Edgar had the sort of gangly, leanly muscled, lightly freckled body that I adored; sex with Callum had been great but ridiculous, because he was so cartoon handsome and gym-built that I felt like either his tote bag or a piece of exercise equipment. Sex with Edgar was much more intense and human and raw; he was all over me, as if sex was one of the few places where he didn’t have to behave himself, and I stopped worrying and did whatever I wanted, daring myself to treat a crown prince like a hot guy I’d picked up on a street corner.

We did everything two guys can do and then we did it again, until the stateroom was strewn with sheets and pillows and what I think was a sable coverlet. You can tell sex is good when you make an unholy mess; great sex looks like a crime scene, as if thieves have turned the place and each other upside down. Personally, I know I’ve had an amazing time when I abandon my usual instincts to straighten everything up or use a detergent pen to pretreat stubborn stains.

Finally we lay in each other’s arms, panting and exhausted, with our hands still exploring each other, until we whimpered because we’d worn each other out, and everything ached and felt wonderful and we both had the beginnings of some passionate bruises and beard rash. Edgar didn’t cultivate scruff the way Callum had, but his beard grew quickly and felt like, well, like a man’s beard against my skin, which is probably the real cause of male homosexuality.

“We have to stop,” said Edgar, licking my ear.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

There was a pause: had I gone too far and mocked Edgar or insulted him?

“I could have you beheaded.”

As we dozed, I thought about hunting down a robe, activating my phone and texting Abby, who would love to hear about Edgar’s plane. I caught myself: I had only the tiniest, earliest sense of Edgar’s life. He was an international symbol of LGBTQ pride and a figure of . . . I wasn’t sure what, exactly—limited but valuable power? Regal influence when it came to causes and whatever riding boots he chose to be photographed wearing? Or did he embody nothing besides entitlement, luck and undeniable stardom? And what did that make me? A new friend? A hanger-on? Or a glorified fan—a fan with benefits?