Page 87 of The Prince and the Ice King

He sank, almost falling into the spot of wetness he’d streaked across the bed, but held himself up by sheer will, back arched and thighs spread to anchor against the king’s final pumps—and oh, he wanted him to stay inside forever.

“Stay…,” he croaked, no breath left for anything more, but it was enough that the king didn’t pull out when he hit his peak.

Another grunt came, a sharp clutch at Reardon’s skin, and then a glorious warmth filled him. The king sank as Reardon had, held up just enough to not smother Reardon to the bed, both shaking and panting and sheened in sweat.

Reardon ached, more exhausted than the first time, likely not helped by his drunken slumber last night, but it had been worth every pained progress toward bliss.

“What a mess… you’ve made of my sheets,” the king huffed, lifting Reardon’s shirt to press a tender kiss to the skin between his shoulder blades.

“You’ll have to clean me up again.”

“Indeed.” The king rumbled a throaty laugh.

After a few more captured breaths, he pulled up and dragged Reardon with him. Reardon would have needed the helping hand being led to the bath even if he hadn’t been blindfolded. The ache was pleasant but definitely threw off his balance.

Once more, he found himself soaking in sweet-smelling water with the Ice King, human and comforting, at his back. A warm cloth was dragged over his body, between his legs, his cheeks, almost enough to twitch him to life again, but the touch was fleeting, and soon they were lying together with the king’s arms loosely holding Reardon to him.

“Even after that… you still do not believe you are my love?” Reardon asked, resting his head on the king’s shoulder.

Silence answered for a good many moments before he said, “You will find someone more worthy someday.”

Reardon thought of Raphael, who was very handsome and disarming. He thought of Lombard too, but that was a child’s dream. Neither of them made Reardon hesitate to say, “There is no one of more worth to me than you, Majesty.”

“And what if you only think that because you already believe I’m your love without actually feeling it?”

“I’m not so easily swayed, even by Barclay’s visions. I believe some things are fated, but that doesn’t take away our ability to choose. If I didn’t want you to be my love, you simply wouldn’t be.” Reardon knew that wasn’t the same as saying he loved the king now, but he believed he was on that path.

“Then perhaps it is only because I am the first touch you have ever known.”

“That too discounts what I liked about you long before I knew your touch. You have all the qualities I am usually drawn to.”

“Being stubborn, vicious, and either monstrous or scarred?”

“I’d say… resilient, passionate, maybe a little tragic, yes, but also kind. I don’t know the man you were, but I know the man you are. And I don’t care about scars.” Reardon turned, moving between the king’s legs to face him in the large bath.

Reaching out with both hands, he found firm shoulders first, and then moved up the king’s neck to the curves of his face. He could feel scars there too, but it didn’t matter.

Crawling more securely into the king’s lap, Reardon held his face in his palms to guide him to his lips. Kisses were written about by bards as much as lovemaking or romance. Reardon thought he could have kissed the king, mouth open or closed, well into the night and written sonnets in his head.

“Majesty—”

“Go back to your room.” The king stopped him from asking the same old question to finally see him. “Sleep, little prince. You’ll grow tired of me soon enough.”

“I could—”

“It’s best if you don’t stay.”

The small win was in how much more gently the king pulled Reardon from the bath, dried him, and helped him dress, before leading him to the door.

Reardon stepped outside when it was opened for him but reached back to halt its closing and said, “Good night, Majesty. But I promise you, someday soon, you will let me sleep in that bed again.”

Chapter 9

Reardon

Reardon knew he wasright. Even without Barclay’s vision, he would have been certain that his destiny was upon him—saving his kingdom, savingthiskingdom, and finding a love of his own at last.

No casual touches with Barclay brought forth any new insight, only the occasional frown and Barclay once again reminding Reardon to take his cold-resistance draught. Still, Reardon remained confident as the days passed. The nights were what he looked forward to most, spent in the arms of the king.

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