i love you, it's ruining my life

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

You stood behind Dick’s chair with one hand resting near the pommel of your sword, your armor polished, your expression composed, and your attention divided between the men arguing around the table and the prince whose shoulders had begun to slump beneath the weight of fiscal policy.

Lord Halyard had been speaking for nearly eleven minutes.

Dick leaned back just far enough that the carved wood pressed against the front of your breastplate. He did not turn his head.

“If I throw myself from the western tower,” he whispered, “would you be obligated to catch me?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Even if I specifically asked you not to?”

“Yes.”

“What if I made it an official command?”

“I would disregard it.”

A pause followed.

“Disobedience,” Dick murmured. “How exciting.”

You kept your attention on Lord Halyard, whose description of the southern wheat stores had somehow become more detailed.

Dick’s hand slipped beneath the table. A moment later, a folded piece of parchment appeared beside his elbow.

You stared at it.

He pushed it toward the edge of the table with one finger.

There were twelve councilors present, as well as King Bruce at the head of the table, the royal secretary, two scribes, four guards at the doors, and you. None of them appeared to notice that the heir to the throne was attempting to pass secret correspondence to his personal knight.

That only meant they had all learned not to acknowledge it.

You took the note.

Dick sat straighter as you unfolded it.

Lord Halyard’s mustache resembles an exhausted squirrel.

You folded the parchment again and placed it beside his hand.

Dick glanced back at you expectantly.

Your face remained still.

His expression fell with such theatrical disappointment that the royal secretary paused in her writing to hide a smile.

“You know,” Dick whispered, “most people would consider that funny.”

“Most people are not responsible for keeping you alive, Your Highness.”

“I fail to see how those matters are connected.”

“Your survival requires my concentration.”

“Surely you can concentrate while appreciating my wit.”

“I have never been presented with the opportunity.”

His eyes widened.

The secretary’s pen scratched sharply across the parchment. Across the table, Lord Foxworth coughed into his fist.

Dick turned fully in his chair, council meeting forgotten. His blue eyes were bright with triumph.

“That was a joke.”

“It was an observation.”

“You insulted me.”

“Your Highness, I would never.”

“You did. I heard you.”

King Bruce lifted his gaze from the report before him.

“Richard.”

Dick faced the table again. “Yes, Father.”

“If your knight has finally threatened you, I suggest you deserve it.”

A few of the councilors smiled. Dick looked wounded by the betrayal.

You remained motionless behind him, although satisfaction warmed beneath your breastplate.

Lord Halyard resumed his report. Dick lasted almost three minutes before passing you another note.

This one bore a poorly drawn squirrel with an enormous mustache.

You did not laugh.

You did keep the parchment.

Dick never noticed you slide it beneath the edge of your vambrace.

The truth was that you laughed often.

You laughed with the women who worked in the kitchens when they smuggled you honey cakes before dawn patrol. You laughed with the squires when one of them stumbled into the wash trough after claiming he could defeat you blindfolded. You laughed when the stable master complained that the palace’s most expensive warhorse had developed a personal grudge against decorative ribbons, and when the laundress’s youngest daughter followed you around the courtyard with a wooden spoon tucked into her belt as a sword.

You laughed loudly enough that Captain Gordon had once crossed the entire training yard to ask whether someone had been injured.

It was only around Dick that you seemed to lose the ability.

The problem was not that he failed to amuse you. The problem was that he succeeded far too easily.

Dick Grayson had been charming people since he was old enough to understand the effect of his own smile. Courtiers adored him. Soldiers would follow him into impossible battles. Visiting royals forgave him for ignoring protocol because he could make an insult sound affectionate and a diplomatic concession feel like a shared secret.

You had watched him dance with princesses, flirt with ambassadors, and kiss the hands of noblewomen whose fathers possessed useful armies. He offered warmth as naturally as breathing, and most people mistook it for intimacy.

You knew better.

Or you had tried to.

