Page 44 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
He gets to his feet and scoops my flute from the side table, and while he’s refilling it with champagne, Greer threads her fingers through mine.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, looking down at where our hands braid together. “I don’t know how I got so used to having what we had, when we had it for such a short amount of time, but I did. And I got used to having you here, with us, even before the wedding.” Her throat works, a delicate, silent swallow. “Every day. Every day I miss you.”
What can I say to that? To her naked, vulnerable pain? So much of it is my fault, and the guilt is like slick oil all over me, because I never wanted to hurt her. I want to keep her safe, I want to make sure no one can hurt her ever again, and yet all of that feels too abstract to explain right now. Too pitiful.
But why? Shouldn’t I just tell her these things? Maybe face to face, she’d understand, not like over the phone. If I could look into her eyes and just explain…but what if it didn’t change her mind? What if she still thought I was wrong?
“I miss you every day as well,” I say instead, like a coward. “I’ve missed every single part of you.”
“I think I can guess which parts,” she laughs.
“I mean it,” I insist. I slide off the sofa to kneel by her feet and press her hand to my lips. “I haven’t—well, you know I haven’t with Abilene, and not with anyone else either, but that’s not what I mean when I say I miss you. It’s not just the fucking that I ache for. It’s your voice, your gaze, your touch. Even your highlighters and Post-Its scattered everywhere. I’m miserable without you.”
But I can endure it because I know I’ll make you safe.
“I’m sorry for all of it,” I finish. “But I love you, and that will always be the end of our story.”
She drops her eyes, her eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. “For me too, Embry,” is all she says. I kiss the back of her hand again and then press my forehead to it. There’s not a river wide enough or deep enough to contain everything I feel for this woman.
Ash returns with my drink, and I reluctantly push myself away from Greer and back to my seat. Ash hands the champagne to me over the back of the couch, and as I take it from him, I swear I feel a fingertip ghost across the back of my neck. But when I turn, he’s gone, already folding that powerful body back to a seated position on the sofa across from me. And somehow I know from the way those aventurine eyes look at me that he heard my conversation with Greer. That he correctly interpreted my supplication at her feet.
And that the night is about to change.
“Where’s my hospitality?” he asks in a voice that is dark and playful and mockingly polite all at once. “I’ve offered you a drink, but surely there’s more that my weary traveler needs?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, watching as he snaps his fingers. In an instant, Greer is kneeling demurely by his feet.
“Are you sure?” he asks with a raised eyebrow once she’s settled. “Something to eat, maybe? I can easily call down to the kitchen and have them bring something up.” His hand drops to idly stroke Greer’s head and neck. My eyes follow his fingers, jealousy curling smoky swirls inside my mind. I’m jealous of both of them—of Ash for touching Greer and of Greer for being touched by Ash. It’s a knot that I can never fully untangle, a riddle I can’t unpuzzle; I can only hope to survive it with my soul intact.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I finally answer. Though I think of Greer’s heat against my stomach as her heels dug into my back earlier tonight, and I want to add at least, I’m not hungry for food.
Ash is toying with her braid now, brushing the tail of it along her jaw, giving it a sharp tug whenever she shivers at the touch. “More comfortable clothes? A shower maybe?”
Both sound amazing, actually, stripping and washin
g away this terrible day, but I don’t have the right to make myself at home here any more, not even for pretend.
Ash seems to anticipate the shake of my head and tilts his own head with a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I know what. Greer, our guest needs something from you. Go make him feel comfortable.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice when she answers, “Yes, Sir,” and no reluctance or shyness when she rises gracefully from her knees to walk over to me. My mouth goes dry as she gets closer, as she gives me a lip-biting smile and then turns to face away from me. With sleek movements and a flirty flounce of her skirt, she’s on her hands and knees on the coffee table in front of me, and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing. The clean, pink soles of her feet, the toned swells of her calves. The soft skin of her thighs, the hem of her skirt just barely covering the naked pussy underneath. My skin is erupting into a thousand thousand needy goose bumps; my cock is swelling fast and hungry against my tuxedo pants.
I can’t breathe.
Ash stands up, looking at me from across the slender flat of Greer’s back. He once again rubs her head in idle affection, and she pushes her face against his thigh like a purring cat.
“Go on, Embry,” he says calmly. “I want to be a good host.”
I’m still sitting, still several steps behind whatever’s happening right now, and he seems to sense it. Giving Greer’s hair a final caress, he walks over to me and extends his hand. I stare at it a moment, not sure what I’m agreeing to if I take it. But when have I ever not taken his hand when it was offered? I press my palm to his and grip tightly, and then he’s helping me to my feet.
He runs a finger along the hem of Greer’s skirt, nudging it up ever so slightly and then letting it drop back down, over and over again. Our hands are still clasped tight, but neither of us lets go.
How good it feels simply to hold his hand. How electrifying to stand here with him behind the woman we both love.
“It was Greer’s idea,” he says, in a voice still full of the play-dark and the mock-polite. “And I rather like it. Don’t you?”
“I—” My mouth is so dry that it takes more than one attempt to get the words out. “I still don’t know what the idea is.”
His finger runs along her hem again, lifting it higher this time, and even standing above her as we are, there’s a tease of folded flesh and a narrow glimpse of pink. And I’m hard for it, so fucking hard. I haven’t felt anything other than my own hand for so long—no soft and slick cunts, no clever and wet tongues, no masculine fists full of Vaseline and cruelty. Not even the hair-rough thrusts against a lover’s thighs, like I used to have once upon a time.
