Page 55 of Kneel with the King
A familiar tightening of my balls has me stumbling over my movements. I couldn’t possibly be about to come, could I?
A low moan escapes my lips, and I take King deeper into my mouth. I feel the barbells touch the back of my throat, and before I can pull away, one of his hands snakes behind my head and holds me there. He ruts his hips into my mouth, rolling them perfectly as his hard shaft chokes me. Panic seizes me, but then something splits open inside. A flash of white heat crashes through me, so sharp I see stars behind my eyes. My cock pulses once, twice—and then I’m coming, just from him. Fromthis.
Searing pleasure works down my spine as I come in my sweatpants, and tears roll down my cheeks as the intensity of it works through me. My hands shake as they dig into the flesh of his hips, and my whole brain turns warm and fuzzy as I empty myself, as the orgasm slows and throbs through me.
King comes with a muffled groan, like he’s still trying not to give me the satisfaction of hearing it. I swallow every salty, bitter drop, suctioning him to the roof of my mouth out of instinct as my throat pulls his cum out, drop by aching drop. I’m too distracted with my own orgasm to really process the taste, but I don’t hate it. Somehow, knowing it’s coming from him… it feels like he’s giving me a part of himself.
He shudders when I pull back slightly, licking my way around his sensitive, still leaking head.
As I pop him out of my mouth, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My chest heaves. My palms are burning. My knees sting from the woven carpet on the floor.
He’s still shaking, and so am I.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter without thinking. He begins to pull his waistband back up, and I stand on shaky legs.
He pauses, eyes flicking down to the obvious wet spot on the front of my pants. “Then don’t make it mean anything, Harrison.” He walks toward his coat, which he must’ve discarded while I was blowing him. “I agreed to dinner with Walter and Jacques. Meet you at the restaurant at seven.”
He leaves, a gust of cold air hitting me hard as I lean back against the wall of the small cabin.
Looking down, I run a hand over my face when I see the ruined mess in my pants.
Fuck.
Him.
King Takes All
King
My hands are shakingas I zip my jacket and veer off the main trail. The snow is now ice-crusted, and my boots crunch with every step. I walk farther for a few minutes, needing fresh air and space.
I don’t care where I’m going. I just need distance. From Asher, from that cabin, from the way his mouth felt around my cock.
He came in his fucking pants. He didn’t even use his hands, it was just need and fury and surrender. And I liked it. No—lovedit. Loved seeing how he lost control over that moment, just like I did.
This was never the plan.
I was supposed to pull the strings. Keep him off-balance. Break him down slowly, methodically until he hated himself for leaving me in that bathroom a decade ago.
Revenge, but also something else—something messier, something that would ruin him.
Something like… acquiring Walter.
Or, I don’t know, making him embarrass himself in front of everyone.
I didn’t have a solid plan, to be honest. I only found out about the retreat last week, and I paid an exorbitant amount of money to snag the last spot.
I never had a partner meeting me here.
And it was easy to send a fake email to Brooklyn Danner, the publicist-slash-casual hookup who was supposed to be Asher’s partner this week. It was simple. All I had to do was offer her a last-minute PR consulting gig with an absurd day rate, sent through a shell company email address I spun up in under an hour.
The project was ‘urgent,’ ‘high profile,’ and ‘absolutely confidential.’
She replied within twelve minutes.
Something came up and I can’t make it, she messaged Asher.
Of course it did.
