I also fuck her in the aisles, late at night after closing—and the reality of it, the naughtiness of lifting the sexy librarian’s skirt and pressing her up against the shelves, the way her moans and my grunts echo off the walls, like an erotic symphony . . . it beats the hell out of my fantasy.

And we don’t stop there.

I make love to Sarah in her shower and she rides me hard on the floor of her parlor. I take her in her tight, tiny kitchen, from behind, with her beautifully bent over the counter, and she sucks the life out of me, on her knees in her hallway, while I hold her head and thrust wildly into her eager mouth.

Sarah cooks us dinner while I kiss and nibble and maul her . . . and she makes me hard with her blushes and dirty jokes while I wash up the dishes afterward. I play my guitar for her and she hums her little songs and some nights, she reads out loud while I drift off to sleep, with my head against her soft breast.

I meet Sarah’s interesting mother and wiggle my way back into Penny’s good graces. She likes me again, which is nice since she’s leaving for the States soon—Los Angeles, to pursue her acting career.

One Saturday afternoon, we test the strength of Sarah’s bed frame, fucking rough and loud and sweaty, but afterward, it’s all tender touches and sweet whispers. On the radio, “Little Wonders” by Rob Thomas comes on and Sarah sighs.

“I love this song.”

I brush my hand up her stomach. “I love your tits.”

Sarah swats me on the head, laughing. But when I cover her nipple with my mouth, sucking and flicking with my tongue, her giggle turns into a long, serrated moan.

“And I’m glad you love the song, sweets.”

And it’s all so grand and perfect.

But the clock is ticking like a time bomb, and there are things I have to tell her that can’t wait any longer. So the next day, Sunday, I make us peppermint tea and sit down in the chair in her parlor and put it all out there, as gently as possible.

“I have to tell you something. You’re not going to like it.”

She squints behind her glasses, cautiously.

“All right.”

I pull her up and arrange her in my lap, her arse over my groin, her legs together, dangling over my thigh, my arms around her middle, holding on tight.

“I’ve reenlisted.”

She goes very still and her lips pale.

“You’re the Crown Prince . . . you can’t . . .”

“Turns out, I can do a lot if I set my mind to it.”

“But the Queen—”

“Is not happy with me, but she understands that this is something I need to do. It’ll be a real deployment this time, in a regular unit. I’ll be registered under an assumed name, so I won’t put the other men in danger.” I give her a squeeze and try to joke. “You’ll have to help me come up with a fitting pseudonym—Finley Bigdick the Third or John Thomas Longhorn.”

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile.

“The press will be told that I’m on safari in Africa, then climbing Everest, and finally, on a research mission in the rain forest. I’ll be portrayed as quite the heroic adventurer. But you can’t tell anyone—not Penny or Willard or Annie or your mum. No one can know.”

Sarah just looks at me and her expression slowly breaks my heart.

“Why are you doing this?”

I push her soft hair back and hope she can understand. “Because if I’m going to be a king, I need to know how to lead. And I think . . . I think I could be good at it.”

Her hands slide up and down my chest, grazing, like she wants to be sure I’m still here with her.

“Where will they send you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out when I report for duty . . . in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want to risk manipulating you. I didn’t want to pressure you into taking me back.”

She snorts. “You picked a hell of a time to be noble, Henry.”

“I know.” I scoff, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. “And . . . I’m sorry. I realize this isn’t what you want . . . but it’s what I have to do.”

“For how long?” she asks quietly.

“Two years.”

She flinches, and I rush to tell her the rest.

“Extra precautions will have to be taken to keep my location under wraps. We won’t be able to text or Skype or call. It’s not just about my safety . . . you understand, don’t you?”

Her voice is clogged with sadness, but she nods. “Yes.”

I bring my hand to her jaw, needing to touch her, and the flutter of her pulse taps against my fingertips. Then, in a rough voice, I promise and swear, “But I’ll write you. I’ll write you every day. Pages and pages of lovely words and filthy thoughts.”

Sarah smiles, even as a tear trickles down her cheek. “You’ll write me letters? Real letters that I can touch and smell and hold?”

“Real letters.” I pull her closer, whispering, “Paper and ink. I’ve been told there’s nothing else like it.”

Three days later, I wake up alone in Sarah’s bed. It’s early, still gray outside, without the full brightness of the winter sun. Not needing to be anywhere anytime soon, I pick up my guitar and strum a few chords.

Just a bit later, Sarah appears in the doorway—her hair delightfully windblown, eyes shining, the tip of her nose pink from the cold. It makes me want to bite it—and that thought makes me want to bite her everywhere else. I set the guitar down and she bounces onto the bed and her coat feels like ice as I skim it off her shoulders, because she’s wearing entirely too much clothing.