Page 40 of How to Date a Prince

He laughs with delight. “Only you. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You must know what the others are working on, at least.”

“Well, yes. Because I talk to people, Auggie.”

“Ouch.”

Thomas grins, watching me move the pot to join the other pieces under plastic on the shelf. He then comes over to inspect the pieces.

“This is really cool.”

“Thanks.” And I can’t help the smile that comes.

“You’ve got me beat, I think.”

I shake my head. “Singing or playing guitar is more personal. This… I can make and then step back, and everyone looks at the work and not at me. It’s not the same.”

“Well, maybe. But it’s still beautiful. And it’s still very much you.”

My heart pounds. “Um, thanks?”

We’re standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body in the cool summer air. It’s taken till very late for the heat of the day to let up, but it feels like another heat wave’s picking up in here between us.

“Auggie,” he whispers eventually, searching my eyes. “I want to kiss you.”

“If I had a pound for every time I heard that—” And then I lean forward, brush his mouth with mine, and gasp at the contact. And then I’m kissing Thomas Golden, and I want to laugh at the surrealness of it. His mouth seeks mine in matching want, searching.

Thomas slides his arms around me, his hand on my arse and another at the nape of my neck, fingers buried in my hair. He’s holding me in such a way that I swear I can feel his heart pounding too. But he’s someone I can’t have?—

“Stop thinking,” he growls.

And I stop thinking. I kiss him again, our breath hot against my skin, and right now, Thomas is everything. And I kiss him more deeply as I wrap my arms around him, forgetting the clay all over me as I catch his face between my hands. He presses his hip into me, and then I groan softly.

Thomas tastes of heaven, of freedom, of all the things I can’t have—but desperately want. And I kiss him more urgently.

And then, he’s the one groaning in my arms, encouraging me with his mouth, his fingers tracing the curve of my arse, the small of my back. And I’m still kissing him, and kissing him like my life depends on it.

“You’re shaking,” he says at last when we finally pause.

“So’re you.”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah, in the best way. Fuck?—”

When I kiss him again, he pulls me tight against his body, so tight I can feel his cock pressing against me. I’m desperate for him, for the contact I crave?—

“Do you want me to stop?” he breathes against my ear, his fingers tracing round the waistband of my jeans and promising to move lower.

“Don’t you dare stop,” I gasp.

“Mmm.” He kisses me intensely, and I pull him tight, and we bang into the stone wall then, stirring up dust. My nose tickles. Patrick Swayze was far less clumsy inGhost, but we’re too greedy to worry about being careful.

His fingers loosen my jeans, and I’m begging him to continue, desperate and hot and breathless as I lean into the wall. I think Foster the People’s playing, and it’s the last coherent thing I can think of before he’s freed me from my boxers. My cock’s deep in his mouth, and I shudder hard as my balls tighten and heat burns from the core of me.

“Oh God—” I beg. “Fuck. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop now?—”

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