Page 109 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
He slides off the bed to get to the night stand and opens a shallow drawer. Inside there’s a bottle of lube and a silicone toy. No condoms, no baby wipes, nothing that speaks to partners or to the anticipation of partners. Just a lonely life.
That’s going to end, I think, and the thought gives me relief. That it’s pain I will be able to soothe away, that like a good Sir, I’ll be able to give Embry aftercare for all these hard years. The best aftercare I’m capable of giving.
Embry is careful but thorough, using his finger to coat me inside and out, his eyes flicking up to mine constantly, gauging my expression. I can see his heartbeat in his cock as he works his way inside, the pulse hammering at the side of his neck, the stunned bite of his lip as he slides his finger all the way to the knuckle and feels the full clench of me around his digit.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re so hot inside. Burning hot.”
“Give me more,” I say, keeping my tone imperious, although I’m not fooling anyone with my cock dripping onto my stomach and my hips making slow rolls against Embry’s hand. “I want more.”
“Yes, Sir,” he says with a comely flutter of his eyelashes and adds a second finger.
I arch a little at the feeling of fullness, at the protest of the muscles around my entrance, and he puts a calming hand on my stomach, sliding it underneath my erection so that he can press down on my stomach at the same time his fingers hook upward and stroke a spot that has my toes curling.
“Remind yourself that it’s not pain,” he says, echoing his instructions from that long-ago night in Lyonesse. “And you want it because I’m the one giving it to you.”
“I want it because you’re the one giving it to me.”
The fingers stroke in exploration, in preparation, and right now the kink is so thin and light, like a sheet thrown over furniture, showing the shape of the real thing underneath.
When I say, “Service me with your cock,” what I mean is let’s share everything, let’s leave nothing else between us.
And when he removes his fingers and slicks up his erection with a trembling hand and I say, “Such a good, eager boy,” what I mean is I love seeing you shake with love for me because I am always shaking with love for you.
And when, for the first time in both my lives, he presses his tip against a place I’ve never shared with anyone and I say, “Make me feel good,” we both know I mean I want to make you feel good, I want us to feel good together, I want to see your face as you feel it and as you come for me.
Embry closes his eyes and pushes in. Just an inch. Just enough to send a frisson of electric pain up my spine.
Another inch. He lets out a moan like he’s dying, his eyes still closed.
I inhale sharply at the new invasion, and I can’t help but arch again, which makes him open his eyes and look down at me with a dazed expression. It seems to take him a moment to remember where he is or what’s happening. He pulls back enough to run his hands up my inner thighs and spread me wider, and then he pushes my knees ever so slightly up. Opening up my center, baring my hole to him.
And then he guides himself back to my anus, his massive cock pressing in past the ring of muscle more easily this time.
“Jesus, you’re big,” I grunt, and he laughs—which hurts, and I groan, which makes him laugh even more.
I reach up and collar his throat with my hand, pleased to feel how fast and eager his pulse pounds under my fingers. “Serve your king now.”
“Yes, Sir.” And Embry gives a slick thrust, pulls out, and then slides all the way home.
“Fuck,” I mumble, my grip on his neck growing tight as my body breaks out into a shivering, happy sweat. It’s a feeling so close to pain, so close to pleasure, but it’s not quite either yet, something unformed and unshaped, something that is sensation in its rawest form. And it’s dirty, it’s so fucking dirty, making him fuck me while I choke him, watching his stomach muscles flex and work to push into me and stroke me from the inside out.
“Fuck is right,” he pants, closing his eyes again. A drop of sweat rolls along his temple. “Jesus Christ, it’s tight. It’s better—God—better than I ever could have dreamed. Fuck.”
“Open your eyes,” I order. “Watch my face as you serve me.”
He obeys, opening his eyes with what appears to be a struggle, his mouth all parted and his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown wide. And whatever he sees in my own face unravels him.
“Oh God, Ash,” he says in a choked voice, his hips still moving in dirty, delicious thrusts. “Oh God.”
I can’t fucking handle how handsome he is like this. How perfect. I pull him down for a hot kiss, sloppy and urgent, and whatever change in angle that creates sends a bolt of pleasure straight to my core.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh.”
I think I see now why Embry likes this so much. I mean, I’ve always known in an abstract way that it must feel good, and it felt good when Embry fucked me with that toy at Lyonesse, but it’s nothing like now, nothing like having a virile, beautiful man between your legs, nothing like having something hot and vital seeking out your own hot and vital places. And then that man being someone you’ve loved for so fucking long, that man shivering with how good you’re making him feel…
Another slow thrust against my prostate, and my vision s
parks along the edges.