You had been appointed to his personal guard six years earlier, after distinguishing yourself during an attack on the northern road. Dick had been twenty, newly returned from his first military campaign and furious that his father intended to assign someone to follow him everywhere.

He had disliked the restriction.

He had liked you almost immediately.

By the end of your first week, he had learned your patrol schedule, your preferred sword, and exactly how close he could stand before you became visibly annoyed. By the end of the first month, he had begun leaving pastries beside your gauntlets before morning training. Within a year, he had confided in you about everything from the burden of the crown to the fact that he hated the ceremonial shoes required for state occasions.

You knew the names of the servants who had raised him. You knew which scars ached before rain and that he slept poorly after battles even when he claimed otherwise. You knew he checked every room for its exits without thinking and softened his voice around frightened children.

You also knew the precise shape of his mouth when he was attempting not to smile.

So you kept your own mouth firmly under control.

Affection encouraged carelessness. Desire encouraged worse. You had sworn to place Dick’s life before your own, and you could not afford to forget what he was simply because he insisted on making himself impossible not to love.

Your restraint had worked admirably.

Until the night he found you in the stables wearing an old linen shirt, feeding stolen apples to a foal while explaining to a barn cat why Lord Halyard’s mustache had become a matter of national concern.

“His Highness drew it himself,” you told the cat, who sat on an overturned bucket with a blue ribbon tied loosely around his neck. “The likeness was poor, but the spirit was accurate.”

The cat blinked.

“You are right. I should not encourage him.”

The foal nosed impatiently at your shoulder.

“You have already had three pieces.”

She nudged you again.

“You are becoming entitled.”

Her ears flicked forward.

“That was not praise.”

You surrendered another slice of apple.

The foal took it delicately from your palm, then sneezed so forcefully that warm breath and flecks of fruit struck your face.

You stared at her.

She stared back.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It grew when the cat, apparently offended on your behalf, leaped down from the bucket and swatted at the foal’s front leg. The foal jumped sideways. The cat fled beneath a wooden bench, blue ribbon trailing like the pennant of a retreating army.

“You are both ridiculous,” you said, still laughing as you wiped your cheek with your sleeve.

“I have spent six years trying to make that sound.”

Every trace of amusement vanished.

Dick stood at the stable entrance.

He was dressed in dark trousers, soft boots, and a loose white shirt open at the throat. His hair was disordered in a way that suggested he had been running his hands through it, and the candle he held painted gold along the edge of his face.

You rose too quickly.

The basket tipped beside your knee, sending apples rolling through the hay.

“Your Highness.”

Dick looked behind you, then beneath the nearby stall divider.

“Where did she go?”

Your heart was still beating too quickly from surprise. “Who?”

“The woman who was here a moment ago.” He stepped into the stable. “She looked exactly like you, but she smiled.”

“I do smile.”

“Not at me.”

“That is not true.”

He stopped beside an apple and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Name one occasion.”

You searched your memory.

Dick watched you struggle.

“Precisely,” he said.

The barn cat emerged from beneath the bench. Dick looked down as the animal wound around his ankle, the blue ribbon still tied around his neck.

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing.”

“He has a ribbon.”

“It is decorative.”

“Does he often decorate himself?”

You folded your arms.

Dick crouched, offering the cat his hand. The animal sniffed his fingers, then permitted Dick to scratch beneath his chin.

“What is his name?”

“He does not have one.”

Dick glanced at you.

The cat purred.

You looked away. “Sir Whiskers.”

Dick’s hand stopped.

“He was named by one of the kitchen children.”

“Of course.”

“I did not choose it.”

“Then why is he wearing your ribbon?”

You looked at the cat. The cat regarded you without loyalty or shame.

“He has sensitive ears,” you said. “He requires ornamentation.”

Dick laughed.

The sound filled the quiet stable, warm and startled and far too pleased. He rose, still grinning at you.

“You have been hiding an entire person from me.”

