A/N: Rewrite of Royal Romance Book 2 Chapter 9 in Drake's POV with some extra scenes. Recognizable dialogue belongs to Pixelberry. This is entirely NSFW; you have been warned! (fr tho I cannot believe I actually wrote this consciously oh my god).

In Dreams

Head buzzing, Drake stumbled into his bedroom (if it could be called that) in the train car, swearing colorfully as his fancy dress shoe caught the edge of the cream carpet. He caught himself with an arm on the doorjamb, trying to shake the flush from his cheeks, and not just because of the whiskey. Visions of Elle and her sweet little dimpled smile danced in front of his eyes as he fumbled with the light switch, another curse echoing in the room when the sharp light seared his retinas.

Fuck this, he thought, and switched them back off, drifting over to his bed in the blessed dark and collapsing in a heap onto the bed. He had a passing thought about wrinkling Maxwell's suit, but considering how much snarking the other man had to do way too early in the morning to get him into it, it served him right. He was right, though; Elle hadn't made it a secret how much she liked it on him, blue eyes sweeping over his body like she was eyeing up a candy she wanted to unwrap.

Another sear of heat at the thought had him groaning and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He cursed her in his mind without any actual venom—it was hard enough normally to keep his mind off her, but how exactly was he supposed to successfully pretend he wasn't in love with his best friend's girl (despite said best friend being locked in an unwanted engagement with a harpy) if she kept flirting with him like she was halfway to pulling him into some secluded corner and riding him all the way back to New York?

Another hot flush, another groan. Lord help him.

And tonight's events had not helped one bit. They had started off the day absolutely horribly, having just confronted Bastien of all people for framing Elle and ruining her reputation; he like the genius he was had made things worse after shouting at Bertrand for knocking up his sister and breaking her heart, and got in Maxwell's face for knowing where Savannah was the whole time and never breathing a word about it. They had finished off the shitshow by getting kicked out of Liam's bachelor party, which had to be hard enough on Elle since it was not in celebration of Liam marrying her (and instead in celebration of marrying Madeleine… Madeleine! It was almost as bad as marrying Olivia!). He had thought (like an idiot) that unwinding together at the Americanesque dive bar he'd seen on the way over would be a great idea—evidently he hadn't learned yet that the equation of Drake plus Elle plus alcohol plus relative solitude did not equal anything good for his sanity.

"You sure you want to go up against me in a drinking game?" he had said in amusement, smiling over his tumbler at Elle's determined expression.

"That sounds like a challenge," said Elle, a sparkle in her eyes. "And I accept!"

"It wasn't—" he began, but when her eyes narrowed he shook his head and stated, "No, never mind. You're on, Kerrington."

Let it be known Drake Walker never backed down from a challenge. Even if it was probably going to kill him.

"Alright, it's your game, so you get to start," Drake said, snatching up the whiskey bottle to refill both of their glasses, eyes locked with hers.

"I guess I'd better make this first question count," Elle said thoughtfully. "Never have I ever… been a prince's handsome best friend."

It was a lot easier to deal with the bluntness of the first question when he was almost expecting it. Oh Kerrington, you vixen, is that all you got?

"Hey," he said with absolutely no bite behind his sharp look, "There's more to me than just being Liam's best friend."

"So you admit that you're handsome?" she replied with cheek.

"You… I…" Okay, she got him with that. "I don't even know how to respond to that."

"By being flattered," Elle said, primly crossing her knockout legs and making the absurdly sparkly number glitter like diamond rain in the dull lamplight. "And taking a drink!"

He sighed. He took a drink. If she was going to bowl him over this early on in the game, he didn't want to know what she was going to come up with later. He deliberately took a longer gulp than necessary—maybe he'd be able to handle the curveballs Elle was throwing if he was drunk enough to let his mind go there.

"Never have I ever… been set up with someone."

"Really? You haven't?"

He shrugged. "Not even once."

"I guess Maxwell and Liam aren't the kind of friends who go around setting you up, huh?"

"They've usually got their own things going on."

And they knew full well Drake would never allow it. All of Liam's friends were nobles (and Drake did not make it a secret how much he despised the two-faced, clucking hens that Cordonia called a court) and anyone sane knew not to trust Maxwell's judgement about basically anything, let alone women.

"Drink up," he instructed, when Elle continued scrutinizing him.

She obliged, never taking her eyes off him.

"One to one. That's more like it," he said with satisfaction.

