Page 48 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“Have I earned your mouth then?” I mumble against his lips, my fingers running greedy arcs over the notched ridges of his stomach and the planes of his chest, and I’m surprised I get away with it for so long before he captures my hands and pins them above my head. His hips press hard into mine—his erection rubbing raw against my own—and then he releases me.
“In the shower,” he says sternly. “You have a princess to take care of.”
My cock gives an extra throb as I turn and see Greer watching us with unabashed lust in her eyes. One hand is pressed against the glass and her other hand is pressed between her legs. Behind me, I hear Ash make a pleased noise.
“And I,” he adds, “have a princess to punish for touching herself without permission.”
ASH MAKES good on his promise to punish Greer, and for a several steamy minutes, he and I take turns with her mouth, using her just forcefully enough to make her feel Ash's discipline, still careful enough to keep her safe, since the steam makes it harder for her to catch her breath. Afterward, Ash uses the tiled bench in the shower to pull her over his lap and spank her ass for good measure, and then he gently fingers her to a screaming orgasm as a reward. I watch and kiss her and pet her, hard as a fucking rock through it all, just like he is.
And then there's the actual washing, with the kinds of awkward jostle and mundane clicks of bottles and reaching around for washcloths and shivering waiting for the spray that manages to feel just as intimate as any other part of it. We wash each other, we soap and we rub and we rinse, and I try to burn every second of it into my brain. The way Greer's hands feel running down the corrugations of my torso, the suds dripping off the point of Ash's elbow as he reaches up to wipe the water off his face, the glisten of water in Greer's navel as she arches back to rinse her hair. The way it feels for the three of us to press slippery and sudsy together, every slide and press a new revelation of skin. Every brush a brush against something I love: Ash's biceps, the dimples above Greer's ass, the edible curve of her neck into her shoulder, the dark trail of hair leading from Ash's stomach to his cock.
At the end of it, Greer raises up on her tiptoes to whisper something to Ash, her eyes on me glinting with mischief as she talks into his ear.
Ash nods as he listens, his eyes down and his lips twitching in a small smile. “Of course,” he tells her when she finishes talking. “You have my permission.”
With that, Greer turns to me with a face that can only be described as naughty. “Embry,” she starts. “You left before—we never had a chance to do something together. And I want to do it tonight.”
“And what’s that?” I ask hoarsely, pretty sure I already know.
She slides her arms around my neck, the slippery press of her tits against my chest unbelievably distracting. “I want you to fuck my ass,” she says, looking up at me. My cock gives a hot surge against her belly the moment she says the words, and she laughs. “I guess I won’t have to beg you.”
“Never that,” I tell her, dipping my face low to capture her mouth in a long kiss while my hands slide down to her pert little ass and start exploring. There’s the crease where her ass curves into her thighs, there’s the yummy place where both thigh and ass meet pussy, and then there’s the dark seam between her cheeks. Hot, thin skin and the indecently enticing circlet of her asshole, tight and waiting.
“She’s gotten very good at it,” Ash says from next to us. Between his lean hips, his cock throbs heavy and dark, and I’m very aware that neither of us have come since we’ve entered the shower. He hasn’t come at all tonight, and it shows in the veined, rigid jolts of his organ. He can control his voice and his face, but his needy erection speaks volumes.
It also tells me that he’s waiting for something, saving himself for the right moment, and as much as that should fill me with caution, it fills me with joy. I hope whatever he’s waiting for is filthy beyond all bounds; I hope it breaks me.
“Have you?” I ask against Greer’s mouth. “Gotten good at it?”
In response, she turns in my arms so that my erection is cradled at the cleft of her ass. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” she asks, and I will, I am, I am definitely going to do that, at least I am once I can take my eyes off the way my cock looks like this, framed by the heart shape of her bottom, bracketed by the dimples above her ass.
Ash hands me a bottle of conditioner, and when our hands meet around the bottle, I have a bolt of dizzying deja vu.
“Just like old times,” my old lover comments, and it is, it really is. That almost-year between Jenny’s death and Greer was a whirlwind of fucking and making out and furtive orgasms in dark corners and even more fucking. Days in the Oval Office bathroom, nights in this same shower. Even more nights at Lyonesse, Mark’s club, with Morgan and Ash, as Ash learned how to whip and tie and clamp and torture.
He learned on me.
On my body.
But those choreographed scenes were nothing like the frantic, fumbling embraces in private, seven years of pent-up lust burning through us like a forest fire, and there were times when I came undone and fo
und that calm mercy under his brutal hands and knew for sure that I would never come back together. He spent that year splitting me wide open, the final blow coming when he proposed a second time and cleaved me right in two. Split like firewood, tossed onto an altar of guilt and lust and politics.
I died saying no to him a second time.
I push the memory of his second proposal and my refusal out of my mind. His flinch at my answer, the raw hurt in his eyes. And instead, I focus on the memories that came before all that. Those nights in the shower, the clean fragrance of conditioner because we were always too impatient to go get the real stuff, the quiet peace that always came when he mastered me. The awe in his voice when I came for him.
I nudge open the cap to the conditioner and drizzle a liberal amount onto my cock and hands, and then I toss the bottle back to Ash.
“Hands on the glass,” I tell Greer, “and feet apart.”
She obeys immediately, presenting Ash and me with a view of that scrumptious ass and blushing pussy and the tiny little hole I’m about to fuck. Ash and I both groan at the sight, and Ash’s hands are flexing by his thighs again, as if he’s restraining himself from grabbing his cock—or grabbing us. The latter is more likely, and the instant fantasy of him wrestling to fuck both of us at the same time sends a dart of heat into the deepest parts of me, parts that only Ash and Greer have ever been able to reach. Pure filth and pure spiritual connection, fused into singularity right at the base of my spine.
I don’t waste another minute—I can’t, actually, my dick is so hard that the skin is shiny and tight—and I give myself a couple measured strokes to spread the makeshift lube from base to tip. And then I step close to her, close enough for our feet to touch, and I slide a slick finger between her cheeks until I find the firm rim of her anus.
“Ash,” I say.
“Yes?”