“I have done nothing of the kind.”

“You sneak into the stables after midnight, tell scandalous stories to animals, and knight cats.”

“I did not knight him.”

“He has a title.”

“It is part of his name.”

Dick stepped over the scattered apples. “Do the horses have names too?”

“Their names are written above the stalls.”

“I mean other names.”

You said nothing.

His grin widened. “They do.”

“Go back to bed, Your Highness.”

“I will not.”

“You have a diplomatic breakfast at sunrise.”

“I’m aware.”

“You require sleep.”

“What I require is an explanation.”

You bent to collect the apples. Dick knelt before you could stop him and reached for one at the same time you did. His fingers brushed yours.

You withdrew your hand.

The movement was small, but he noticed.

Dick’s expression changed.

The amusement remained, though it softened at the edges. He picked up the apple and placed it in the basket.

“Do you dislike me?”

The question was so unexpected that you stared at him.

He collected another piece of fruit, his gaze lowered. “You laugh with everyone else.”

“Your Highness—”

“I have heard you in the training yard. I didn’t realize it was you until now, but I remember the sound.” He placed another apple in the basket. “You speak freely with the squires. The kitchen staff know more about your life than I do, and I spend nearly every day with you.”

“You are my prince.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It answers all of it.”

Dick rose. You did the same, holding the basket between you like a shield.

He studied your face with an intensity you usually saw reserved for battle maps and political negotiations.

“Have I ever made you believe you cannot speak freely around me?”

“No.”

“Has anyone in my household treated you poorly for your position?”

“Never.”

“Then is it the title?”

You tightened your grip on the basket. “The title is not something that can be separated from you merely because you dislike its inconvenience.”

“I don’t want it separated from me. I want you to look at me and see something other than a responsibility.”

“That is precisely what I cannot afford to do.”

Dick went quiet.

Beyond the stable walls, the castle grounds were still. Rain had begun sometime after midnight, whispering against the roof and gathering in the gutters. The horses shifted in their stalls, accustomed to your presence and unconcerned by the prince who had entered their sanctuary.

Dick took the basket from your hands.

You let him, mainly because resisting would have required touching him again.

He set it on the bench.

“You think caring about me would make you worse at your duty.”

You stared at the hay near his boots.

“I already care about you,” you said. “That is part of the duty.”

“That isn’t what you meant.”

“You should return to your chambers.”

“You have faced armed men without retreating.”

“Armed men are generally less persistent.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled.

Dick saw it.

He stepped closer.

The movement placed him within reach, close enough that you could smell rain on his shirt and the faint cedar oil used in his rooms. Your training measured the distance automatically. A half step to intercept an attack. One movement to draw your sword. Less than a second to put yourself between him and danger.

There was no danger here except the one you had carried quietly for years.

Dick lifted his hand.

He paused before touching you.

When you did not move away, he plucked a piece of hay from your hair.

“You are allowed to be a person in my presence,” he said.

“Being a person is the problem.”

His fingers remained near your temple.

You could see the moment understanding began to form. Dick was clever enough that it did not take long, although disbelief arrived before certainty.

“All this time,” he said slowly, “I thought I was failing to charm you.”

You wished for an enemy to emerge from the rafters. You would have accepted an assassin, a fire, or the sudden collapse of the eastern wall.

Instead, you had Dick looking at you as though the entire night had rearranged itself.

“You succeeded years ago,” you admitted.

His lips parted.

Once the words existed, you could not force them back behind your teeth. Your composure, so carefully maintained for so long, seemed suddenly as fragile as a cracked shield.

“I took an oath to protect you,” you continued. “I stand outside your chambers. I accompany you to war. I watch you dance with women who may one day become your wife, and I remain close enough to hear every charming thing you say to them.”

“I don’t say the same things to them.”

“You told Princess Koriand’r that the stars had envied her entrance.”

“She had arrived during a meteor shower. It was contextually appropriate.”

