Page 46 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“Yes.” I don’t know which part of it I’m saying yes to, but it doesn’t matter. Yes to all of it. Yes to everything. Yes until I die or until morning comes, whichever happens first.
Ash’s hands leave my penis, which is the worst feeling in the world, but then he puts them back on Greer’s ass and pulls her cheeks apart to show me the best sight in the world. “She’s got an amazing cunt,” he says conversationally, as if I really am a guest, as if I really don’t know for myself exactly how Greer feels underneath me. Impaled, squirming, wet.
“Would you like to sample for yourself? Have a taste?” Ash asks, again in that polite, gracious voice like he’s merely inviting me to taste a prized scotch or enjoy the city view out of a certain window.
I nod, and then his hand is on the back of my neck, and it is the most natural thing in the world to let him push me to my knees, to have him guide my mouth to his wife’s pussy. It’s indecent, I recognize that, obscene and maybe even sinful, but it is the way the three of us were made, and in this moment, I’m ready to forsake everything else I believe just to have this forever.
I can feel Ash’s breathing change the moment my lips touch the peach-like split between Greer’s legs, and I can feel his hand tighten against my neck, his fingers splaying across the back of my head and pushing me harder into her. Greer lets out a low whimper as I open my mouth and kiss her
with an eager tongue, determined to re-explore and re-conquer every soft fold, every wet secret. My hands go to her thighs, one of them tangling with one of Ash’s, our fingers sliding through each other’s and gripping tightly, holding on to each other as he holds my face to his woman’s cunt.
Greer is all delicious give and tension, her pussy soft and opening to my mouth and her lissome legs and arms shuddering tight as I eat her. And beside me, Ash is volcanic, about to rupture with heat, his entire body as hard and sharp as obsidian glass. I wish he would rupture, I wish he would explode. I want him naked and demanding and greedy, I want him lost to himself, his control gone, his eyes gone with lust, his desperation incinerating everything that’s not the three of us. I want to provoke him past the edge of his restraint and then lap up all the misery he wants to unleash on me, breathe in all his violent delights and drink up all his violent ends.
But before I can figure out how to make this happen, he’s pulling me away from Greer, hauling me back up to my feet by the back of my jacket. “That’s enough tasting,” he says, his cool voice at odds with his storming eyes and his body wound tight and trembling. He comes around to stand behind me, one of his large hands wrapping around my shaft once again, his other hand sliding past my waist to hold tight to Greer’s hip.
I stare down, fascinated at the pornographic sight of him fisting me and now slowly rubbing my tip against the private softness of his wife. The feeling of his fingers tight on my erection and Greer’s slick entrance at my head is pulling every bit of heat, every drop of blood, down to this one part of me, and then his hips behind nudge me forward and before I can really absorb what’s happening, he’s guiding me inside Greer, his hand giving me one last squeeze before he lets go and I’m fully enveloped.
In front of me, Greer gasps, and I can feel her toes wiggling against my legs as she struggles to adjust. I know the feeling—my own toes are curling in my dress shoes and my chin is in my chest as I struggle to take deep breaths and not lose it right away. But I’m fighting against more than the months-long dry spell, more than the cinch of a woman around my member. I’m fighting against the press of Greer’s thighs against my own and the adorable scrunches of her toes, the dip and curve of her slender waist under her skirt and the golden light of the room making her white-gold hair glow like an angel’s halo. I’m fighting against Ash next to me, his voice husky and burning when he asks, “Does she feel good?”
“Fuck yes, she does,” I breathe. I pull out the tiniest amount, push back in, not trusting myself to do more yet, barely trusting myself to even look at her or Ash.
Ash steps back, sitting with graceful strength on the sofa behind him and keeping his gaze on us the entire time. He leans an elbow on the arm of the sofa and props his head against two fingers and his thumb in the pose of a man casually observing something interesting. His tented slacks and flashing eyes tell a different story, however, and I have no doubt that my favorite version of Ash, beastly and wild, will be uncaged before long.
It’s a thrilling thought, and I have to work even harder to keep myself in check. With my eyes still on Ash, I finally start moving inside Greer, letting her inner walls kiss along my full length for the first time in so very long. I want to savor it…and I also don’t. I want to fuck her sweaty and fast until she’s gasping in between moans and squeezing around me in climax.
