Page 28 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“You didn’t come,” I say, brushing her lower lip with her thumb.
“I—”
“Don’t lie, angel. There’s no point.”
She sits up and sighs, and the movement reminds us both that I’m still inside her, semi-erect but slowly stiffening again.
“I loved being able to ride you like that,” she says. “And I was so fucking close, but I just couldn’t get there. I wanted to, but I…it kept slipping out of reach.”
I give my hips an experimental thrust, and her pussy—still wet and wound tight—flutters in response. I do it a couple more times until I’m all the way hard, and then I wrap my arms around her waist and sit up. I move her on my lap, angling her so that her clit rubs against me every time she moves and so that my cock kisses that sweet, rough spot on her inner wall with every thrust.
“Like this,” I say, using a finger to lift her chin so she has to look in my face. “Move as I am moving you.”
“Are you my Sir again?”
“I am.”
The flush is back on her neck as she obeys and begins grinding on my cock, and I keep my finger under her jaw so she can’t look away. I watch her face as I tell her to move faster, to lean back a little, to grind down in twists that leave her gasping. I watch the pleasure flit across her face like cloud shadows over the prairie, fast and ever-changing, and then I watch the relief there as I band an arm across her back and start matching her thrust for thrust, pushing up into her until I can feel her womb. I know she can come like this, but there’s still something holding her back, something keeping her chained to the ground. And with heart-breaking clarity, I see what it is.
“Hold on,” I breathe, flipping us both over so that she’s flat on her back and I’m moving cruelly in between her legs. She twists and whines and arches.
“Is this what you need to come?” I ask a little meanly. “To be fucked like this?”
She nods frantically, her fingers fisting in the overflowing fabric of her dress. Her cunt is so wet that I can feel it on her inner thighs, on my own thighs, and it gets even wetter as I lean down and slide an arm under her back, crushing my weight on top of hers. My other hand comes up to collar her throat, my male organ below it all continuing to do its work, claiming her just as my hands do, just as my eyes do.
“Why couldn’t you come earlier?” I ask gently, the kindness in my voice completely at odds with the merciless movements of my body. But I want her to see the tender patience in my face, to see all of my eternal love and concern, so that she knows I’m not asking to shame her or induce some kind of misplaced guilt. I genuinely want to know, even though I can already guess her answer.
It takes her a moment to find the words.
“I didn’t feel free,” she finally says on a gasp, her body wild under mine. I can tell by the shine in her eyes that she’s close to tears, the admission prying open something she’s avoided looking at for a long time. “I thought I would love it, and I did, but it wasn’t enough.”
Enough. It was what I had felt under her touch: that I was enough to please her, that I was enough to deserve her affection and love, that I was enough as I was without all the things I do. The pull in my gut right after I’d ejaculated had betrayed the truth, but if I had any doubts, they are burned away now.
My submission only showed me a lie. I’m not enough.
It’s not enough for me to yield. It’s not enough for me to surrender and give in. Perhaps it was never in my nature to feel satisfied with passivity, but now I see it doesn’t matter. It’s my actions that earn the love in my life, and I can never stop working.
The world must spin.
And maybe one day, I’ll find that right sacrifice, that one act of martyrdom that will please God and save my soul, but until then, I will stand and work and earn that elusive sense of honor and probity. Even as my chest twists with jealousy when I realize that Greer has never had these problems when she fucks Embry, that she’s never needed anything other than him, that he is enough as he is. But from me, she will always need more. She will always need a king. I take a moment to let the unfairness and the envy sting, and then I let them dissolve into the ocean of my love for her. I’m a better man than to resent this, and I love her too much to deny her anything.
And perhaps most importantly, I am meant to be the man she needs. I crave it. I’m unhappy without it. It would be churlish of me to begrudge her needing the exact same thing that I need, even if she doesn’t need it from our other lover.
I carefully press with my thumb and fingers, squeezing the pulse points on the sides of her neck—the illusion of choking with none of the damage to the windpipe that inexperienced Dominants often cause.
“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes fluttering. “God, yes.”
I measure every flicker of her pulse, every dilation of her eyes, every ripple through her taut body, keeping her safe as I tease her along the edge of consciousness, keeping her orgasm right on the brink. Then we are there, the two of us, my hand around her throat and her body speared on mine.
“You are free now,” I tell her. “Fly.”
And when I let go and all that oxygen-rich blood floods to her brain, she comes so hard that her back bows off the bench and her mouth O’s into a silent gasp and I can feel every minute I spent teasing her and toying with her today as she unspools in wild, writhing loops. I let go along with her, letting her slippery rapture and the intoxicating feeling of my body over hers—broad shoulders shadowing her slender ones, my hand so large and rough on the elegant arch of her neck—tug me into orgasming inside her once again. And this time, as I fill her with my climax, there’s no shadow of dissatisfaction or emptiness. I feel whole and complete, and even more so looking down at the woman below me, who’s now smiling and spent.
Yes, this is the way it should be.
“Thank you,” she says dreamily up at me. “That was perfect. You master me so well.”
I smooth some of her hair away from her temple. “Thank you, princess. I’m grateful for what you gave me tonight.”
