The Prince (The Original Sinners 3)

Wesley said nothing, only looked back up at the night sky.

Nora reached out a hand to touch his arm and stopped without making contact. Funny…during those fifteen months apart she’d felt closer to him than she felt right now, only a foot away.

She took a step back. And another. Tomorrow…tomorrow would be better. Tonight they’d sleep and clear their heads if they could.

Three days in and Nora had to admit that things between them would never be like they used to be.

“Nora?”

She spun back around. Wesley turned the full force of his gaze onto her face. His eyes burned as bright as the candles in the gazebo.

“What is it, Wes?”

“I should hate you…but I don’t.”

Nora recognized the look in his eyes. She’d seen it in the eyes of dozens of men—the heat, the hunger, the need... But never had it shone so sweet, so bright and so beautiful.

No, things would never be the same between them again. But they might be better.

For three years Wesley had loved her and wanted her. He’d even saved himself for her.

Three years…she wouldn’t make him wait another day longer.

NORTH

The Past

One day passed. Two days. By day three Kingsley thought he would die if Søren didn’t make some kind of move on him again. He’d never been in this position before. Always he’d been the pursuer, the seducer. He chose a girl and made the right moves on her, and when he invited her to his bedroom and told her to open her legs, she did as she was told. Always. Without fail. Then he let her go and left her to wait by the phone for his next summons.

Now he waited and watched and told himself, “Today…it will be today.” But it wasn’t today. Or the next.

Kingsley had never been more grateful that the bathrooms in the older boys’ dorm had doors that locked. He’d been spending more time than usual there, and not for reasons of hygiene or gastrointestinal distress. This torture, this horrible waiting for Søren to strike, kept Kingsley in a constant state of nervous arousal. He’d come and in mere minutes would be feeling the familiar tightness in his stomach, the ache in his back, the strain in his thighs... Nothing could and would alleviate the need but a night with Søren. A night that never seemed to come.

After one week back at school, Kingsley decided that Søren had been f**king with him. That night in the forest had been violence and nothing more. Not lust, not love…mere violence. It had meant everything to Kingsley and nothing to Søren. At least that’s what he told himself, or tried to. Had he still been Stearns and not Søren, Kingsley might have believed that night had meant nothing. But he knew Søren’s name now and he felt the power of that. So he continued to walk around with his testicles as heavy as lead, his stomach sore, his heart in agony.

On Friday night sleep was impossible for Kingsley. The physical discomfort paled before the mental anguish of wanting Søren and waiting for Søren and getting absolutely nothing from Søren.

At some point Kingsley nodded off, because he dreamed of a house and a bed on fire, and woke up just as the flames began to lick at his legs. His eyes shot open and he sat up in bed, panting. Raising a hand to his forehead, he felt his sweat-soaked skin. He ran his fingers through his long, wet hair.

A cup of cold water came to his lips and Kingsley gulped it eagerly.

Wait. Water?

Kingsley nearly choked on the water, but a hand covered his mouth and silenced his cough.

“Are you sick?”

Kingsley felt the whisper more than heard it.

He shook his head and the hand slowly came away from his mouth.

“Merci,” he said. “Not sick. Just a bad dream.”

The bed shifted slightly and Kingsley’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. Søren sat on the edge of his bed, holding the now-empty glass of water.

Kingsley blinked, not quite certain he was awake. Søren on his bed in the middle of the night. He’d dreamed of this. Daydreams, but still dreams.

He’d never seen Søren so casually dressed before. He had on only pants and his white oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar. No tie. No vest. No jacket. No shoes, even.

No shoes? Kingsley looked at Søren’s bare feet. Silence. He wore no shoes so he could move in the corridors in silence. Good thinking. Kingsley would remember that.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in French. If one of the other boys woke up and overheard them talking, at least he wouldn’t understand what they were saying.

Søren didn’t answer at first. But no words were necessary, not with the look in his eyes. For days now Kingsley had lived on the edge of panic at the mere thought of another night with Søren—or worse, that he’d never have another night with him. But now that Søren sat on his bed, ready to take him, Kingsley went utterly calm. His racing heart stilled. His breathing settled.

Anywhere…he’d follow Søren anywhere. And anything…he would do anything Søren asked of him.

Søren stood up and walked to the door. Reaching under his bed, Kingsley grabbed his T-shirt and a small overnight bag.

As they left the room, Kingsley glanced around to make sure all his dorm mates still slept. As clever as he was with lies, he couldn’t think of any probable explanation for why he and Søren were skulking about in the middle of the night together.

In silence they slipped through the dormitory, the tile of the floor cool and slick beneath Kingsley’s bare feet. He walked behind Søren, not beside him. Søren hadn’t told him to in words, but the imperious nature of his posture demanded Kingsley walk behind, and something inside Kingsley gloried in taking the lesser role.