Eat the Poor

XXIII

I would never grow tired of looking at my King.

He slept how he lived, curled up timidly, holding his pillow close, taking up only a small portion of the vast bed. The canopy curtain was slightly open, revealing his sleeping form as I stooped to collect my boots. His nightshirt had gathered in delicious places, a little snug against his belly, pulled taunt around his thighs. I so painfully lusted to make him fall from grace, and yet I could not. He was grace itself, beauty itself.

Philip murmured unintelligibly and shifted, his back curving as he stretched. I set my boots down and reached for him instead. He stirred when the back of my finger tickled gently under his nose.

"Morning, little lamb," I whispered.

His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and heavy with sleep. "Where... you going?"

I grinned. "Better piss off before old Beau-Beau has my head, aye?"

A grumpy whine escaped him, like a kitten pet the wrong way. "Stay."

Tempting. I let our fingers lace together, my thumb rubbing gentle circles over the side of his. "Your hands are so soft," I murmured.

He traced the faded scars and callouses along my palm with a childlike curiosity, drawing me closer to his bed. "Yours are rough," he giggled. He paused then, words seeming to linger on his tongue. "And warm."

I studied my own hands. The bath had done me a world of good, but there was still traces of dirt beneath my fingernails and in the creases of my knuckles. Embarrassment kicked inside my chest. These were not hands fit to touch the King. I could scrub them for hours and they would still be too dirty.

"Am I keeping you from work?" He looked up at me.

I lifted my free hand and scratched the back of my neck. "I haven't quite... gone to work as of late."

The King frowned. "What am I going to do with you?"

I pressed one knee to the mattress. "Mmm... bad things?"

His hand lingered in mine, smooth nails against my palm that someone had cut and rounded to perfection. Every detail, every finger, every lock of hair, had been flawlessly crafted by dozens of hands. The King was more than just a man. He was an image. A vision. His body, a work of art.

Would I ever be more than just a stain on his painting?

"Come here," he whispered, soft lips curved in a smile. He slid back to make room for me and I crawled in beside him, a dirty rat following the aroma of sweet dough into the bakery.

I rolled on top of him and caressed his messy curls, pushing them back from his forehead to gaze into his eyes. We laughed together, noses brushing, lips inviting a kiss. So soft and supple, such a perfect shape. I waited for his slight nod, and then without a word our lips melted together, breathless and yearning.

"I'll work today." I kissed his jaw and nipped at his earlobe. "I promise."

"You better."

My lips skimmed over his exposed neck, cool breath making him shiver and squeeze his legs together. I could see the marks along his throat that I'd left yesterday, and dusted them with light kisses as his hips twitched helplessly beneath mine.

He raised a hand to the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, while my own hands slid down his sides and explored the supple handfuls of flesh that softened his waist. One tug pulled him closer, eager to feel that delicious pressure of skin on skin.

This time, as I rubbed myself against him, a soft whimper escaped his full lips. Smirking, I glanced down. The loose fabric of his nightshirt betrayed his arousal.