“You compared Lady Helena’s eyes to moonlight.”

“She had a knife beneath her skirt. I was distracting her while you moved closer.”

“You sent flowers to Ambassador Bea.”

“Her nation controls the eastern shipping route.”

You stared at him.

Dick frowned. “Those examples are less compelling than I expected.”

A laugh threatened at the back of your throat. You swallowed it.

His eyes narrowed.

“Do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Laugh now.”

“That seems contrary to everything you have ever wanted.”

“You are confessing your love for me while presenting evidence that I am an indiscriminate flirt. I am trying to defend my honor.”

“I did not confess love.”

“You said I charmed you years ago.”

“That could mean anything.”

“Could it?”

He moved closer until only inches separated you. The softness in his face did not diminish the satisfaction in his eyes.

You had watched Dick negotiate with warlords. He was relentless once he discovered an advantage.

“Perhaps I find you mildly pleasant,” you said.

“Mildly.”

“When you are quiet.”

“You love me.”

“You are remarkably confident for a man who spent six years losing an argument with my face.”

His smile became brilliant.

There it was again, the expression that had won over kingdoms and soothed frightened soldiers. You had always resisted it in public. Here, with hay beneath your boots and Sir Whiskers cleaning one paw nearby, resistance felt less like discipline and more like cowardice.

Dick’s hand came to your waist.

He gave you time to stop him.

“Does your oath forbid you from kissing the prince?” he asked.

“It does not specifically address the matter.”

“An oversight.”

“A catastrophic one, apparently.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your side. “You could tell me to leave.”

“You would not listen.”

“I would if you meant it.”

The answer stripped the game from the moment.

Dick could be reckless, demanding, and infuriatingly amused by rules designed to protect him from himself, but he had never made light of your boundaries. Even now, when he had finally uncovered the affection you had concealed from him, his grip remained gentle.

You set your hand against his chest.

His heart beat hard beneath your palm.

Dick looked down at it, then back at you.

“I do not want you to leave,” you said.

He kissed you.

For all his confidence, the first touch of his mouth was careful. His lips brushed yours softly, testing whether you might change your mind. You had imagined kissing him often enough that the reality should not have surprised you, but imagination had never included the warmth of his hand at your waist or the quiet sound he made when you leaned closer.

You kissed him again before he could pull away.

Dick’s restraint broke.

He caught your face between his hands and kissed you with years of unanswered flirtation behind it. You gripped the front of his shirt, dragging him nearer, and his back struck the wooden divider beside the nearest stall.

One of the horses snorted.

Dick smiled against your mouth. “Scandalized.”

“Quiet.”

“You are kissing me in front of the royal cavalry.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed back.”

You pressed your mouth to his again to stop him speaking.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, then around your back. There was strength beneath the elegance the court expected from him, built through years of swordsmanship, climbing, riding, and the acrobatic training he still practiced whenever the master-at-arms was not watching.

He turned you smoothly, guiding you backward until your thighs met the edge of a heavy tack trunk.

You sat.

Dick stepped between your knees.

Without your armor, there was little separating you from him. Your linen shirt had been borrowed years ago from the knights’ laundry and worn soft through use. His hands settled on your thighs above your pants, warm and broad, while he kissed the corner of your mouth and then your jaw.

“You are very different off duty,” he murmured.

“I am never off duty.”

“You are feeding apples to a horse in the middle of the night.”

“I remain capable of drawing my sword.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It may become one.”

His lips moved beneath your ear. “That sounds familiar.”

You shivered.

Dick felt it. His mouth curved against your skin, but when he kissed your throat, the teasing gentled into something slower. He seemed determined to learn every reaction you had denied him, and you had spent too long hiding to know how to survive the attention.

Your fingers slid into his hair.

He exhaled against your neck.

“That,” he said, “was worth six years.”

“You have had women touch your hair before.”

“I have never wanted them to be you.”

