Page 21 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
I am a man who loves. A man whose love demands much in return.
And I will survive this.
I mark every flutter of those long eyelashes against her cheek, every tiny furrow of her brow as she pulls the fabric around my neck into the right shape. She’s so fucking beautiful all the time, but now, with her eyes glassy and her cheeks flushed and her full attention on the task I set her to, I’m so fucking in love that I can barely see straight. My young wife, my regal little queen, so willing to be unspooled at my whim.
She finishes with the bow tie, plucks the corners into sharp peaks, and then smiles up at me, all bright red lips and white teeth. I bend my head and bite the small cleft in her chin and she laughs.
“I want to kiss you,” I say, biting her again. “I want to kiss all the air right out of you until the only thing you can breathe is me. But the fucking gala.”
“We could cancel,” she suggests with a coy smile. “Pretend we’re sick.”
“Naughty thing. You just want to be fucked sooner.”
“I would never presume, Sir,” she says in a voice that says she would do exactly that.
I sweep her into my arms, honeymoon style, and carry her out of the bedroom.
“My shoes!” she protests, feet kicking adorably under all that tulle. She’s also not wearing underwear, but she’s smart enough not to ask for it.
“I’ll have Belvedere get the shoes,” I tell her with a smile. “I like having you in my arms too much to put you down.”
She sighs, resting her head against my shoulder. I can smell all the sweet aromas that come with a woman—soap and perfume and the faint smell of skin and arousal underneath it all. “I love you, my Greer,” I tell her. “And do you love your Sir?”
She nods against my shoulder. “I love my Sir with all my heart.”
“Even tonight?”
“Even tonight.” A pause. “How long until you let me come again?”
I laugh and pinch her ass for her impertinence, and then I carry her out into the hallway towards the limo.
THERE’S something quite thrilling about fucking a woman in a ball gown. It’s like having a secret that no one else knows, a sin that no one else can see. Of course, no one else can see us in the Beast anyway, but it still feels sweetly illicit to have Greer’s skirt fluffed and bunched around us and my cock inside her underneath it all. I savor the picture she paints like this—hair coiled into perfection, makeup like art, the gorgeous gown—but she is a hot, greedy thing under her skirt, her snatch tight around me and her clit a hard, plump bud against the muscles of my groin. She’s under strict orders not to come or make a single noise, and I can tell that both are testing her discipline at the moment—her fingers are digging into my shoulders and her teeth are digging so far into her lower lip that I wonder if she can taste blood.
I’m enjoying it very much.
“…And that’s another year on the timeline, thanks to the coalition,” the new British prime minister is saying into my ear. I’m on the phone with him, ostensibly to congratulate him and his party on their victory, but it’s gone beyond congratulations into an unwelcome digression about his goals, and it’s taking more than my usual reserve of self-control to listen to him fully. Not the least because I have my wife on my lap, repeatedly impaling herself on my penis.
But listen fully I do, and when I hang up the phone, I take a moment to lift up Greer’s skirt and reward myself with the sight of us fucking, watching my thick organ disappear into that tight cunt and reappear again, the wet pink of her hugging me even as she lifts away, as if her body doesn’t want to let me go. I lean back and watch this for a few minutes, considering rather lazily if I’d like to come inside her now or wait and savor the anticipation, and then I decide that she’s been such a good wife for me today that I’ll reward her at the gala itself, whisk her off into some dark bathroom upstairs and fuck her until she screams. And that is the moment I want to come inside her, when she is completely and utterly outside of herself with release.
“Up,” I say with a stern swat to her ass. “We’ll finish this later.”
I can see a faint mist of sweat along her hairline as she nods dazedly, clambers off my lap, and reaches for her purse.
“Don’t clean yourself,” I say. “I want to know that you’re wet.”
“Yes, Sir,” she manages. I enjoy the effect of denying her very much, but I still give her the last few minutes of the ride to compose herself and let her mind clear a little—I always play to tease, sometimes even to test, but I would never actually jeopardize her ability to do her job—and by the time we reach the Luther Center itself, she is able to smile and wave calmly enough as we leave the Beast and trail past the red carpet into the crowd.
“Don’t forget,” I whisper in her ear before I go to find the event coordinator. “I want you wet and ready for me later. If I like what I find, then I’ll reward my good little girl.”
“And if you don’t like what you find?” she whispers back, a little nervously.
“Then it’s going to be long night for you,” I say with a quick kiss to her temple. And I mean it. I’m not without mercy, but I always keep my word. Always.
Greer lifts her chin a little. “You’ll like what you find.”
“My little queen is determined to please me,” I say, smiling. “And I am determined to give her everything she needs to be a happy girl.”
She stops walking and turns to straighten my tie and smooth down my jacket, the flat of her palm running teasingly over my hidden erection as she does.
