“Don’t call me that,” Jamil said, but there was no heat in his voice. Rohan was pretty sure that at this point Jamil objected only because he felt like he had to.
Rohan sighed. “Why are you getting so worked up again?”
Jamil was quiet for so long Rohan was starting to think he wasn’t going to answer.
“Last person I shared this bed with was my husband.”
Rohan’s lips thinned. “He’s dead.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I hadn’t noticed.” Jamil sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was hollow. “I know you don’t think much of Calluvian bonds, but I did love him. We were happy together. He was very easy-going and laid-back—everything I’m not—and we fit well together. He was—he was my best friend.” His voice cracked a little.
Rohan grimaced as he felt Jamil’s sorrow through the merge.
“I’m sorry,” he said tersely. “But stop being sad, all right? I can’t stand it.”
A strangled kind of laugh left Jamil’s throat. “You can’t stand it?”
“Look, if you don’t stop feeling sad, I’m not responsible for what I’ll do. So unless you actually want me to comfort you, I suggest you quit feeling sad.”
Jamil turned his head to him.
It was too dark for them to see each other well, but it didn’t stop Rohan from looking at the prince’s face. Their connection pulsed softly between them, still filled with sorrow, but it was slowly being pushed out by another emotion: longing.
Rohan’s hand stretched out toward him.
A beat passed, and Jamil’s hand met him halfway.
Rohan squeezed his hand. I’m here.
A small, contented sound left Jamil’s lips.
Rohan closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the prince’s soft, long fingers in his rough, calloused ones. Slowly, without conscious thought, their fingers intertwined. The merge pulsed with comfort and warmth, bliss spreading through their bodies.
They didn’t say anything else that night; they fell asleep like that, tangled in each other’s minds.
Chapter 11
He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up feeling so well rested and good.
Jamil opened his eyes, blinking blearily. He was lying on his side, and there was a tattooed arm slung over his waist.
Jamil stared at the brown, sun-kissed hand on his pale stomach—his shirt had apparently ridden up—and he wondered what was wrong with him. He should have been freaking out. He should have felt ashamed, dirty, and wrong. He had no business feeling so good and comfortable in the arms of a man who wasn’t his husband.
Strangely, he couldn’t summon those feelings.
Everything felt… right: the rise and fall of Rohan’s firm chest against his back, the warmth of his breath against Jamil’s nape, the heaviness of his arm, the low hum of Rohan’s sleeping mind.
Jamil’s gaze fell on the portrait that hung on the opposite wall, a portrait of him and Mehmer on their wedding day. It was drawn by one of the most talented modern artists in the galaxy, and the resemblance was uncanny. The artist had captured perfectly Mehmer’s golden hair, golden skin, and laughing hazel eyes.
Jamil stared at the portrait, searching his feelings. He finally felt ashamed—ashamed that this still didn’t feel wrong.
Behind him, Rohan mumbled something sleepily and pulled him tighter to him.
Jamil swallowed, feeling the unmistakable bulge pressed against his lower back. It was just a morning erection. He had one, too. It didn’t mean anything. What happened last night was… tension relief, nothing more. They had barely touched each other when they brought themselves off. It had been a one-time thing and it would never happen again.
Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Jamil tried to move the hand on his stomach away without waking Rohan up, but Rohan mumbled something and just moved his hand up to fondle his pec as if it were a woman’s breast.
Jamil flushed. Rohan was likely dreaming of being in bed with some woman. He’d gotten the impression that Rohan di’Lehr had slept with a lot of women.
Never men.
Jamil pursed his lips. The thought should have been comforting, but something about it bothered him.
Jamil’s brows furrowed. He had to admit it was… strange for him to be considered unattractive. His physical appearance had always attracted a lot of attention from intergalactic celebrities and politicians that visited Calluvia. Mehmer had always found it amusing—he had actually liked being the subject of envious looks. “They can stare and drool all they want; I’m the only one who gets to touch you.” Jamil hadn’t shared his husband’s amusement. He’d always thought being regarded as a piece of meat was demeaning, especially since most of those off-worlders had no mental shields and Jamil had to smile at them and pretend he had no idea what vile thoughts about his mouth or ass they were entertaining.
But as much as Jamil didn’t like it, he was used to it. He was used to being regarded as desirable. Did that make him vain? Maybe. Regardless, it was strange for him that Rohan didn’t find him attractive at all. Not that he wanted Rohan to be attracted to him. It was just strange. That was all.