Page 65 of Kneel with the King
“Oh my god,” he gasps. “Please—don’t stop?—”
“That’s it.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his neck. “So perfect, taking what I give you.”
I feel the tension in his legs under me—feel how close he is.
He’s going to come.
“Ambrose,” he whimpers, looking at me through his lashes.
“Ah, ah, not Ambrose to you.” Leaning down, I bite the shell of his ear, relishing the way he shakes beneath me. “It’s Daddy to you.”
He chokes out a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan. “I’m not calling you that. I’m almost twenty years older than you,” he adds, slurring his words slightly.
I reach my other hand and wrap it around his neck, just under the collar—gently, but firmly enough to remind him who’s in control. His breath catches, and I feel the pulse jump beneath my fingers. I squeeze just a little, just enough to make him hold still. To make him listen. My thumb strokes lazily along his jaw.
“You’ll call me whatever I fucking tell you to, sweetheart.”
He chokes out something that sounds like a sob, and then his cock tightens, curving even further against mine. He quivers uncontrollably, and then he’s coming, gasping and twisting beneath me as his release coats our cocks and his stomach. I keep rutting against him, grinding through it, and my own orgasm crashes through me seconds later.
I bury my face in his neck and groan as I spill onto him, using our cum to milk the last of it out of both our bodies.
Our bodies are slick and shaking. He’s panting, boneless under me, and I can’t move.
I just stay there, one arm curled around the back of his neck and the other one around his throat, breathing him in.
He doesn’t push me away, he doesn’t say anything at all.
It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize how tightly I’m holding him down. How my fingers are still wrapped around his neck, and how his hips are still twitching like his body doesn’t know it’s over yet.
His lips are wet, and his eyes are glassy. But when he looks at me, it’s not just lust anymore.
It’s something else.
Something dangerous.
“You okay?” I ask. My thumb brushes the side of his face. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Why does it feel like this is some kind of punishment?” His voice is ragged.
I freeze. He’s certainly not wrong.
“You left me,” I say, quieter now. “In that bathroom, ten years ago. You walked away like none of it meant anything to you. LikeIdidn’t mean anything to you. You didn’t just fire me, Asher. That’s not why I’m still angry. You just… pretended I never existed.”
His brow furrows, and I see it—all the years of denial catching up to him. All the excuses. The repression. The sick need to control every part of his narrative so he wouldn’t have to admit what he gave up, or what he was running from.
“I couldn’t stay,” he whispers. “If I’d stayed… I would’ve given you everything.”
“You still might,” I murmur, brushing sweaty hair from his temple. “And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. His hand lifts slowly, resting on my chest. Right over my heart.
“You win,” he says, voice broken. “Happy now?”
I roll off of him and reach for a towel, trying to think of what to say to that. Because, yeah. I should be happy. I finally broke him. Ihadhim underneath me begging for more. Isn’t that what I wanted?
I don’t respond, though.
Because I’m a coward.
