Page 118 of Spearcrest Prince

Anaïs

AsmuchasIwish I could spend what’s left of my time at Spearcrest in Sev’s bed, that doesn’t happen. I have my portrait and my display to finish, and Sev has his speech to write. We still see each other enough for some stolen kisses, but we both have too much work to do more than that.

Two days before the exhibition, I text him.

Anaïs: How’s the speech coming along?

He texts back straight away.

Séverin: Not well. Redrafting is worse than drafting.

Anaïs: Can I help?

Séverin: How are you with public speaking?

I wriggle in my bed, repulsed at the mere thought of it.

Anaïs: Not great.

He sends me a stressed emoji, then a text.

Séverin: Then you can’t help.

I laugh and lock my phone, but it lights up a few minutes later.

Séverin: You can help me after the exhibition when I’m tense and traumatised from the whole thing, and I need something to help me relax.

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh.

Anaïs: Something like a soothing cup of camomile tea?

His reply pops up.

Séverin: I was thinking something more along the lines of me on my knees in front of you.

This time, it takes me a minute to respond. I lie back, letting my heartbeat still. Then I respond.

Anaïs: Or maybe the other way around…

Séverin: Thanks for the mental image. How am I going to write that cursed speech now?

Anaïs: Just concentrate.

Séverin: The only thing I can concentrate on is picturing your pretty mouth on my cock.

My stomach clenches, and I squeeze my thighs around the throbbing between my legs. If only we didn’t have the stupid exhibition to worry about. If only Sev were here in my room, in my bed. If only we’d been doing this all along.

We wasted so much time. Time we’ll never get back.

And we have nobody but ourselves to blame.

Thedaybeforetheexhibition, I go to the gallery to check my display for the last time.

It’s a bittersweet feeling: I’m proud of my work—it’s a beautiful display, full of colour, and it reflects the truth of my world. The new painting, though it was rushed and more conventional than my usual work, fits perfectly with the colours and mood of the display. That painting will never truly replace the one that was destroyed, but it is something I’m proud of.

But my parents aren’t coming, and Noël is so far away… I didn’t have the heart to ask him to come.

I’m proud of my display—but only strangers will see it.

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