Page 133 of Long Live the King

But I know he’s only just getting comfortable with the concept of a relationship, let alone love.

The other day I was playing chess with Rhys, or at least attempting to, as he teased me mercilessly.

“Might as well just give up now Bellamy, there’s no saving your game now.”

"If you didn’t talk so much maybe I’d be able to focus more.” I grumble at him grumpily. “I just want to win one game.”

“If you played a better game I wouldn’t need to distract myself with idle chit chat, darling.”

“Don’t call my girlfriend ‘darling’, fucker.” A voice thunders from the doorway, making me jump. I set the piece I’m holding down randomly.

Rhys cheers and moves his bishop. “Checkmate! And girlfriend? “

He’s asking the question on the tip of my tongue. This is news to me.

“Isn’t that what you are?” Rogue asks, looking me in the eye.

I nod, slowly.

“Good. Then that’s sorted. I have to go to class, I’ll see you guys later.”

It’s not the most romantic of declarations but it’s Rogue so it’s perfect.

“Wait.” I say as I run up to him and, when he’s turned around, jump on him.

He catches me easily and my legs wrap themselves around him. He holds me by my ass cheeks, groaning as he pulls me closer to rub against his length. I bring my face down to his and kiss him softly.

One of his hands moves to cup my head as he deepens the kiss, moaning into my mouth. I let myself slide down his body slowly.

“Have a good day.” I say as he licks his lips, his gaze hazy with lust.

“You’re lucky I have a presentation today, otherwise I’d stay here and make you pay for turning me on before class.”

Once I’m on the ground, he slaps my ass sharply and bites my earlobe.

“See you later, Bell."

The door closes behind him and I turn back towards Rhys.

“Girlfriend status, huh?”

“Apparently.” I say as I try to keep the stupid grin from hitting my face.

“I like who he is with you.” He says, giving me an approving smile.

???

Sometimes he gets a faraway look in his eyes. Or he starts fidgeting with a cigarette, playing it back and forth in cool tricks through his fingers.

In those moments I know he’s thinking about his mom.

I think he’s processing. Or whatever his version of processing is.

He brings her up a few times. Once when we walk past a ride around, he tells me about the time she let him cut class and took him on rides for the day when he was eight years old.

Or the time when his dad was away on a business trip and she threw him a half-birthday party.

“She just wanted an excuse to throw me a party.” He says with a faraway smile.

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