Page 3 of Rogue Royal
“Well, stop giving him work to do, and he won’t need to do it.”
Douglas waved him away. “I don’t mean that. He was hired as a social media manager, but he’s overseen my schedule for the past year or more. It’s not in his job description.” And if Maverick hadn’t mentioned it off-handily earlier, Douglas would’ve never thought about it, but now that he had, he was concerned Maverick was working too hard. Though why it concerned him, Douglas had no clue.
“Hmm. I’ll speak with Father. Hopefully, they are reimbursing him for the extra workload.” Frederick sniffed. “They should give him a medal.”
Douglas frowned and glanced over his shoulder. “What for?”
“Dealing with you.”
Douglas raced across the floor and pulled Frederick into a headlock. “That’s not nice!”
They tussled and scrapped for several long minutes, reminiscent of their early years when they had more freedom, then lay prone on the floor, breathing heavily and extremely ruffled.
“Keep your head down, Doug. It will die down as it always does.”
Rising to his feet, Douglas reached out a hand to help his brother. Frederick pulled him close, clasping the nape of Douglas’s neck and rested their foreheads together for a moment. Most people would see this as more affectionate than siblings usually were, but Freddie, Douglas and their younger brother, George, were extremely close and showed it in their behaviour—only in private, of course.
“Thanks, Freddie.” Douglas placed his forefinger under Freddie’s chin and slid it forward in a move him, Freddie, George, Patrick, Henry and Christian did with each other—a reminder to keep their chin up no matter what life threw their way. They weren’t called the Scandalous Six for no reason.
Freddie reciprocated. “Get some rest. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night.”
Douglas trailed back to his rooms, his mind whirling with the many infractions the media had accused him of—most of which weren’t true.
Sighing, he strode into his bathroom, hardly acknowledging the tiled floors and large jacuzzi, and instead shuffled to the enormous shower at the opposite end of the room. It was the thing he loved most about his rooms at Windsor.
Stripping, he threw his clothes in the basket and stepped into the shower, sliding the door closed behind him. He switched it on, and hot water cascaded over him. Closing his eyes, he allowed the heat to seep into his muscles, removing the tension that had accumulated over the hours since the alleyway.
Dropping his gaze to his cock, he saw the remnants of the lipstick, and he grew hard. He shouldn’t feel like that when the guy hadn’t known what he was doing, but Douglas was only human. Biting his bottom lip, he fisted his shaft, groaning as sparks of fire lit in his groin. He stroked his hand higher at an agonisingly slow speed, twisted under the head, swiped his thumb across his tip, then thrust his dick through the grip, twisting again at the base. This was his type of foreplay, the slow but steady climb to the brink with his knees trembling, his spine straight, and his whole body clenched in need. The demand to go faster, but the denial of the craving, shooting red hot spikes along his nerve endings.
When his body couldn’t take any more, he closed his eyes and pictured the man on his knees, his pink lipstick smudging along Douglas’s cock as he lifted his head, and Douglas bellowed his release into the shower where the water washed away the evidence.
He sagged against the cold tiles, panting, then cleaned and dried himself, wrapping the towel around his waist. His reflection stared back at him, accusing him. Why couldn’t he be like Freddie? Their parents didn’t care Douglas was gay, which was a blessing, but why couldn’t his life be quieter like George’s? George was younger than him by four years, but as third in line to the throne, he kept away from the limelight more than Freddie and Douglas could. He attended major events and had his own charities and duties he focused on, but mostly, he kept to himself.
If Douglas could have, he would’ve changed positions with George.
He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair and sighed. Nothing would change. He needed to get over it, as he’d said to Maverick.
Shame he couldn’t.
****
Chapter 2
Maverick
Maverick clutched the tablet in his hand and blew out a breath, rubbing at his temple with his free hand. The room they had allocated him at Windsor was several corridors and hallways away, but his feet took him there without issue. It wasn’t often he used the room, but the king wanted Mav to be close at hand when things like this happened. Which was more often than Mav was happy about.
He would’ve loved to return to his apartment, where he could relax and stop thinking about the bane of his existence. Being pissed off and tired was not a delightful combination, and he found himself dialling his boss, regardless of the time. If Mav had to be awake at two in the morning, then so did Bert.
“Hello?”
The sleep-filled voice didn’t make Mav feel bad. How could he feel bad about the person who was holding this job over his head?
“You need to get someone else to do this fucking job, Bert. I’ve had enough.” He didn’t mince his words. There was no point. He and Bert had been on the outs from the minute Mav had set foot in the company Bert owned, but Mav made it worse by making Bert look bad at an event two years ago.
Hence the reason he ended up babysitting Douglas fucking Sutcliffe. Oh, His Royal Highness, Douglas fucking Sutcliffe.
“Maverick? What the hell are you doing calling me at two in the morning?”
