Page 92 of Kneel with the King
Oh.
My mouth goes dry, then immediately waters, heat pooling low in my stomach. I should look away, pretend I didn’t see how turned on he is, but my hands falter, just enough that King feels it. He turns his head to the side, glancing at me with a lazy, knowing look.
“Keep going,” he says roughly.
I do, and my own pulse hammers inside of my chest. The slow drag of my palms over his skin starts to feel less like a massage, and more like my own version of foreplay.
Or hell.
Fuck. My. Life.
By the time I circle back up to his shoulders, the ache between my legs is impossible to ignore. I shift my stance, hoping my tight boxer briefs hide the fact that I’m hard from touching him.
He doesn’t comment as I finish up the rest of his massage, but the faint curl at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly how much he’s affecting me.
King’s chest rises and falls under my hands, and just when I’m sure I can’t keep my own reactions hidden any longer, he shifts, sitting up.
“Your turn,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I step back automatically, and he pushes up off the table with that slow, deliberate grace that makes my pulse kick. He jerks his chin toward the other table.
“Lie down.”
I hesitate, but only for a second. Then I’m washing my hands before stripping down to my boxer briefs. If it weren’t for the arousal rushing through me and making me think of only one thing, I might try to hide my erection a little bit more. But fuck it.
A second later, I’m on my stomach, cheek against the padded headrest, the faint scent of lavender mixing with the sharper note of King’s skin.
The blanket slides down my back as he folds it away, baring me to the waist. His hands are on me a moment later—broader, heavier than mine, kneading into my shoulders with just enough pressure to make me groan.
“You’re tense,” he says, almost idly, but there’s an edge under it.
His touch works lower, fingers following the line of my spine until they hover just above the waistband of my boxer briefs. The sound of a bottle opening breaks the quiet, and then cool slickness is drizzled over my lower back. He peels my boxer briefs off, and my skin isso hot.
I jolt at the first pass of his hand, not quite where I expected it, palm cupping and squeezing my ass cheeks in a way that makes my breath falter.
“Relax,” he murmurs. The word feels like an order, not advice.
His thumbs press into the muscles at my lower back, working slow circles, and then his fingers dip lower, skimming over the curve of my ass again.
My hips twitch involuntarily.
The next touch is bolder—fingers slipping around the front of my hips, the warm tips of his fingers brushing against the side of my hard length, calloused fingertips dragging over the sensitive skin he can access.
“Turn over.”
Eagerly, perhaps a littletooeagerly, I twist around so that I’m lying on my back. Before I can react, King dribbles massage oil all over my abdomen and cock. Without warning, his hand glides over me with obscene ease, warm fingers wrapping around my length. The smell of the open fire mixing with the cinnamon scent of his skin, and the lavender oil… it does things to me. Wet, salacious sounds echo through the room as he works me slowly, and when his hand rolls over the head of my cock, I bite back a sound, my body jumping under him.
“King—”
“Shh. I’m not done.”
He works me with infuriating patience, his other hand anchoring my hip so I can’t squirm away. The hand wrapped around my cock moves slowly, gripping more firmly at the root as he strokes up, loosening around the head in a way that makes my whole body shudder with each pass. Every stroke pulls a little more sound out of me—a sharp inhale, a low groan I can’t swallow down. My toes curl against the table, my fingers digginginto the padding for purchase. I feel like maybe I need to hold on to something.
The slick glide is maddening, the pace steady but just slow enough to keep me hovering on the edge. Each downward stroke makes my stomach clench; each upward one has my hips twitching for more.
Heat coils tight and low, building with every pass until it feels like my skin’s too small for my body, like I might explode, like whatever is about to happen is too big for this small room. My thighs tremble, the muscles straining from holding so much tension, every nerve trained on the next stroke, the next drag of his palm.
I whimper like a fucking dog—a begging sound that makes King chuckle. I can’t open my eyes—I can’t see the gleeful expression on his face. I know he knows that he has me wrapped around his finger. That I’m a total and complete goner for him, for this feeling, for all of it. My face scrunches with each pass, and my fingertips ache from where I’m gripping the sheet.
