Page 67 of Kneel with the King
Did we have sex? I remember the blow job, but…
He throws the covers off. I avert my eyes away from his cock, and that’s when I realize I’m sporting my own morning wood. He sits up on the edge of the bed and looks at me over his shoulder.
“You don’t remember?” he asks, something unguarded and… hurt… in the way he asks.
And then it comes crashing back to me in hazy, distinct vignettes. Fighting. Him stuffing my boxers in my mouth. Getting off, feeling… incredible.
I can’t tell him I remember. I have to lie.
“What? No. I don’t— What happened?” I rub my eyes and sigh, wondering if this will ever get easier. If the shame of getting drunk and hooking up with a guy will ever feel normal.
The same familiar tightness in my chest makes me feel panicked, and I want to bolt. Grab my clothes and call a taxi. If I grab everything and stuff it into my suitcase, I can probably get out of here before anyone wakes up. And if I go back to New York today, I can resume my normal life—working out in the mornings, green smoothies, the mind-numbing spreadsheets and formulas and client meetings…
My breathing turns ragged as I walk over to my shirt. Adrenaline courses through me as I pick it up, throwing it on. Who needs caffeine when I have enough regret and self-loathing to last a lifetime? I could laugh—at the idea of me panicking,at what happened, at the fact that I’m running away yet again. Instead, I grab my pants and pull them on so quick that I break the zipper, andfuck,where are my other pairs, andwhy is it so goddamn hot in here?—
“Asher.”
The single word has me turning to face King, who is sitting up in bed. He’s bare-chested, and I let my eyes peruse his chiseled abdomen for a second before I forget that I’m not breathing.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I grit out, stalking over to my suitcase. I’m angry at myself, and I take it out on him. I feel the mean words forming in my throat before they come out. I want to hear his version of last night’s events, so I let them out in an angry rush of words. “Which means either we fucked andthatcan’t happen, or you’re messing with me. And honestly? I don’t know what’s worse?—”
“Asher.” The firmness of his voice slices through the haze of panic swirling around me like a knife. “Breathe,” he says confidently. It’s an order, but for reasons I can’t explain, it’s reassuring… in a new way. “Now. In for a count of five.” My lungs obey before I can protest, and I suck in a quavering breath, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Out for five.”
I exhale, and my jaw is clenched so tight that it aches. My hands are still shaking, knuckles white around the zipper of my suitcase. There’s a sense of grounding, as long as I can focus on my breathing and ignore the panic slowly dwindling inside of me.
“Come here,” he commands. There’s no softness or warmth in his tone.
I don’t move.
He shifts, bare feet hitting the floor with a softthud, and when he stands, the sheer presence of him swallows the room whole. He doesn’t get close, not yet. He just waits, watching mewith those dark, calculating eyes, waiting for me to remember who I am when he talks to me like that.
And then he reaches over to the bedside table, picking the collar up and holding it out for me. I vaguely remember removing it in the middle of the night, half asleep.
When he sees I’m teetering, he steps forward once, then twice.
“Asher,” he says lowly. “Knees.”
My body jerks like a puppet on string.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to disappear. But more than any of that, more than the shame and confusion and fury churning in my gut, I want to drop and kneel for him.
I don’t know what else to do, and I also seem to be in the middle of an existential crisis.
So… I do.
Not because I’m weak. Not because I’m broken.
Because he asked, and something in meneededthe order.Neededto be told what to do.
The tension bleeds out of me the moment my knees hit the rug. My breath slows. The fire behind my eyes begins to dim.
King exhales like he knew this would happen.
“That’s better,” he says, stepping in close enough to touch my hair, though he doesn’t. Instead, he clasps the collar around my throat, and the feel of it there further relaxes me. “You listen so well when you stop running.”
The words hit deeper than I expected.
“You don’t need to fight everything all the time,” he adds, voice like silk. “Look at you. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
