Page 103 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
He wasn’t just jealous of her—he was jealous of me. He wanted her too, and of course this must be shredding him—his ex-lover and a woman he wanted together in front of him. Who wouldn’t be upset? And the thoughts came unbidden and hot, the idea of watching him move between her legs, of watching him pet and caress her. Of watching him service her at my command.
My cock went hard so fast I forgot to breathe.
I watched the two of them at the dinner that night, the first time I’d been able to witness them together, and what I saw fascinated me, because it wasn’t only that Embry was clearly drawn to Greer. It was reciprocal; I could tell by her flushing and laughter that she was just as attracted to him, and of course she was, because he was Embry Moore, handsome and delicious and princely.
What really fascinated me was the current running between them. It was subtle, momentary, like a silver fish darting through dark water, it could only be perceived in glimpses and guesses. But it was there, and it pointed to something more than casual attraction.
I considered this.
Just as I considered Greer’s blush as we danced and I explained how Embry had taught me to dance, we took turns being
the man, and I didn’t miss the brief gnaw of hunger in her eyes as she thought about it.
And so I made a choice that night. A choice to see. It was an idea or a hope, but it was still unformed and dangerous—but oh God, it would be more dangerous not to do it, not to explore this a little bit. Not to confirm what I suspected to be true.
It was in their faces the moment they saw each other, the moment I walked through that door with Embry. I could feel it between them, and yet it also included me. I didn’t feel apart from it, walled off from whatever hunger they had for each other. That’s not to say that I wasn’t jealous—I was that very much—but underneath and over the jealousy was something terrifyingly sacred. Glorious and dirty and fated. I couldn’t quite feel my way around the edges of it yet, but I knew it was there, and I knew I yearned for it.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Embry had asked me, his posture tense and unhappy, trying to look everywhere except at the beautiful woman kneeling on the floor with her wet cunt open to view.
“I know you want her,” I leaned in and whispered. “I know she wants you.”
Embry let out a pained breath.
“And little prince, I want both of you. I want the two of you to want each other. It gets me hard. And I think the idea of the three of us gets you hard too.”
Sure enough, when I pulled back, Embry’s face was a vivid painting of lust and defeat, and I knew I had his surrender, I knew I’d won. Won what, I still wasn’t sure, but it would either show us heaven or burn us alive, and I couldn’t wait to see which it would be.
TWENTY-SIX
ASH
now
All of my life, I’ve been lucky. In the big ways—with my mother and sister and lovers and friends—and in the small ways, down to good grades and laws getting passed and the generally favorable course my life has run. I suppose there are parts of my life one could call less than fortunate—my week with Morgan and the resulting son chief among them—but I’ve never felt that those things were unlucky. They were mistakes, debts of judgment that eventually came collecting, and I earned every ounce of pain or scorn that came with them.
Now, however, I feel truly, actually, painfully unlucky.
Stupidly unlucky.
Cruelly unlucky.
Merlin was right on the bridge. I am going to do everything I can to stop this from happening.
I leave the nature park with unfamiliar memories swirling in my mind and still so many doubts, and the first thing I do is call Trieste, then Belvedere. The debate is a week from today. Embry could be dead a week from today.
I will not allow that to happen.
Trieste tells me that a venue switch would be difficult, but not impossible—but it has to be decided by tomorrow for the Secret Service to have enough time to vet the building.
Belvedere tries to patch me through to Embry’s phone, but there’s no response from him or his campaign manager—which makes sense in the aftermath of Abilene’s suicide but is beyond frustrating. I leave him a message, as clear and as explicit as I can make it without sounding ludicrous.
“Embry, I’m sorry to call you again today, but I have information that the debate might be a staging ground for something dangerous. I want to move it to a new venue or figure out something else. Call me back.”
I put Trieste and Uri to work on finding a new venue and liaising with the television network hosting the debate to get their cooperation. I ask Gawayne to pull all of the threats made to Embry and cross-reference them with the final debate location in Richmond. I ask for a huge increase in Secret Service agents present at the event.
But strange things start happening. Phone calls get dropped. Emails vanish between servers. The television network balks at a change of venue. No one can get a hold of Embry, and both Kay and Trieste act as if I’ve lost my mind.
After two days, Embry sends word through his campaign manager that he’ll agree to a change of venue so long as it won’t interfere with Abilene’s funeral arrangements—but then Harrison Fasse kicks up a fuss and starts a media flurry around the venue change, and the outcry forces our hand in revealing the new venue options.
