Page 110 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
“Oh Embry,” I say. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me.”
That earns me another urgent kiss, more of those exquisite strokes. And then we fall into each other, the kink sliding away as easily as a sheet, the thing underneath as naked and needy as our bodies in this deep, filthy moment. Embry braces himself on a forearm over me, sliding his other arm under my waist to crush my body tight to his, and then we kiss like we’ll never get to kiss again. Each kiss is mirrored by a piercing stroke down below, each stroke is followed by ripples of muscle and flesh, each ripple is followed by pants and moans that we swallow up from each other again and again, hungry for the other’s hunger, thirsty for the other’s thirst.
And each kiss, each slide and stroke, each brush of thigh against thigh, seems to say last time, last time.
The first and last time.
He breaks the kiss so he can gaze down at me, his eyes soft, and the light catches on a few silver hairs near his temple, on the fine crinkles around his eyes, and I think of the spoiled young prince I met almost twenty years ago, how young and eager to fuck and fight we both were. How little we knew of ourselves and the world and love. What bloody, aching messes we made of each other’s hearts.
I wouldn’t trade away a single second of it. Not for anything.
I reach up and trace the tiny lines around his eyes. “We’re not young men anymore,” I murmur.
He drops his face so he can whisper the words against my mouth. “You make me feel young.”
And there are no more words after that.
He crushes me against him once more, lying flat and full along the length of me, so that I feel every pound of him, every inch. Every stroke comes with the weight of his body, each pound of his heart is echoed by mine. And we make each other feel young, with something we should have done in our youth but are now sharing instead as men in our prime, and it’s painful to think of the years we missed of this—and somehow all the more perfect that we waited until we were almost forty to do it. There’s a reverence in our touch now, an awe and a gratitude that comes with having lived-in bodies and scarred, wise hearts.
I come first, my cock pinned between our stomachs, and he kisses me the whole time I come, cherishing me, thanking me, and when our mouths part he tells me all the things I’ve ever told him—you are so handsome when you come, so pretty like this, you make me feel so good. And I come like fucking death itself, nearly blacking out with the ecstasy of Embry inside me and above me and around me, each wave of wet pleasure hotter and more airless than the last. Until I am nearly blacked out for real, my vision hissing with sparks and my ears ringing as my cock pumps spurt after spurt of cum onto us both, as my orgasm unspools from a place so fucking deep inside that it doesn’t even feel real, it feels like a part of me so old and elemental that it must have existed before time itself.
And then Embry follows me over the edge, and I don’t let him kiss me because I want to see every second of it on his face, every flutter of his eyelashes and part of his lips and furrow of his brow as he grunts his release into me, ejaculating so hard and so hot that I can feel the pulse of him in my ass, I can feel the heat of his semen scorching the insides of me.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you,” I say back. And neither of us moves for a long time, even as the semen on our bellies cools and goes sticky, even as we go soft, because we want to savor this moment forever, live in it forever and never leave. The final gift.
Our last first.
“DOES this mean you’ve forgiven me?” Embry asks. We’ve showered—Embry looking so puppy-dog eager that I allowed him to slake his lust inside me again…and then I flipped him around and returned the favor—and now we’re in his bed.
There’s something hard and small under my back; I reach behind me and pull out one of Galahad’s binkies. My chest tightens, so does my throat. I’m never going to have that. Binkies in bed, children wriggling and messy in my house. I missed my chance with Lyr, and tomorrow will be the end, and I’ll never know the feeling of a warm little body snoozing against my chest, or the sound of baby giggles or the sight of my wife or my lover cradling a child of my own flesh and blood.
I place the binky on an end table and then turn back to Embry, pulling him into my arms and feeling his cheek against my chest.
Last time, last time.
“What would I have to forgive you for?”
“Saying no to you. Leaving you. Everything.”
I kiss the top of his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. I know now why you said no. I know why you left. And Embry, even if I didn’t know, even if it still broke me in half knowing you didn’t want to marry me, I couldn’t have faulted you for needing what you needed. Asking you to marry me—both times—it had implications beyond us simply loving each other. I was asking you to be publicly queer. Even now, it isn’t always safe, and there’s no way I could have promised you that we wouldn’t lose our jobs—or worse—over being out together. The only thing I could promise you is that I would have loved you no matter what, stayed by your side no matter what the price.”
“I know that,” he sighs against my chest. “Which is why I worried you thought I was cowardly, because you were willing to do that, and you thought I wasn’t.”
“Safety isn’t cowardice, Embry. I was hurt, of course I was hurt, but how could I blame you for taking care of yourself?”
“And now it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow will come and we will fight each other, and all these years of back and forth will have been for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” I say, running a thumb along his arm. “We got to have tonight.”
“And your wedding night.”
“And your wedding night.”
“The forest after Caledonia.”
“That night in Rome with the wine bottle.”