"Not for long," Elle replied with a devious little smile—oh how he feared that smile. "Never have I ever…" She tilted her chin to the ceiling like she was thinking, allowing Drake time to knock back another shot, "…imagined someone in this room naked."

Drake almost spat out his drink, but managed to choke it down. He slammed the tumbler down on the counter and stared at her, mouth open a little. Was she serious? Elle just smiled with all the innocence she didn't have, leaning forward a bit.

"Yes?"

His eyes narrowed as he took a long drink of whiskey, draining the glass. She looked pleased as punch, sitting up a little straighter on the stool as he poured another.

"You never go easy on me, do you, Kerrington?" Drake said with a shake of his head, his face already starting to flush with the buzz of alcohol, or maybe something else.

"Never," said Elle with a grin.

"Don't look so smug," he warned with little edge. "How do you know that this has anything to do with you? Maybe I'm thinking of the bartender."

Drake was pleased to see her take the bait, a little furrow appearing between her brows as she turned to check out the bartender. It disappeared at the sight of the burly man in full tattoo sleeves chatting with other patrons as he poured them a pint of something golden. She tilted her head back over with a look that said, 'Really?' to which he responded with a noncommittal shrug.

"I guess I'll never really know."

"Exactly." He cleared his throat and said, "Now it's my turn. Never have I ever…"

How was he going to get the higher ground in this? He had to hit her with something just as low as what she was tossing his way, something he knew she couldn't deny.

"…taken advantage of a barn raising to stare at someone with their shirt off," he finished, feeling pure masculine triumph when he watched a rosy blush sweep over her cheeks.

"Hey!"

"Am I wrong?" he cheeked, leaning on his elbow a little heavier than normal.

She looked almost impressed as she replied, "You know, you could've kept your shirt on that day."

"Maybe I wanted you to look," Drake answered in a low voice, and that must have been the right thing to say because she smiled into her sip of whiskey. He leaned back on the stool, reveling in his little victory.

"Don't get too comfortable," she warned. "We've still got one more round!"

"You're on," he shot back, now in it to win it as he refilled both of their glasses with only a slight shake in his wrist. "Alright, Kerrington. Let's see what you've got."

Without missing a beat, Elle snatched her tumbler back up, locked his eyes with hers and destroyed him for the rest of the day (or maybe forever) with one utterance. "Never have I ever had a scandalous dream about the two of us in bed together."

A cold flush.

"You really play for keeps, Kerrington. I'm kind of impressed," he said a bit numbly, speaking loudly to be heard over the hammering of his heart.

She didn't know, did she? She couldn't know. She couldn't.

"A rare compliment from Drake Walker. And the answer?"

If she didn't know before now, she would. He would make sure of it. It was his turn to lock her gaze with his own, lifting his tumbler very, very slowly to his mouth and taking a long drink. A little frisson of heat shot downward from the way Elle watched the movement like it was akin to a striptease, and holy hell, if there wasn't a half dozen other patrons in this bar he might have thrown caution to the wind and bent her over that counter like she clearly wanted.

"I knew it," she smirked, sitting back in her seat.

"Don't get too cocky," he shot back. "I've still got one chance left."

"Final shot."

"Never have I ever…"

…suggested we get the hell out of here and find the nearest soft surface to fuck like rabbits on.

…thought about peeling off that glittery too-tight dress so he could gaze on every inch of her.

…really wished he could adjust himself discreetly; he'd been half-hard since she started talking about seeing each other naked.

"…eaten a deep-dish pizza," he said instead, absolutely chickening out in the manliest way possible.

She gave no indication of disappointment over Drake making the conversation PG-13 again, as she smiled in triumph. "Nice try, but that makes two of us!"

He did a double take as he went to take another sip despite an already cloudy head. "What? You've gotta be honest with me, Kerrington."

"I am! You're talking to a New Yorker, remember? Deep-dish is a Chicago thing."

He ran a hand over his face, bemoaning the blow to his masculine pride. "Let me guess. There are no do-overs in this game."

"Nope. You have to live with your mistakes."

"That brings the score to three points to two. Looks like you won this one, Kerrington."

"That's it? You aren't going to give me a hard time?" she exclaimed.

"Not right now, anyways," he said, thinking a little dreamily about ways to give her a hard time that involved privacy and hands wandering over secret places. "You were right. This was way less terrible than thinking about everything back at court."

Elle threw another curveball with a bat of her lashes and a not-so-innocent, "So what did I win?"

"Win?" he repeated, flushing a little. "I didn't know we were playing for stakes."

"House rules," Elle replied, playing a finger over the rim of her almost empty tumbler. "You owe me something."

