Page 84 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“I won,” I say after the door closes and he faces me. “So I get to do what I want with you.”
“Is that right?” he says. It’s the first non-debate thing he’s said to me all night.
“Yes,” I respond. “That’s right.”
“And what do you want to do with me?”
As if I hadn’t had the last two weeks to think about it. As if I haven’t had the last sixteen years. “You’re going to kneel in front of me and suck my cock,” I say.
A faint smile tilts his lips, the first smile I’ve seen from him all night. “If you want it, you’re going to have to take it.”
“Is that a dare?”
He lifts his chin, already roughening up with delicious stubble, and I take a step forward. And another. And another, until I have him caged in against the wall. “It’s the truth,” he says.
I use my extra half inch on him now, forcing him to look ever so slightly upwards as I put my hands on either side of him and lean in. “Do you think I won’t take it?”
His eyebrow arches the tiniest bit, that small smile still on his perfect lips. “Here’s what I think, little prince. Here’s what I know—and you know it too. You don’t need to call me Sir to submit to me, and I don’t need you to kneel to know that you’re my possession. You may not wear a collar, but we both know the minute I snap my fingers, you’re mine. And you can fight me all you want, because it doesn’t change shit between us.”
His words are scalding the air between us, and I’m so fucking hard right now, hard and furious. Furious that I won, but that I only won by caveat. Furious that he’s right about me and about him.
“Tonight’s not about that,” I growl, and it’s too late, a touch of defensiveness enters my voice and he hears it.
His smile deepens but his eyes grow harder. My awareness of danger grows and grows. “You think tonight is about you getting to dominate me at long last,” he says, leaning forward so he can breathe into my ear. “But you’re wrong. You think what we have is about titles or words? About sex positions? You think I can’t dominate you while you’re fucking me? Then you don’t know the first thing about it. I’m telling you I could have your cock in my ass and a gag in my mouth and I could still own you.”
He pulls back, satisfied. “So by all means, Embry, vent your anger on me. Wrestle me, hit me, kick me, tie me up and fuck me raw. And when you come, you tell me who belongs to whom.”
I can’t answer him, I won’t, because I hate him so much for being right, for being weak enough tonight for me to win, for being strong enough always that winning is as unbearable as losing. I collar his throat with my hand and crash my mouth into his in a bruising kiss that steals our breath and closes the distance between our hips. As our tongues and lips and teeth fight, our hips do the same, pressing and grinding and sliding, all male, all rough, muscles and thighs and trapped cocks.
“I wish she were here,” he says against my lips. “She’d love to see you like this. And see me like this, maybe.”
I kiss him even harder in response, imagining Greer with her curious little hands and her wet little cunt, and I know he’s thinking the same, and we’re both all the more desperate for it, for her. We want her and she’s not here, and we need her—any combination of twos has always been unstable, volatile, we always need to be a three, and somehow I know that the reason tonight won’t end well is because Greer isn’t here. Without her we are nothing but flames and pyroclastic debris, ready to level cities.
I tighten my grip on his throat, and oh, it feels so good: that big, strong neck under my fingers, the hard lift of his Adam’s apple knobbing against the heel of my palm.
“The sides of my neck,” he murmurs.
“What?”
He reaches up and uses both hands to center mine, so that my thumb is on one side of his neck and my fingers are on the other. There’s something so erotic about him showing me how to choke him, so intimate, that I feel almost close to tears looking at his two hands cradling mine around his throat, showing me where to push in.
I do push in at his guidance, biting at his lips and jaw as I do, and within a handful of seconds, I see his eyes begin to flutter, his lips begin to part. I ease up on his neck, watch his eyes brighten and focus once more, watch his tongue dart onto his lower lip, as if waiting for mine to join his. Then I press in again as I kiss him, feeling his mouth go soft against mine. His hands drop to fist my shirt and loosen and tighten and loosen and tighten in tandem to my playing with his consciousness.
I watch him grow flushed, dizzy, drunk-looking, swaying on his feet, and it’s so fucking beautiful to have a king like this. Compliant and warm and trusting—and the amount of vulnerability he’s showing me is shocking and terrifying and wonderful.
Is this how it feels to him? Like a gift? Like a secret?
I could watch my hand on his throat forever, watch his handsome face go soft and urgent at turns, but I want more, I need more. One final time I squeeze, until his eyes almost close for real, and then I let go and kick his feet out from under him.
He falls to his knees with a surprised grunt, and before he can recover, my hands are at my zipper and I’m fishing out my dick, shoving it past his full, bowed lips. His lips are the only part of him that’s soft and yielding, the only part of him that looks more ready to love than to rule.
The moment my head touches his lips, I exhale with a ragged grunt, and then when my cock slides past his teeth, I’m undone, I’m beyond being able to draw in another breath. The sight of it—oh God, how many nights have I come in my hand just imagining it—and now here it is, my big strong bull on his knees, lake-green eyes staring up at me through eyelashes like dark fans.
I pull out for a moment, just so I don’t come right away.
“You’d like it better if you held me,” he offers, raising his hands, and I get the picture right away. I cross his wrists together and pin them above his head, a position that makes me lean forward and makes it all the easier to push into his mouth.
And suddenly I’m so angry again, I’m so ashamed and furious. How dare he help me, how dare he peer up at me with that pretend docility that his heated gaze declares a sham? How dare he lose? How dare he be him when all I can be is me?
