Just in case you ran out of peaches.
Text me?
– C.
I shouldn’t text Christoph. I walked away from the matchmaking event. I have fairly serious plans to accept the Mertons’ suit, but … I’m feeling just a little weak-kneed from the reasoning behind all of the duke’s peach-themed gifts. Specifically, his confession that my ass looks like a peach to him.
And it would be terribly impolite not to at least thank Christoph for the sweet gift.
I open my message app and start a text thread.
Lord Williams, thank you so much for the lovely gift.
Sully is smirking over the back of the couch at me.
Setting my phone facedown on the counter, I narrow my eyes at him, then lift my chin offishly.
He chuckles, then says, “Let’s order in Indian for dinner.”
“Yes,” I say, perfectly polite. “That sounds lovely.”
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text message from Christoph.
>Have dinner with me this week? I’ll be heading to London in the next couple of days.
I stare at the message for a moment, completely conflicted.
“That was a quick answer,” Sully says playfully. “Think he’s been watching his phone since he had the gift delivered?”
“Sully …” I murmur, half-heartedly chastising him.
“Mirth …” he purrs back, sliding off the couch and prowling toward me.
“We haven’t talked about all of this …” I say, swallowing and glancing down at Christoph’s message on my phone.
Sully rests his chin on my shoulder, watching as I take a deep breath, then text back.
I’m uncertain of my schedule this week, Lord Williams.
>Please keep me in mind, Your Highness.
“That’s not too much to ask,” Sully whispers against the sensitive skin behind my ear. Then he slides his hand up under my sweater to cup my breast, flicking my quickly hardening nipple through the fabric of my bra. “Is it?”
“No,” I groan, pressing back into his hold. “That’s not too much to ask.”
“Text the poor duke back then, Mir.” Sully kisses me, lightly sucking his way down my neck.
I text back,I will.
“Such a perfect princess,” Sully croons, sliding his other hand down the front of my jeans.
I misplace my phone somewhere between the kitchen and bedroom. And we have to heat the Indian food up … a couple of hours after it gets delivered.
It’s stilldark beyond the drawn curtains as I slip out of my bed, leaving Sully sprawled across the other side. He’s nude, barely covered in a sheet. Forcing myself to keep moving and not just gaze at my best friend like a complete and utterly infatuated idiot, I grab some clothing from the closet.
The two of us finally collapsed into bed — to actually sleep — only a few hours ago.
I shower quickly, avoiding getting my hair wet, then slap on just enough makeup to counter the I’ve-only-had-three-hours-sleep-because-fucking-my-best-friend-is worth-the-exhaustion bags under my eyes. I tug on some dark-gray, straight-legged jeans I’ve owned long enough for them to go out of style, yet haven’t really worn long enough for them to not feel overly new, and a long-sleeved, tightly knit merino sweater. I’ll add Sully’s gifted duster and boots over top of it all.