Evil little trickster.

"The stakes are… a kiss."

He made a totally dignified groan of frustration, hand tightening on the base of his glass. "Kerrington… Are you sure about this?"

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want," she said, eyes bashfully lowering to her knees. Fuck, hasn't he made the depths of his want clear enough? "But after tonight and everything that's happened, I…"

Not for the first time, he broke. With an abrupt gesture that upset his empty tumbler, Drake all but hauled her into his lap with his hands wrapped around her bare shoulders and kissed her fiercely, pouring all of his want into the kiss to ensure she didn't question it again. She met him for every stroke of his tongue, hand finding a way into his hair and pulling a little in a way he found he liked far, far too much. He pulled away before his buzzing head could be convinced to spirit her away to the nearest hotel, the two staring at each other as they caught their breath. She gazed up at him like he'd fulfilled her dearest wishes in a single kiss, the hand in his hair trailing down to his shoulder.

"You don't make this easy," said Drake for what had to be the thousandth time.

"I dunno, it felt pretty easy to me," she said, leaning even further into his personal space like she was begging to resume.

"Very funny. I mean, trying to control how I feel about you," he said unabashedly, eyes never leaving hers. "I can't."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"I don't know."

It was if she was in love with his best friend. It was if she was still planning on becoming his queen. He caught himself before his hand could properly reach up and brush a stubborn wisp of hair away from her forehead, shaking his head to try and clear it.

"I'd be lying if I said I regretted it, though," Drake said quietly.

"So would I."

He'd walked her back to her train car afterwards, the two leaving unmentioned the simmering tension between them like a pot about to boil over. It was, after all, their way. They stole these little moments of bliss and then pretended they never happened. She bid him goodnight with a look he could only describe as longing before ducking quickly into her own car, and with a hand over his face he had been left to maneuver his way into his own.

What the hell was he supposed to make of this night? Elle Kerrington seemed to know the exact ways to push all of Drake's buttons and forget every single rule he'd laid out for himself. Rule one, don't flirt with Kerrington. Rule two, don't touch Kerrington in any way that isn't friendly, and maybe even that. Rule three, don't kiss Kerrington (again).

He should try and add a new rule to the ever-growing list: don't let Kerrington goad you into doing all of the above.

"Never have I ever had a scandalous dream about the two of us in bed together."

If only she knew, Drake would have had to take more than one drink. Much, much more.

He remembered the way his confession-by-drink made her eyes grow dark and hooded, made her squirm on her stool a little. His hips jerked against empty air at the thought, a shuddery breath escaping his lips—if she knew the things he'd dreamt about… Was she wondering right now, picturing the 'scandalous' things Drake's creative mind might have dreamed up for the two of them? Did she hurry a little in saying goodnight so she could slide her fingers up into that slinky little dress and touch herself to the thought?

Was she grinding on her own hand right now, breathy moans of his name disappearing into the empty neighboring cars, just like in his dreams?

"Hnnh," was Drake's answer, eyes squeezed shut as his hips jerked up again, a little harder, enough to feel a twinge of pleasure from the way his cock rubbed against the inside of his pants.

Enough. He couldn't think with his head so full of her. Hastily, a little clumsily, Drake yanked off his suit jacket first, tossing it somewhere to the right and ignoring the clatter of it catching and tipping something over. His fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons; he thought about just yanking the stupid thing off, but he didn't want to have to explain to Maxwell why his dress shirt was suddenly missing buttons. He got as many as he could undone and then impatiently pulled the rest over his head, one hand letting it drop to the floor while the other traced a path down to the zip of his pants. Drake hissed as his fingers drew over the tented outline of his cock, hips bucking up to meet the touch. He took a moment or two to just grind against his own hand through his pants, mouth dropping open at how unusually good that felt—oh god, this wasn't going to last long, was it? It never did, not with Elle. Before he could bring himself off too quickly, Drake grappled with his zipper and yanked it down with little grace, pushing his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock. He watched it faintly pulse without another touch, groaning at how high-strung she had him with just a couple of heated looks, not-so innocent questions and a bartered kiss.

Drake hissed as his hand traveled down to grasp the base tightly, not moving yet, just savoring the warm feeling. He let his head fall back and his eyes drift shut, mind sweeping through his personal reel of 'scandalous dreams' about the two of them in search of the best one. His recent favorite tended to be his mind's redo of Liam's disastrous coronation ball, during that sweet little moment they'd stolen by the empty bar station. This time there was no terrifying uncertainty about whether or not Elle would accept his kiss, or stupid poodle-loving nobles to interrupt them from going at it a second time, or the lingering thought that if Liam came out looking for Elle and found them like this it'd break his princely heart, or scandals that stole her away from him for far too long. This time he'd hiked her golden-patterned skirts up around her waist and dropped to his knees to bury his tongue inside her, her sweet cries joining the music wafting from the doors of the palace.

