The Spare To The Throne

Chapter 61: Nothing Like Him

"I hear you at night you know, walking about," I peer up from the sink and I'm greeted with his heated gaze. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I'm sorry I'm disturbing you, amour-"

"No," I cut him off as I finish cleaning the dishes in the sink. "I don't mean it like that. I'm just curious that's all," Why am I even talking? What am I saying? "Never mind, it's none of my business actually."

It feels so weird to be initiating a conversation with him like this. Willingly, that is. He stands up from his leaned position, strides so smooth it looks graceful. A hand trails up my back, he looks focused tracing my spine as if I didn't have a sweater on. His scent is more divine than ever. He's pulling me closer and I don't even realize it, pushing my back so I press against his chest. I...stop breathing.

"My business is yours," he opposes my notions. "Everything I have is yours. I'm yours,"

Platonic.

I try to slip out of his hold but he places a hand on my waist. He was drinking me in and I was doing the same. Those plumb lips part and I see his eyes dart down. Everything is so still, the clock stops ticking.

"It's hard to sleep with a busy mind," he mutters.

"What's on your mind," I whisper the question solely for his ears.

My body throbs for his touch. Flutters catch every word in my throat.

"You," I feel a squeeze on my hips. "Lay with me tonight,"

Is he asking or telling me? Everything about this is enchanting so my own words startle me when I utter, "Yes."

I mean no. The phrase is in my head but I don't say it. Truth is, I only hear him at night because I'm can't sleep either. He lingers in the air, on my skin, and in my dreams. Denying him would be easy if he was away, back in Germany or anywhere but here.

The walk to his room doesn't feel long at all, mainly because I was in a daze the whole way there. "The Broken King," is clutched firmly in my arms. My footsteps never falter behind him.

The bleak air of his room nips at my skin.

Why do you like sleeping in the cold? I wanted to ask.

Xavier flips on the lamp on his night stand. Turning towards his dresser, he pulls of his shirt in one swift motion. I snap my gaze away, his body engrossing but sacred. In a room so numbing, he manages to make me boil within.

Leave Farrah, leave now.

But I can't. Not when he's beckoning me to him. His pull is like that of a magnet. Irresistible. I don't want to.

His eyes fall to the book in my hands and I hold onto it tighter. He gives me an expectant look and my stomach flips. "Come here," he orders and I know I look lost. Perhaps I am. In the gentleness of those frostily coy orbs.

As if bonded by a spell, I go to him. His scent is mesmerizing and I want to touch him all while denying him at the same time. He hoists me onto the bed effortlessly, his arms snaked to my waist.

"Xavier, I-"

I'm seated in between his legs, back pressed against his bare torso.

"Are you nervous?" his lips find the crook of my neck and my eyes close. My stomach somersaults and I shiver.

"No," the lie slips out, smoother than butter. I feel him palpitate against me, his chest tatted with the darkest of inks. I want to study the art of his body, count the sundry swerves and swindles, the numberless tatts that are engraved on his every fiber.