The simplicity of it hurt more than any practiced declaration could have.

You tightened your grip and drew his mouth back to yours.

Dick kissed you until breathing became difficult. His tongue swept across your lower lip, and you opened beneath him, tasting the faint sweetness of the wine he must have drunk at dinner. His hands moved higher along your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs met your hips.

Heat gathered between them.

You became aware of every place your bodies touched. The press of him against your knee. The lean strength of his waist beneath your hands. The growing hardness beneath his trousers when you pulled him closer.

Dick broke the kiss with a ragged breath.

“Tell me to stop if this is too much.”

“You are still speaking.”

“I need you to understand.”

“I understand.”

His gaze searched yours. “Say it.”

The prince could command armies, but this was not an order. You heard the vulnerability beneath it, the need to know that the woman who guarded him was choosing this without duty, rank, or years of loyalty clouding the answer.

“I want you,” you said.

Dick’s eyes darkened.

“Good.”

He kissed you once, hard enough to leave you breathless, then lowered himself to his knees.

Your thoughts scattered.

“Dick.”

His head lifted.

It was the first time you had spoken his name that night. Perhaps the first time you had ever said it without a title while looking directly at him.

The expression on his face nearly undid you.

“Again,” he said.

“You are kneeling in the stable.”

“I am aware.”

“You are the crown prince.”

“I’m also very comfortable down here.”

“Someone could come in.”

“That is unlikely.”

“You came in.”

“I was searching for you.”

“You were wandering after midnight.”

“Semantics.”

His hands found the fastening of your pants.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the trunk.

Dick paused. “May I?”

Every sensible thought you possessed urged you to stand, restore your clothing, and escort him back to the safety of the castle before either of you destroyed the careful order of your lives.

You lifted your hips.

Dick smiled as he opened the fastening.

“You look far too pleased.”

“I have been imagining what it would take to make you lose your composure.”

“You could have simply asked.”

“I did. Repeatedly.”

He tugged your pants down over your hips, taking your undergarments with them. The cool stable air met heated skin. You shifted instinctively, but Dick’s hands settled on your knees before you could close them.

His teasing faded.

For a moment, he only looked at you.

You had faced enemy forces with fewer nerves than you felt beneath his gaze.

“Say something,” you muttered.

“You are beautiful.”

“That was predictable.”

“I can be more specific.”

“You should not.”

His thumb moved along the inside of your knee. “You are already wet.”

“Dick.”

“There. That expression.” His smile returned, slow and wicked. “I have been trying to see it for years.”

“You have never been close enough to earn it.”

“I intend to earn several.”

He pushed your knees farther apart.

The position left you exposed to him, trousers gathered around one boot, shirt rumpled around your hips. Dick leaned forward and kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your breath caught.

He kissed you again, higher this time.

The rough grain of the trunk pressed through your shirt beneath you. Hay rustled under Dick’s knees. Somewhere beyond the stable walls, rain continued to fall, concealing the quiet sounds neither of you could entirely control.

Dick’s mouth brushed the crease of your thigh.

You pulled lightly at his hair. “Do you know what you are doing?”

He looked up.

The question had been intended as provocation. His expression suggested he understood that.

“Would you like a list of references?”

You tightened your grip.

He laughed softly. “Jealous.”

“I am reconsidering the wisdom of leaving you armed.”

“My sword is in my chambers.”

“That is not what I meant.”

His grin flashed before he lowered his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue stole the rest of your threat.

Your thighs tensed around his shoulders. Dick held them open, firm enough to keep you where he wanted you without forcing the position. His tongue moved through your wetness, unhurried at first, learning the shape of you and the reactions you could not hide.

You pressed your lips together.

He looked up without lifting his mouth.

The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

You glared at him.

Dick licked slowly over your clit.

Your head tipped back.

A quiet sound escaped you, little more than a breath, but he heard it. His hands tightened on your thighs, and he repeated the motion with greater pressure.