The memory caused an involuntary little 'oh' to pass his lips as his hand drifted upwards, thumb trailing gently over the underside of his cock and once more as he passed back down. He loved the thought of debauching the pure princess decked in white with his tongue, her soft thigh propped on his shoulder and her hand tugging at his hair much less gently than today in the bar. Dream-Drake had glanced up to watch her face as he teased her clit with the tip of his tongue, waking himself up with the hot rush of pleasure at the sight of her plump little mouth dropped open, brows arched upwards like she was shocked at how good it was. The first time he'd had that dream, he'd muffled a curse into his pillow and shoved his hand down his pants to jerk himself to a rapid finish, in opposition to now, where his strokes were slow and careful to keep himself from going over too soon. This was good, better than normal, and he wanted to keep it going as long as possible.

Oh, then there was the first one, the one that had him bolting up in his bed in shock to find the sheets soaked through with his sweat and his cum. It was after the Nevrakis lodge at Lythikos, when he was still putting his foot in his mouth and insulting her every five seconds, not always meaning to anymore. He had stormed out after Olivia's spiteful bullshit, and Elle had followed him out (why had she followed him?) into the cold to talk and stargaze. This time she'd shocked Dream-Drake by rolling off her back and onto his lap, writhing like a little harlot as she begged him to help her take off her fancy coat ("Please, Drake, it's too hot to wear it,") and tugging almost impatiently at his jeans. Here there was no cold, despite the two literally lying in a snowbank; the snow felt like lying on piles of fluffy sugar, warm and soft and completely unrealistic but who was he to complain? Even Dream-Drake was too surprised to do anything but watch in awe as Elle sank herself down on his cock with a shuddery little moan. His hands had mysteriously found themselves tied behind his head to a nearby pine when he went to grip her hips, forcing him to surrender to her wild rhythm. He started off begging her to let his hands free so he could touch her, but he ended with begging her not to stop as she rode him into the snow like she'd never get the chance again. He woke up shuddering after watching her come, eyes squeezed shut and mouth dropped to let loose a gorgeous wail that sent him over right away.

Real-Drake tightened his fist and upped his rhythm with a shivery moan as if to echo Dream-Elle's cry—he really liked the idea of Elle just forcing him down and taking what she wanted from him, using his cock to ratchet herself higher until she came apart. The thought that it wasn't just him constantly turned on and desperate to release the obvious tension between them was more intoxicating than whiskey. He let out a pained sound when another pass over the underside of the head had him jerking up violently into his own hand—too good, too soon. He let go completely, biting down on his knuckle and watching through half-closed eyes as his cock visibly throbbed through the zipper of his pants, jerking slightly with every pulse of pleasure the mere thought of Elle brought to him. Drake let out a shuddery breath when he calmed down enough to resume, adding his other hand into the mix to gently tug at his balls. None of this should feel so good.

The memory of another dream had his eyes almost rolling back in his head and he started up a steady string of panting grunts. He had expected this one to come, after nearly destroying Tariq upon catching him in Elle's bedroom about to force himself on Elle (or so it had looked) and then taking a few moments to realize she was not at all dressed. Very undressed, actually. After bidding a hasty goodnight Drake had stubbornly gone to bed trying very hard not to think of Elle's slender little body covered only by a lacy set of panties and a matching bra, not letting his hand wander under the covers like he wanted in case Elle wandered over and caught him. Naturally, Dream-Drake had been all too happy to step in and rectify this mistake—this time Tariq was nowhere to be found, Drake merely wandering into her room as the sound of faint cries wafting into his room next door. He found her stretched out over her bed in that absurdly sexy underwear, her fingers dipped into the lace of her panties and tracing harsh circles over her clit. He had stilled in the doorway, watching as the sight of her desperately grinding on her own hand set him on fire.

Real-Drake let go of his cock again with a shivery whine, pushing his hips into the open air as he struggled for a second time not to come. He loved playing on this edge, waiting to see how far he could go while tormenting himself with thoughts of Elle. If she could see him like this, would she want to just sit back and watch him struggle, biting her lip gently at the sight of him tense and trembling? Or would she take the initiative and grasp him with her soft fingers, fingertips playing over that sweet spot on the head of his cock just like he liked, determined to bring him off against his wishes? He whined again into his fist as the thought of her softly jerking him off almost sent him over without a real touch.

