My Prince by Anna Martin Page A

“Conflicted.”
    “Oh?”
    George moved one hand and carefully worried Alex’s nipple through his shirt. He pressed a slack kiss to Alex’s throat, and Alex forgot nearly every thought that was in his brain.
    “Why are you conflicted?” George growled.
    The stone wall at Alex’s back was cold. The chill prickled at his neck, and he reached again for George’s waist.
    “Because I wasn’t going to ask you to come back to mine tonight,” Alex said, the words taking longer than they should to come out. His brain was fried . “But every second you do that makes me lose control a little bit more.”
    George chuckled low in his throat. “What makes you think I want to go back to yours?”
    “Um…. Your hard-on pressing into my thigh?”
    George laughed then, a different sound, rich and warm and right. “You may have a point.”
    “So…. Will you? Come back with me?”
    George had the best example of resting bitch face Alex had ever seen. Even when relaxed and calm, his brow was furrowed and his eyes were angry; his bottom lip was full enough that it looked like he was constantly pouting. Up close like this, Alex could see the very fine white scar that tugged the corner of George’s top lip up into a permanent snarl. He’d obviously split it at some point and it had healed crooked. With his buzzed short hair and unshaven jaw, George looked tough, rough, mean.
    Then he smiled, and his whole face lit up with sweet softness. “Yeah.”
    “Good,” Alex said and bit George’s pouty bottom lip. “Let me go settle the bill and call a cab.”
    “Nuh-uh. I’ll split it with you.”
    “I asked you out, I’ll cover the bill.” He pressed his hands to George’s chest and thought about the possibility of getting this man naked again. “Can you go and get our coats, though?”
    George nodded, then his eyes glazed over. He turned Alex slowly, backing him against the wall and slipping his tongue between Alex’s lips. It took another five minutes before Alex managed to get as far as the bar.
    By the time they got outside, it was after midnight and the March air was bitingly cold, enough to sober them both up and calm some of the intense heat that had been building between them. The cab was waiting, thank God, and Alex gave his address and quick directions to the driver as George climbed into the back.
    It was a city cab, rather than a car, so there was plenty of space in the back for George to stretch out his legs, and Alex reached for George’s hand experimentally. He still wasn’t sure how out George really was, so he was pleased when their fingers were twined together.
    The journey back to his flat didn’t take long. He lived far enough away to justify taking a cab—plus, it was cold—while still living in the middle of Edinburgh. Marchmont was an area of old Victorian tenements: long rows of tall buildings, each containing beautiful flats that could easily house a whole family. His own was just behind the main road, with a small garden in the front and black and white checkered tiles on the porch.
    Alex caught George looking.
    “Nearly all of the tiles are original or restored,” Alex said.
    “It’s beautiful.”
    “Thanks.”
    He let them in, pleased that he’d left the heating on so it was toasty and warm.
    “Nice place,” George said as Alex closed the door and locked, then bolted it.
    “Thank you. I like it.”
    The flat was a split level: a living room and huge kitchen on the ground floor, then two bedrooms and a bathroom below. Like most of the buildings in this area, the flat still boasted most of the original features—high ceilings with intricate coving, wooden floors, huge sash windows that let the light flood in. Alex had found antique chandeliers and furniture that either complimented the old features of the house, or contrasted with them in an interesting way.
    George shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes, then set the former on a hook near the door and the latter underneath.