Pleasure unfurled low in your stomach.

You had expected him to tease. Dick treated nearly everything as an invitation to play, and he had spent years provoking you simply to see whether you would respond. Between your thighs, however, his attention sharpened into something almost ruthless.

He watched you.

Every change in your breathing taught him something. When his tongue circled your clit and your hips lifted, he held you closer. When he drew back enough to press two fingers against your entrance, he waited until you looked down at him.

“Still want me?” he asked.

You could have struck him.

Instead, you said, “Yes.”

He slid one finger inside you.

The intrusion was easy, your body already slick from his mouth. Dick’s gaze remained on your face as he worked it deeper, curling experimentally until your grip in his hair became painful.

His eyes lit with discovery.

“You are unbearable,” you whispered.

“You like me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

He added a second finger.

Your legs opened wider.

Dick leaned in again, sealing his mouth over your clit while his fingers moved inside you. The combination tore through the last of your restraint. Your hips rocked toward him, seeking more, and he gave it willingly, following every movement with practiced precision.

You had been quiet in pain before. You had endured arrows pulled from flesh, bruised ribs beneath armor, and wounds stitched beside campfires without allowing Dick to hear more than a hiss between your teeth.

Pleasure proved harder to withstand.

A moan slipped into the stable.

Dick answered with a groan against you.

The vibration made you jerk. Your heel struck the side of the trunk, and one of the horses shifted uneasily in its stall.

“Quiet,” you gasped.

Dick lifted his head. His lips were wet, his hair disordered by your hands, and his eyes held enough satisfaction to be infuriating.

“You’re the one frightening the horses.”

“You are doing it deliberately.”

“Doing what?”

His fingers curled inside you.

Your answer dissolved into another broken sound.

Dick’s smile softened into something hungry.

“That.”

He returned his mouth to you.

You clapped one hand over your lips.

He objected immediately, catching your wrist and pulling it away. He laced his fingers through yours and pressed your joined hands against your thigh while his other hand continued to work between your legs.

“Dick,” you warned.

“I spent six years trying to hear you laugh.” His mouth brushed your inner thigh as he spoke. “I am not letting you hide every other sound from me.”

“We are in a stable.”

“Then you should be quiet.”

You stared at him.

He grinned.

Before you could answer, his tongue returned to your clit, and his fingers found the place inside you that sent heat blazing through your body.

Your hand crushed his.

Dick did not slow. He drove his fingers into you with an increasing rhythm, each stroke drawing you tighter. His mouth alternated between slow, broad licks and concentrated pressure that made your vision blur at the edges.

You tried to keep your voice contained.

The effort lasted until he sucked gently.

Pleasure snapped through you.

Your thighs closed around his head as your body tightened, hips lifting from the trunk. Dick held you through it, fingers continuing their steady motion while your release broke over you in waves.

You said his name.

Louder this time.

He drew out every tremor until you pushed weakly at his shoulder. Only then did he slow, pressing one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before withdrawing his fingers.

Your breathing sounded impossibly loud.

Dick remained kneeling between your legs.

His cheek rested against your knee. The sight of him there—the future king, flushed and smiling, his lips shining with evidence of what he had done—sent a fresh pulse of heat through you.

He lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.

“You are very expressive,” he said.

You covered his mouth with your free hand.

His laughter warmed your palm.

“I should throw you into the horse trough.”

Dick kissed the center of your hand.

“You would catch me before I hit the water.”

“I might reconsider my oath.”

“You love me too much.”

You lowered your hand.

His expression had become softer again, the teasing unable to hide what lay beneath it.

You touched his face.

Dick leaned into your palm.

“I do love you,” you said.

The admission felt different now. There was no armor between you, no council table or formal title behind which to retreat. You sat half undressed on a tack trunk while Dick knelt in the hay, and somehow the indignity made honesty easier.

His eyes closed for a moment.

