Page 27 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
It’s different now. The air weighs more against my skin, my blood moves differently in my body. Is it because I’m with my wife and not a near stranger? Is it because I want it, because I’m trying to feel it? Is it because Embry has already laid me so low that it takes next to nothing to blow me into pieces, like a pillar of ash in the wind?
I sink into it, let myself be blown apart, and when Greer crawls over me and slowly moves my arms above my head, pinning my wrists there and tying them with her stocking, I’m completely there. Floating, drifting. A leaf on a lake, skating across the surface with joy and fear.
“Don’t move,” she commands in a whisper after she finishes binding my wrists, and then my abdomen and thighs are tickled by silk as she moves down to straddle my hips. When she lowers herself, it should be impossible to keep from trying to thrust up into her, it should be impossible to endure the teasing wet rubs of her pussy along my cock, but I do, I endure it. I stay still and obedient even as my ribs jerk with jagged breaths, even as my erect cock aches with the need to release and my balls are drawn up tight to my body. I stay still and obedient as she finally puts me out of my misery and reaches under her dress to position me at her entrance. And I stay completely still as she guides me inside of her, even though it feels like the best kind of hot, wet dream.
“God,” she whispers. She’s so swollen that she has to work herself down on my penis, and there’s a moment when I think she might not be able to take all of me like this, but she spreads her thighs wide and throws her head back and sinks to the hilt. She seats herself fully with a gasp and a shudder, goose bumps everywhere across her chest and her arms, and even I have to bite back a moan at the wet, kissing heat along my length. Her pussy is the best thing I’ve ever felt, the sweetest and tightest thing, and having her on top of me like this is a revelation.
I can see her face and neck perfectly, the flush creeping up past the bodice of her dress and the tendrils of hair coming loose from her updo. I can feel the needy roaming of her hands and the hungry clench of her thighs around my hips. I can see and feel exactly what she would do to my body if given unfettered access, and it’s insanely erotic to see her using me with such unabashed ferocity. It’s maddening to think that this must be how she wants me all the time, to be able to bite my nipples and scratch down my abs and fuck me with savage, grinding rolls that send the tip of me deep into her stomach and leave her quivering with unrelieved pressure.
“You’re so big,” she tells me, all purr and sweetness as she rides me. “My big, strong Ash.”
And she makes me feel big and strong in an entirely new way, in a way where I don’t have to use my bigness and my strength for anything. I don’t have to justify possessing those attributes, I don’t have to carefully counterbalance them with gentleness and finesse. I am the leaf skating across the pond again, simply blowing where her words take me, and I can just watch with exhilarating clarity how much she enjoys my size, my strength, my body. I don’t have to worry about pleasing her with those things because she will please herself; I don’t have to worry about right and wrong, strong and weak, protective and reckless, because she will worry about it for me. I can sink like a stone into my body, into my own mind, and vanish into a breathless, static fog of electric need and chemical want.
It’s magic.
It’s mindless, sweaty magic.
There’s no country to lead, no Embry, no war to avoid and no broken heart. There’s no sword and there’s no crown. There’s nothing but Greer holding me as closely as a woman can hold a man, carrying me far above it all and deep below, and when she twists her body down harder onto mine and orders me to let go and climax, I do it.
I obey.
I yield.
I submit.
I am nothing and she is everything, and somehow it makes me everything again just to be under her; I am alchemically transformed from a leaden man into a golden being of pure, incandescent surrender. When the orgasm comes, it comes like the swift cut of the sun across the globe, it comes bright and hard and fast, and the ecstatic surges deep in my pelvis are echoed by the clenches of my abs, the tight jerks of my hips and thighs, until my entire body is caught up in the feeling.
“Give it to me,” she murmurs, riding my restlessly orgasming body like a queen would ride a steed. Her hands dig into my sides, her heels into my thighs, and for a moment, I really do feel like a stallion, proud and powerful, but completely tamed at the same time. Her eyes are gentle on mine as I empty myself into her, and not only am I emptying, but I am empty. For just a few sweet moments, I don’t exist, I’m not real, I know exactly how it would be to give up everything moral and ethical and practical and just give in. There’s no Ash, no President Colchester…only a man who wants his lovers close and nothing else.
So this is what it would feel like.
The words come like drops of water in zero gravity, floating through the animal dark of my mind. Clear and sparkling.
This is how it would feel to truly yield.
Wild. Primal. Selfish.
Short.
And then I’m back again.
I blink up at her, my body still giving the occasional pulse, but the rest of me sated and heavy. My eyelids are hooded, my muscles relaxed. I could fall asleep right now if it weren’t for this twist deep in my gut, this faint flicker of unhappiness or dissatisfaction. I try to push it away, to soak up every part of this moment.
Greer smiles down at me, laughing a little as she brushes a quick kiss along my jaw.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice sleepy.
“I’ve just never seen you like this. All stretched out and satisfied and drowsy.” Another kiss, on my cheek this time.
“Now is usually the time you’re cleaning me and giving me water and asking me how I feel. It’s nice to see you so thoroughly fucked that you can’t even move. Maybe nice is the wrong word…it’s more gratifying, I guess.”
I catch her lips with mine the next time she tries to kiss my jaw. “Gratifying how?” I ask against her mouth.
“Mmm,” she hums, kissing me back. “I suppose it’s flattering to think that I made you that way. It feels good to look at you like this and know that I’m the reason. That I turned this tall, strong beast into a loose-limbed man ready for a nap.”
“It’s the power,” I say. “It’s the power that feels good. Can you untie my wrists, please?”
She does, leaning forward as I bring my wrists to my chest, and once I’m free, I reach up to touch her face. She’s stunning like this, with shadows casting down from her pretty cheekbones and her delicate jaw and her long eyelashes. There is even the tiniest curl of shadow in the cupid’s bow of her upper lip. She was formed for sunshine and pleasure, but fuck if darkness and pain don’t look beautiful on her—and there is pain cast onto her features right now, even if she doesn’t know it.
