Philippe flung himself face down on the bed and gnawed at his pillow. It was too much. It was all too much. People expected him to be the perfect everything, and then hated him when he (in their eyes) fell short.
He hated them all. Even the ones he loved. Especially the ones he loved.
He banged his head on the pillow, and thought of the Chevalier. And that was stupid because his prick stiffened immediately. To no purpose. Chevalier was on an elite list of people with whom Philippe was angry and/or refusing to have sex. He was also angry with his brother (as usual) and was refusing to have sex with his wife (of course), but the special little corner of hell he had set aside for the love of his life spanned both.
How dare he?
Philippe gave a short, frustrated thrust against the covers.
Actually, that was rather nice.
He did it again, mind racing.
If he turned the pillow around just so, and bunched the blanket up so… oh, that was delightful. And peaceful.
Now, if he just….
Philippe slipped his hand into his breeches, closing his fingers around his stiff, needy prick.
Oh, that was perfection.
Philippe closed his eyes and sank into exquisite sensation: the resistance of his bed, the warmth of the pillow in his embrace, the familiar reassurance of his own hand and its perfect touch. Excitement threatened to overtake him, so he forced himself to slow. This was no hasty snatch of relief. This was to be a tender, drawn-out pleasure.
He rubbed his cheek appreciatively against the soft linen, enchanted by sensation, tension coiling in his loins.
Several times Philippe approached the point of release only to stop, let the pleasure subside and begin again, until it was on the edge of too much, his member too sensitive. At the point where it hurt more to deprive himself than deprave himself, he thrust firmly into his fist once, twice, thrice before spending all over the sheets. It was glorious, an explosion of all the emotion he'd been restraining for so long. He was left gasping, smiling, and licking his own mess off his fingers as if it were nectar.
He should take a little more time for himself, perhaps.
Content at last, the Duke of Orleans slept.