Savor. I don’t know when I’ll get to do this again. If I ever will.
I look down to Greer and run appreciative hands over her ass and hips and thighs, trying to imprint every single second of this, every inch of her, onto my memory. The night my king let me fuck his queen in front of him.
“There’s no need to go slowly,” says Ash, reading my thoughts as always. “This is for you.”
It is for me—but also for him and for Greer too, and I wonder if as much as I want to see Ash completely wild, they want to see me the same way. Do they fantasize about me being feral and mindless with lust? Does Greer ever get wet thinking about how rough and reckless I was with her in Carpathia? Does Ash miss the times he had me panting like a dog, shameless and blind with need?
I finally manage to find my voice. “Do you like watching this?” I ask. “Watching me fuck your wife?”
It’s not meant to be insulting or goading, and it doesn’t come out that way. It comes out like I mean it: is this how you wanted it? Are we pleasing you? Let us please you.
Ash smiles against his fingers. “Oh, yes. I enjoy watching this very much.”
Greer in front of me is voiceless, presumably as part of the choreography she mapped out for our night, but she wriggles and bucks back against me, and I remind myself of the game. I’m a guest and Ash is my host, and Greer is the prized scotch he’s letting me taste. His most cherished possession opened up for me and made available for my use, for my guest-right.
It’s easy to sink into the fantasy now, easy to fuck into this gorgeous woman while her husband watches. Easy to let all those lonely days and bitter nights go, fuck them gone, fuck them right out of existence. There’s just Greer in front of me, her obedience fracturing along predictable lines as she glances over her shoulder to watch me and to watch her husband watch us, every part of this torrid scenario lighting her up. There’s just Ash, his stupidly handsome face still cradled against his fingers, his perfect jaw tense and his other hand slowly balling and flexing beside his thigh, as if he’s struggling not to touch something. Himself, maybe, or us. And right now it doesn’t matter, because there’s only an us. No matter the configuration, no matter how we tessellate limbs and join bodies, it’s all as a three. As an us. Even from three feet away, Ash is fucking Greer as surely as I am, and even from three feet away, I know he can feel every thrust and slide as if he were doing it himself. And I wonder, in the delirious corners of my mind, if he’s thinking about what it would be like to be Greer right now, bent over and shivering with sweat along his back as I moved behind him in a rumpled tuxedo.
Fuck.
“You should play with her clit,” says Ash from the couch. “When she comes on your cock, it’s quite something.”
It is quite something, I know that from experience; in fact, I was the first person to feel that something ever on the planet Earth, but it doesn’t matter right now, because that’s not the game. The game is that I’m taking my guest-right, and beyond the game, if tonight is my last night with Greer, I need to her to come hard, I need her body sore and hungry with the memory of me.
I slide a hand over her ass, following the curve to the supple line of her thigh, following that to where thigh meets body. The moment my fingers strum across her clit, her back arches up and she’s making this noise of hers that’s somewhere between a moan and kitten’s mewl. Every time I hear it, I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from coming right then and there.
And you know what? If I were really a guest and this really were my right, I’d be able to fuck her any way I wanted, and right now I want more of her. All of her. I slide an arm high up on her waist, just below her breasts, and I wind her braid around my hand, and I pull her upright using both until her back is flush to my chest.
My hands are greedy, fondling her breasts over her shirt with rough plumps, moving with pressing fingertips over her waist and hips and shoulders and collarbone. Everywhere, I want to touch her everywhere, and it’s not long before her shirt feels like the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, a curse, a punishment, and I yank it off her body with impatient tugs. Then I’m dragging down the cups of her bra, rolling and plucking at her nipples, which earns a low noise of approval from Ash.
It earns me lots of squirms and gasps from Greer, and I need to see her, I need to see her face, so I pull us both down on a sofa, rearranging her so that she straddles me. I strip off her bra and skirt, so that all of her is available for my mouth and eyes and hands, and as I drink her in, she starts moving on top of me, lithe and undulating movements that have us both straining and sweating in a matter of moments. I lean forward and suck
on the tips of her breasts while she cradles the back of my head; she wraps a hand around my throat to keep me still; eventually I lock her wrists behind her back, forcing her tits to jut forward and her hips to tilt toward mine. At some point, Ash comes to sit next to us, murmuring the most maddening things in my ear:
