Samir had a sneaking suspicion that Warrehn, as a high-level telepath, used advanced meditative techniques to control himself.

The worst part was, the more time passed, the clearer Samir’s head was during sex. The sex was no longer a hazy coupling he could barely remember afterward; he could now remember things. He could remember the way he clung to Warrehn, begging for more of his cock, begging for deeper and harder. He could remember the utterly embarrassing way he often behaved during sex, pulling Warrehn on top of him and refusing to let go until he gave him what he needed—which was a cock stuffed into him as often as possible. He could remember the particularly mortifying occasion of Warrehn’s publicist walking in on them a few days ago. She had frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide, before stepping back and slamming the car’s door shut. That had been so awkward—Samir couldn’t look Ayda in the eye for days.

Usually they made another stop in the afternoon at some charity function or hospital. Their PR teams tried hard not to let those events go on for more than a few hours, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. And those times were the worst. Samir could only sit there, desperate and aching, and stare hungrily at the man beside him, digging his fingernails into his own thighs to stop himself from climbing into Warrehn’s lap and yanking his fly open. Afterward, Samir usually found himself riding the king’s cock in a restroom, fast and hard, so desperate for it he didn’t give a damn that the flimsy door was the only thing separating them from the crowd of reporters and mamas with their babies. Later, he would be beyond mortified, but that would be much later. The damned drug didn’t leave room for rational thought when all he wanted was Warrehn’s cock. It was fucking horrible. Samir had never had so much sex in his life—had never wanted sex so much.

Miraculously, they’d managed not to get caught despite all the occasions they’d fucked in public and semi-public places. Either that, or their PR teams deserved a big raise.

When night fell, they slept in the same bed. It was just practical: they’d learned the hard way that it was very difficult to function on only a few hours of uninterrupted sleep if they had to get up for sex several times at night. It was more practical to sleep in the same bed. That way, Samir didn’t even have to fully wake up: Warrehn just pressed him into the mattress, half-awake himself, and pushed his slick cock into him. Middle-of-the-night sex was usually more unhurried—sometimes Samir didn’t even awaken—but sometimes the desire for sex was so urgent, he woke up utterly desperate for cock. He would climb on top of Warrehn, find his stiff cock, and sink onto it with a blissed-out moan. He would ride himself to completion, and then beyond, until he finally got his hole full of Warrehn’s seed. Then he would fall on top of Warrehn and sleep like the dead.

They were on the road for fifteen days when Samir woke up and realized that they hadn’t had sex at night.

“What is it?” Warrehn said, his voice still rough from sleep. He was lying on his back, his naked body large and muscular but somehow graceful too. He reminded Samir of a cat. A wild, big cat with a golden-brown mane that looked amazingly soft and messy right now. One blue eye blinked open when Samir didn’t say anything.

Samir found himself blushing when he realized that he had been staring. But who would blame him? He had eyes and Warrehn was a fine specimen of a man when he wasn’t talking.