Free My Prince by Anna Martin Page B

rolled off George’s chest with reluctance, then offered his hand to pull George off the bed. George grabbed a pair of boxers from the floor and pulled them on, then reached out and laced his fingers with Alex’s. “Breakfast?”
     
     
    A LEX ROLLED his eyes and let out a regretful sort of laugh when an ice bucket containing a bottle of chardonnay was dumped on the table. There were two glasses in the bucket too, upside down so the bowls were chilled.
    “Jesus, Doug, I only wanted a quick drink.”
    “Sometimes these things can’t be rushed.”
    Well, he couldn’t argue with that.
    Doug was a relatively new friend but probably the closest one Alex had in Scotland. They’d met—if their first encounter could really be called a meeting—when Alex had given him a blow job in the bathroom of a club. For some reason he’d let Doug buy him a drink after, and for an even stranger reason, they’d become friends.
    That first sexual encounter had been their only one. Doug was older, had just turned fifty-one, and owned a highly successful tailors in the heart of the Old Town. He was an institution, not that Doug would let anyone tell him so. At times, Alex wondered if he should cut his losses and ask Doug if they maybe should settle down together.
    Despite being firm friends, Alex would publicly admit Douglas Murray was a handsome bastard. If Alex had a daddy kink—and that he definitely didn’t discuss publicly—then Doug pushed every one of those kinky buttons. He wasn’t that tall, but he had a firm body and stunning bone structure. His eyes were a dreamy blue, and he’d let his light brown hair go gray naturally. These days it was cut and styled back from his face in an elegant sweep.
    He gave Alex a look from under long lashes, a pointed one, and poured two glasses of wine.
    “Don’t let anyone tell you chardonnay is over,” he said. “Fuck pinot grigio. I know what I like, and this shit is it.”
    His words came out in a distinctive Scottish burr, and Alex grinned.
    “Cheers to that.”
    He clinked their glasses together, leaned back in his seat, and sighed after taking the first sip of wine.
    “So, tell me who’s got your knickers all up in a twist.”
    “How do you know it’s a who?”
    “Honey, please.”
    Doug also had a slight tendency to lean toward flamboyance.
    “Ugh,” Alex groaned. “His name is George. He’s about twenty-eight, and he’s from Manchester.”
    “Mmhmm.”
    Alex took a big slug of his wine. “We have this crazy chemistry.”
    “So you’ve fucked him, then.”
    “Yeah. Twice.”
    He looked around the pub, instinctively scoping it out for someone who might be looking to sell a story to the tabloids. That had only happened once before, but it was enough to make him hesitate before speaking too loudly.
    This was a quiet, old-man pub, though, not the sort of place where he was likely to get snapped by paparazzi. It wasn’t too far from Doug’s place, so they often hung out here on Saturday afternoons when Doug had someone else watching the shop for him. A few men hunched over the bar, waxed jackets protecting their backs and short tumblers of whiskey grasped between gnarled knuckles.
    All the booths had high backs, and there were stained glass panels separating some of them. The features seemed to be weathered with age and use: dark wood on the bar, dark wood on the floors, the fireplace covered in thick black gunk that would likely never be shifted.
    Despite the smoking ban, the pub still smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, likely the result of afterhours poker games that everyone knew took place there.
    “Any good?” Doug asked.
    “Huh?”
    “The sex,” Doug said, exasperated. “Is it any good?”
    “Yeah. Insanely good. At first I was a bit worried because he’s all ‘I don’t bottom.’” Alex put on a ridiculous deep voice and pulled a face. “I thought he might be one of those power tops who demands you get on your hands and knees so he doesn’t even