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.
"I know what you are thinking," he murmured. "Philip, you've been led to sin. Well, let me remind you that the Devil tempts every good man in his weakest state. Sleep."
I smiled against his lips. "You wouldn't be having any unholy dreams, would you, sire?"
"I shall pretend I did not hear that vile accusation."
"You can tell me," I coaxed. "What were you dreaming about?"
He shivered and leaned back, letting me close in on him. "Why should I tell you?"
"So I can make them come true, darling."
There wasn't an inch of his flesh I didn't wish to taste. Only the thin material of his nightshirt covered him, the barrier keeping us apart. My knee slipped between his thighs and he rubbed against me, his soft belly rising and falling as his breath hitched.
I watched his brow pinch as he attempted grinding on my leg, his movements those of a clumsy novice. The poor boy had no idea what he was doing. With a grin, I dipped my head and left a slow kiss at the base of his throat. "I can help you," I whispered, hand poised to slide up his nightshirt. "I'm good."
"Wait, Auden." His voice floated to my ears like tendrils of smoke. "There's something you should know..."
Before he could continue, a thunderous knock sounded a the door.
Philip jumped.
I cursed under my breath. I felt like a mule with a juicy carrot dangling before its face, lured further down a weary path.
Surely I'd committed some grave sin to deserve this curse.
When I met Philip's eyes, I realized he was thinking the same thing. He struggled to clear his throat and sat up, craning his head toward the door. "N-Not now, Beauregard!" he called, his voice raspy and strained.
"Your Majesty!" The deep, sturdy voice did not belong to the Lord Chamberlain. I heard a scuffle of footsteps and a body slam against the door. "Your Majesty, I insist-"
"Another time!" Philip yelled.
A second voice came softer. "You heart the King."
We waited until the footsteps retreated, a chorus of reluctant grumbling slowly quieting, and then at last Philip made a grimacing face at me and slumped back down. "That could have been important."
"Probably not." I kissed him, eager to resume, and let my fingers glide skillfully up his thigh. "You were saying?"
His eyes went wide with fear as my hand inched higher.
I paused.
"You don't like when I touch you," I murmured. Half observation. Half question.
"I do-" He embraced me suddenly, surprising me. I stiffened up at first, then relaxed slowly and wrapped my arms around him too. "I like everything you do."
His face was buried in my neck, his hands clutching at me. I found myself holding him protectively, like he was something small and fragile.
It didn't matter what I wanted, I decided. It didn't matter how painfully I ached. I would wait as long as he wished.
For a second Philip peeked up at me. His lower lip trembled like he was about to cry.
"What's wrong, sweetness?" I whispered. Did he think I would hurt him? Did he think someone would find out?
"It's silly, really," he murmured, holding me close. "I just... I did not want you to be disappointed."
"Why would I be disappointed?" I had to lean back to focus, because if I was too close to him, my mind would enter a delirious state in which all I could imagine was making him mine.
He gave me a woeful frown. "My father... he called the physician... I couldn't... he said I have no carnal appetite. He was so disappointed... I still remember his face-"
"Philip, slow down," I interrupted. A knot had formed in my stomach. "What does your father have to do with any of this?"
"My father always... enjoyed women," he began. "When my mother refused to submit to him, or she was too heavy with child, he would turn to... well, his-"
"Whores," I said for him. I could picture it well. Philip III surrounded by smiling courtesans, each with a broad, overspilling bosom, perhaps feeding him exotic foods and mewling at his every touch as if he were a god.
"It drove her to the grave, I think," he whispered. "My mother. She was so humiliated. He would do it... in front of us." His arms wrapped around his chest. "And then, when I was fourteen, he decided it was time I became a man."
My heart sank slowly. With every word, it pressed lower into my gut.
"He... brought them to my chambers... the women... the whores." He took a breath before continuing. "But I couldn't... perform... all I saw was his face, standing by the door. Watching. Just watching."
Suddenly I was nine years old again, playing marbles in the dusty London street. Looking up at the man with his trousers unbuttoned and his hand flying furiously as he watched the children play with a sick grin.
"The physician asked me all sorts of questions... I didn't understand. He said our bloodline was in danger. It was all my fault. He should have had another son-"
"No, no," I struggled out. "Listen to me. Please listen to me. You were too young." I was too young. "You were just a child." I was just a child. "It never should have happened." I clasped both his hands in mine. "What he did to you was wrong."
I wanted to comfort him, to hold him, but the feeling was still foreign to me. All I knew was rough, dirty, angry. How to hurt or let myself be hurt. How to keep the tears out of my eyes or summon them if it suited a man's fancy. How to smile for coins but never share a true one with a lover.
The truth was, I was as clueless as he.
"We could... try things together," I murmured after some thought. "It wouldn't matter how you performed. It's only me, after all."
Philip's teeth sank into his lip. He always did that when he was thinking, or nervous. But this time his eyes gleamed with hungry curiosity.
Tenderly, watching him closely, I pulled him in and pressed a slow kiss to his plush lips. He responded tentatively, his hands lingering on my shoulders as if afraid to touch anywhere else.
"Here," I breathed, taking his hands in my own. I placed them on my chest and let him explore my lean pectorals. "You can touch me."
He ran both hands downward, pausing to feel my stomach tighten. Lower. The bottom of my stomach. I held my breath, lips pinched together. Lower. He'd reached my trousers now. I imagined how nice his soft palms would feel.
Philip looked up, his eyes big, then moved my hand to the top of his thigh. "Auden... you touch...?" he mumbled in a way I took to mean, Will you touch me?
I pushed the curtains open and stood, turning back to face him. "Come to the edge of the bed."
Hesitantly, he shifted over and sat with his feet grazing the ground, knees pressed together.
"Open your legs."
He let out a nervous laugh. "Auden..."
"Open them."
He obeyed. The linen of his nightshirt hitched around his hips and I lowered myself between his legs, keeping my brown eyes locked on his wide amber ones.
Gently, I kissed both his knees, then took my time advancing inward. Philip's head fell back, his legs spreading further as my mouth explored between them.
"Oh," he breathed. "I like... when you kiss..."
Patience, I gritted to myself. I spent an eternity just kissing his creamy inner thighs, hearing my heartbeat in my ears, feeling it in my cock. Closer now. His skin was so soft here, so warm. I fought off the urge to sink my teeth in.
Philip's fingers slid down and gripped a fistful of linen, dragging it up along his belly and exposing himself to me. A rush of blood shot straight downward as I looked at him, erect and shivering, waiting for me.
When I hesitated, he scooted forward sharply. "Auden-"
Victory. "Yes?"
He pushed my head wordlessly.
"Apologies, sire," I murmured. "I don't understand."
"Please, please. Kiss. Here." He pushed his hips up toward me.
A wicked grin split my face. Then I lowered my head and wrapped my lips around him.
With a heavy gasp, his fingers slid through my hair, lost in newfound bliss. The sound drew a chuckle from deep in my throat.
I was good at this.
My wet tongue curled and flicked teasingly as I bobbed up and down his length, cheeks hollowed out, lips sealed tightly. I searched for his eyes, half-lidded and clouded with pleasure, his freckled cheeks flushed and burning. One hand tangled in my hair while the other pressed hard over his mouth.
A foreign feeling had overtaken me, something primitive, animalistic. Everything I had taught myself over the years - how to remove myself from my work, shut off my senses, disappear somewhere in my mind - flew out the window. I felt every second. I loved every second.
Philip's back hit the mattress, his bare toes curling and his knees spreading out until they were hooked over my shoulders. He rewarded me with soft little moans, muffled beneath his palm.
"Feels good," he managed, his voice a high-pitched whimper. "Feels so good."
I opened my throat and took his entire length, never once slowing my pace. He let out a desperate whine and tugged my hair again. The twinge of pain only made me throb harder.
His hips jolted, and I could tell he was close. "Oh, Auden, Auden," he slurred. "Don't stop, don't stop."
Stake your claim.
I placed both hands on his hips to hold them down as he bucked and squirmed. Then I lowered my mouth one final time and took every last inch of him.
Philip's head slammed against the pillow as he cried out, filling my throat with his release.
I savored the taste of him, savored the sight of his quivering legs and the hair between his hips damp with my saliva.
His red curls were spread on the pillow like a halo, a broken halo for a ruined angel.
I rose to my feet and ran a thumb over my lower lip. "You see?" I smirked. "There's nothing wrong with you."
He let out a weak groan, lifting his head feebly and reaching for me. I crawled over and propped myself up on my elbows.
"I've never enjoyed that before," I admitted.
"Neither have I."
I broke into a grin. "I know. You've never done anything, have you?"
He shook his head. I kissed the tip of his nose and pulled him closer.
And to think, I had nearly driven myself mad two nights ago asking him if he called servants to his chambers!
Just as his lips reached mine, a body slammed against the door and three men in red uniforms barreled into the room.
The man leading the charge was older, with a gray beard and two long tendrils of mustache extending far past his cheeks. His eyes were wild. "Your Majesty!"
The footman looked abashed. "I tried to stop him, sire."
"Your Majesty, there is a situation out-" He stopped for a split second as he saw us. Our unruly hair. Philip's nightshirt still up about his waist. My hands on his bare skin. Then the man regained his composure. "Outside."
The King rose from his bed with impressive dignity, letting his nightshirt fall back in place. He kept his head high and his voice smooth. "Of what situation do you speak, Captain Fitzhugh?"
The gray-beared man dipped into a hasty bow before crossing the room. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. You needn't look further than just outside-" He gestured to the balcony doors.
"The peasants, sire," another guard broke in. "They've gathered in the courtyard. They refuse to work."
My chest tightened. I looked to Philip, hoping he would meet my eyes, but he ignored me, joining Fitzhugh at the glass doors.
"There they are, Your Majesty," the older man murmured. With the King's nod, he turned the handle and opened the door a sliver, letting the voices of the crowd below sift through the room. Unintelligible conversation, some shouts.
I wondered if Geoff was there.
"They are protesting the tax," Fitzhugh explained. "I wished to inform you, Your Majesty, so you would not step outside this morning unprepared. I thought perhaps... well, that you might make a statement addressing their demands."
Unconsciously, I rose from the bed and made my way to the balcony doors.
"If undealt with, news will spread throughout London that you have no control of the people." The Captain kept his eyes steadily on the floor, so as to not challenge the King. "I only advise you... for the sake of your reputation-"
"Enough," Philip broke in. His voice was high again, wobbly. "I shall... p-prepare a speech later. Not now."
I wove around them, desperate to get a glance at the crowd. My eyes washed over the faces in the yard and picked out a few I'd seen in the servants' hall or out by the stable. Grungy, tattered shirts smeared in dirt.
They were workers. Nobodies.
My people.
Some shouted and pumped their fists at the sight of Captain Fitzhugh. Others talked amongst themselves, holding crumpled papers and long sticks with pointed ends. Several castle guards in their distinguishable red uniforms bordered the crowd.
"Sire, if I may-" The guard that had spoken before cut in. "The solution is simple. Go down there and threaten to shoot them all, they shall scatter like the roaches they are." He glanced at me and made a face of visible disgust.
I stared down at my clothes. Did I look like a roach? I had on my old vest, but I wore a clean shirt and trousers! Surely that counted for something.
"No, we should..." Philip struggled to swallow. "We should meet their demands."
Fitzhugh frowned. "What?"
"The tax..." He fumbled his hands together. "It is too strict. We should consider-"
"Sire, if you appease them, their demands will only grow. Peasants are like livestock, you see. They must be whipped into submission." The Captain let out a weary sigh. "You will learn these things in time."
Philip's eyes fell to the floor. "Yes. Yes, I know."
"Excellent. I shall give you a moment to ready yourself before you address them."
"No," the King blurted. "There will be no address. You... you deal with them."
Fitzhugh glanced at the other guards. They shifted uneasily. "Permission to use force as required, Your Majesty?" the Captain asked.
Philip was silent for a long moment before responding. "Permission granted."
Captain Fitzhugh leaned back, not yet satisfied.
"You were right, Captain," the King said. "Their selfish demands shall never cease if met with concession. Use all the force you feel is necessary. As you said they are..." He hesitated. "Livestock."
"Livestock," Fitzhugh repeated. He looked at me, and my fists tightened at my side.
The King kept his back to me as the guards exited, though I could see how badly he was shaking. When at last he turned I lowered my eyes, my single act of solidarity with my people.
They stood where I should have stood.
Cheering with them. Fighting for them. Hating him.
I wanted to hate him.
"You should go," he murmured after countless seconds.
I nodded once and moved to the bed to get my boots. My old, worn boots. My hands grazed them, calloused, scarred hands. Dirty. These were not hands fit to touch the King.
I sank into a bow before turning to leave. "Good day, sire," I said.
His voice cracked as it whispered the words that had once filled my head for days on end. "Good day to you, Mr Murray."