In the dream, Dream-Drake had been the one to take the lead, leaning over her shivering form to gently pull her hand away from herself and replace it with his own, dipping two fingers into her to gather her wetness before tracing slow, warm circles around her clit. Elle had hummed out his name in relief and parted her legs a little wider for him. He was so focused on playing with her nub that he only just caught the creeping upwards of her hands, watching in fascination as she pulled the cups of her bra down, breasts spilling out prettily for his approval. Dream-Drake breathed her name as she boldly grasped the left one and flicked a teasing fingertip over her right nipple, watching him with desperate eyes.

"Please Drake," she had begged again, which was how he discovered that was his new favorite sentence.

Real-Drake moaned in response and, unable to help it anymore, pushed his cock back into the slick channel of his fist again, his other hand shooting upwards to play with his own nipple.

"Oh fuck, Elle," he whispered to no one.

Dream-Drake had been just as strung out as Real-Drake, using his free hand to pull his cock free before pulling down her panties and sliding into her. She had grabbed onto both of her breasts and caught his gaze, wide-eyed and so turned on it almost looked like pain. Elle begged like the desperate little harlot she was, playing and tugging at her nipples while he pushed in and out of her in a painfully good, slick glide, matching her every moan with one of his own.

Real-Drake tried letting go of himself one more time, but his cock throbbed so hard he couldn't help but grab it again, crying out at how good the return felt. His hand took over no matter how badly his mind wanted to draw this out, setting up a rhythm so fast his fist was a blur, with a twist on every upstroke, Drake tossing his head back at how sinfully good it was.

Dream-Drake had reached between the two of them to dart his thumb in rapid flicks over her clit, causing her petite body to jerk up against every stroke with moans so sexy they should be illegal. With a string of cries that raised in volume with each passing second, Elle's hand had scrambled off her breast and into his hair, pulling hard as her back bowed with the strength of her orgasm. She twisted and moaned underneath him, every stroke of his cock pushing her back up to that peak, until Drake had woken yet again to find himself so close and uncontrollably rubbing his cock against the soft underside of his duvet. He had cried out into his fist and thrust himself against the covers like an animal in heat, before coming so hard it physically shook him, cock pulsing and jerking against the fabric.

Drake cried at the memory, loving the way he had felt then, so irrationally turned on that he had been able to get off by humping his blankets like a horny teenager, just like now, just like now. In a moment of embarrassing lust, Drake yanked the blanket out from under him and wrapped the corner of it around himself, letting out a shuddery, "Ahh!" when the gentle, dry friction against his oversensitive cock had him ratcheting higher and higher with each sweep.

"Oh God, Elle, it's good, it feels good, close, I'm so close, Elle please, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—"

His words were interrupted by the faint sound of a woman's cry of ecstasy echoing through the empty train cars, almost like Elle had made that sound, almost like she had been doing exactly what he was doing, almost like she'd just come—

With a cry to answer her own, Drake pulled the blanket away from himself, grasped his pulsing cock and came hard enough to blacken his vision, the intensity of his orgasm nearly making him pass out. He kept himself up there with short, quick jerks, hips pushing up to meet his hand with every pass as the white-hot pleasure of it all had him writhing and moaning like he was possessed. It was too good; nothing should be this good. He kept jerking himself until the pleasure became too sharp and then brought himself back down with slow, gentle glides, moaning softly as the sheer relief spread throughout his every limb, leaving him relaxed and flinching away from his own hand. He exhaled slowly, trying to catch his breath as he stared almost in awe into the darkness. Was that really Elle he heard? The more time passed, the more the fog cleared from his brain, and the easier it was to convince himself it could have been anything. Parisian girls making too much noise outside of the train as they strolled the city streets, the creak of a door hinge, his own fevered imagination. Drake felt a brief urge to get up and sneak over to Elle's car, not necessarily to go in but just to listen, to see if she was making any other noises resembling that siren's call.

With a sigh, Drake shook his head and fumbled a hand over the nightstand in search of something to clean himself off with. Let her sleep, he thought, laying back down and shutting his eyes. He might be doomed, but maybe she wasn't.

And he definitely needed a rematch of Never Have I Ever. Next time, he would win.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I tried to use American spelling for this, and also wrote this in a sudden writing fever for three straight days and it's burned into my retinas. Forgive any mistakes.