When they opened, the prince had disappeared. There was only the man who had left pastries beside your gauntlets, trusted you with his nightmares, and spent six years trying to hear you laugh because he wanted some part of you that belonged to neither the crown nor your duty.

“I love you too,” he said.

You drew him up and kissed him.

The taste of yourself lingered on his mouth. Heat rushed through you at the realization, but the kiss remained tender, almost reverent. Dick settled between your knees again, one hand cupping the back of your neck.

His erection pressed against you through his trousers.

You reached for the fastening.

He caught your wrist.

“You don’t have to.”

“I am aware.”

His breath hitched when your palm moved over him.

“Someone may come in,” he reminded you.

“That did not concern you earlier.”

“I’m attempting to be responsible.”

“You are doing it poorly.”

“I’ve had little practice.”

You squeezed lightly.

Dick’s forehead dropped against yours.

“That,” he said hoarsely, “was unkind.”

“You like me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

You laughed.

It burst from you before you could stop it, bright and breathless and still tangled with the pleasure he had given you.

Dick went still.

He drew back just enough to look at you.

You became self-conscious beneath the wonder in his face. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are staring.”

“I know.”

“Stop.”

“I don’t think I can.”

You reached for your trousers.

Dick caught your hand again and kissed it.

“Do that again.”

“I cannot laugh on command.”

“I’m the prince.”

“That authority does not extend to laughter.”

“It should.”

“It does not.”

He kissed your palm. “I’ll petition the council.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Lord Halyard will support me if I promise never to draw his mustache again.”

“You would break that promise before midday.”

“Probably.”

You smiled.

Dick looked as though you had handed him the crown willingly.

The affection in his face threatened to overwhelm you more thoroughly than his mouth had. You tugged your clothing back into place, and he helped without complaint, smoothing the linen of your shirt over your hips once you were covered.

When you stood, your legs felt less steady than you would have preferred.

Dick noticed.

He offered you his arm.

You stared at it.

“I can walk.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You took his arm anyway.

Sir Whiskers waited beside the stable entrance, ribbon crooked around his neck. Dick bent to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“I expect discretion from an officer of the Crown.”

“He is not an officer.”

“He has a title.”

“That is not how military appointments work.”

“I’ll correct the oversight tomorrow.”

You guided Dick toward the castle before he could begin drafting official honors for the cat.

Rain had softened to a mist. The stone courtyard shone beneath the lanterns, and the windows of the palace were mostly dark. Dick remained close beside you, his hand covering yours where it rested on his arm.

At the entrance to the private wing, you stopped.

His chambers lay beyond the guarded corridor. Yours were in the opposite direction, near the barracks.

Dick looked toward the stairs, then back at you.

“You could come with me.”

The invitation warmed you, but the night had already changed enough.

“You have a diplomatic breakfast at sunrise.”

“I was hoping you had forgotten.”

“I never forget.”

“Tomorrow night?”

You studied him.

The hopeful uncertainty in his face was so unlike his usual confidence that you could not resist leaning closer.

“Perhaps,” you said.

Dick narrowed his eyes. “You are doing this intentionally.”

“Good night, Your Highness.”

You kissed his cheek and walked away.

His quiet laughter followed you down the corridor.

The following morning, Lord Halyard resumed his report on the southern wheat stores.

Dick sat at the council table dressed in royal blue, his posture attentive and his expression composed. Anyone who did not know him might have believed he was listening.

You stood behind his chair in full armor.

Your face revealed nothing.

Five minutes into the meeting, Dick slid a folded note toward the edge of the table.

You waited until King Bruce looked down at the agricultural records before taking it.

Sir Whiskers requests a formal audience regarding his appointment as Minister of Stable Affairs.

Beneath the words, Dick had drawn the cat wearing a tiny crown.

Your mouth twitched.

Dick turned his head.

“Face forward, Your Highness,” you whispered.

His smile was insufferably pleased.

He obeyed, though only after catching your smile, the one you could no longer quite hide from him.