Page 18 of Tempting the King

“Like this.” He squeezes my fingers on a rough inhale, his body hardens then...

Whoosh.

Before I can mount a protest, he flings me up and over. I’m airborne and weightless for a moment, then land on my back with a bounce, the air expelled from my lungs, looking up into those maniacal blue eyes as I fight for a breath.

His weight presses onto my belly, down to my knees, as his rough hands take control of my wrists, pinning them above my head.

I bury my teeth into my bottom lip as he stares down at me, frozen in the moment as I open my mouth, my lungs burning, but there’s no air.

His rugged face shows a note of victory, and I feel something hard poking into my belly as tension gathers down in my core.

I would never have allowed any other client to speak to me the way King has, let alone put their hands on me.

But the squeak that falls from my lips betrays me. The sudden flood of liquid desire between my legs solidifies that this client is not like the others.

Flashes of porn-worthy images play behind my lids as I blink. In the space of a few seconds, I imagine being taken.

Owned.

Like he said.

“I don’t know anything else about her,” he growls, bringing me back to the moment, his eyes dilating to a thin blue band around the blackest centers. His jaw works and his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. “Because we were eight miles from the United States coastline, the courts decided I was American. Jus soli, or something like that. It means I was born here, so I get to stay.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, knowing I should stop this, but he grinds his body against mine and all I can do is bite back an involuntary moan. Our eyes lock. His have a look so vulnerable and somehow strong, my lips fall open as I fight the urge to buck my hips upward and find the glorious friction I desperately need.

As I lie under his weight, his face tells a million unspoken stories. I wonder which scars are from hockey and which ones might be from other things.

His body bears down, his face so close the warmth of his breath mixes with mine. A hint of coffee mingles with the expansive scent of his cologne or bodywash, or whatever it is, and I tell myself that lying here like this is how I can help him.

As unconventional as it may be.

“I was in foster care until I got adopted at ten,” he continues, and I absorb every word down into my soul. “My new dad was an ex-hockey player. He introduced me to the game. The game means everything to me…saved my life.”

A stuttering breath climbs up my throat as I open my hips in a silent invitation for him to move against me.

He doesn’t miss the small movement, and his weight drops onto my belly as his hips rock until he’s dry humping me, his hard length applying the most decadent friction. There’s no denying this is no longer platonic, or ethical, yet I’m rapt.

Frozen.

I’m imbued with his masculine force, helpless to stop the unprofessional train wreck that’s happening on top of me.

“You like that, little firecracker?” His hoarse voice slides into my ears in a forbidden invasion.

I nod, blinking rapidly, digging deep for the will to derail this chaotic shift in the session.

“This is inappropriate.” It comes out in an unconvincing whisper.

“Well, this is a new kind of therapy. You said you wanted to help me, didn’t you?” His hips move in an agonizingly slow circle, barely detectable except that the granite shaft beneath his sweatpants is gloriously massaging the tight bundle of nerves, hell-bent on orchestrating my downfall.

“Yes, I do,” I stutter, his lips poised over mine, tempting me, and from this close the blue of his eyes looks like fractured ice.

CHAPTER 7

King

God, she’s so fucking soft.

I’m grinding against her like a high-school kid dry humping his prom date in the bathroom stall.

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