Page 92 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
He looks up, soft surprise at my presence replaced by a smile so warm and happy that I have to look away. “It reminds me of you,” he says fondly, and then I have to fight the urge to cover my face with my hands. I am so powerless in the face of it, always, the ways in which he loves me; something as innocent as him listening to a song for this reason still has the power to weaken my knees. Still.
Be strong.
He straightens up and stretches, and I stop looking away. It might be the last time I ever get to see the braided muscles of his abs working, the tempting way his pants pull against the lean lines of his hips. “You’re making it hard not to walk over there,” Ash says gruffly, “looking at me like that.”
“Why can’t you walk over here again?” I don’t know why I say it. I do know why he can’t walk over here—I know more reasons why than he does. But at the moment, we’re just two men hungry for each other, two men who happen to be alone.
“I forget why,” Ash murmurs, walking around his desk and over to me. “Something to do with you being an insufferable bastard.” He braces one hand on the doorframe next to my head, and I can smell smoke, I can feel the heat burning off all that bare, muscled skin.
“You always did know how to punish me for being a bastard.”
Ash’s eyes flare. “Is that what you want, little prince? To be punished?”
“I—” The words freeze as Ash dips his head to my neck, running the tip of his nose along my jaw.
“It occurs to me that there are still things we haven’t done, you and I,” he breathes into my neck, into my everywhere. “Things I’ve promised you.”
“Oh?” I say, like I’m so casual, but the word comes out choked with desire.
“Yeah,” he whispers against my ear, and then I feel rather than hear the pop of his trouser button through its hole. I feel the metal teeth of his zipper whirring. I feel his sigh as his heavy erection nudges free of his pants.
He grabs my hand, presses it against his heart. “Do you remember?” he asks casually, moving our hands from his solid, warm chest to his solid, warm stomach. “Do you remember what I promised?”
“I…maybe…”
“Let me refresh you, then.” His parted lips met the lobe of my ear just as he moves our hands underneath his waistband and around the side of his hip. All the way until I’m palming his bare ass.
I’m shaking.
I’ve grabbed his ass before, of course, as I’ve sucked him off or as he’s plowed into me with my knees bracketing his chest. But it’s never been like this, him guiding me there and consciously, carefully letting me explore on my own. And explore I do, before I can stop myself, kneading the firm swell of his ass, moving my other hand to mirror the first so that both of them are full of warm, muscled flesh.
Ash brings his own hands back to my face and then they drop to my neck as my explorations get deeper, rougher. He holds himself so still that I almost wonder if he doesn’t like it, me touching him like this. If it’s something he’s doing because he knows I want it, but that he won’t actually get any pleasure from himself.
Then I gently stroke my middle fingertip against the hot, pleated skin of his entrance and he lets out a noise so helpless and ragged I feel it in my teeth. He slumps against me, his hands sliding down to my chest where they fist in the lapels of my suit jacket, and his head drops even deeper into the hollow of my neck. I press my fingertip harder against that spot, the cinched heat of it opening against the calloused pad of flesh, and he rewards me with a shudder and a moan muffled by the collar of my shirt.
Never in my life did I think I’d get to have this, President Maxen Colchester shirtless and sagged against me, panting as I explored his ass.
“It’s hard not to…” he breathes and trails off, unable to make the words, but somehow I know what he means. It’s hard for him not to take control. It’s hard to keep himself still and let another person give him pleasure when he’s so used to taking it on his own terms.
But he manages, letting my finger work in soft, undemanding presses, until I’m knuckle deep and I finally graze the place deep inside that makes him cry out and push against me, and holy shit, hearing those whimpers in his gravel voice and feeling that ass like a furnace around my finger is almost too much, especially when he starts grinding his erection against my hip.
“I want you to fuck me,” he mumbles, his fists still in my jacket. “Now. Tonight.”
How long have I waited for this fucking moment? And tonight is when he chooses it, the night it can no longer be mine? I briefly consi
der doing it anyway as I massage his prostate and rub my own clothed cock against his groin—but I don’t even have to remind myself of how wrong it would be. I already know.
I already know.
“Ash, we can’t,” I say, regret making my voice tight as I slide my finger out of him. “Greer.”
He nods against my neck, but I can tell he’s still half gone with lust. “Can’t we though? Just a little bit?”
I almost smile at that, at the begging, because it’s so sweetly novel to see him like this, my strong king willing to make himself vulnerable for me. And by almost smile, I mean I feel tears burning at the backs of my eyes, deep in my throat. Why did tonight have to be the night I walked in on him listening to a waltz? The night he decided he wanted to give me something like this?
Why did tonight have to be the night when he reminded me of how much he loved me? Made me remember how much I loved him?
“Ash,” I say again, hoping he can’t hear the tears in my voice. “You know we can’t.”
