He dreams of Asbel.
It's not uncommon, and yet not common. He's woken more nights than he's cared to counted, twisted inelegantly in his soft sheets and soaked in sweat. Sometimes even well on his way to other fluids, as his hand drifts lower to finish the job to half remembered fragments.
But since that day at Wallbridge, the dreams change. He wakes his first night after his coronation with the taste of copper in his mouth, a fragment memory of scarlet lips and chin and a smooth leather about his hand the only thing persisting. His breath catches as his hand touches his lips, wondering. Imagining a bowed red head, submissive before him, ready to do all but waiting for his word. Nude save for a single strap of leather binding his throat, a mark showing that he belonged not to the girl that had been his friend before he had arrived, but to him. To his prince, hisKing.
Richard gasps as his climax takes him by surprise, not even realizing his hand had drifted lower. Yes, he would have to take good care of his Asbel. Very, very good care.