Page 9 of Kneel with the King
No work. No distractions. Just a week of being stuck here with him. With all of this.
Perfect.
There was a time when I liked this kind of quiet, but now it just feels dangerous. Like, given the space and lack of distractions, my thoughts will have too much room to echo. I look over at King’s duffel bag. The top is still open, and I see a paperback book peeking out. Walking over, I glance inside, gently opening it further so I can see just what Mr. Steal-My-Clients-King is reading for pleasure.
The Dominant’s Discourse: Power, Control, and Consent.
I freeze mid-motion, staring at the book cover art: a picture of a man on his knees with thick, brown rope around his wrists, his head hanging forward, his body slumped slightly.
Okay. That’s… not what I was expecting.
It’s also not my business.
Still, something shifts inside of me, sliding down to the bottom of my stomach like molten lava. It’s not revulsion—not quite.
More like… friction. Like a gear grinding somewhere in the back of my mind, slowly waking up. What would it even feel like, that kind of surrender? The weight taken off your shoulders and handed to someone else?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I grab my coat and exit the suite.
Not my monkeys, not my circus.
Long Live the King
Asher
The restaurantwhere lunch is being held is quieter than I expected—dim lights, Scandi-style furniture, roaring fires in cozy fireplaces, and lots of linens and furs. I’m halfway across the room in search of alcohol when someone calls my name.
“Asher Harrison?”
I turn, spine stiffening automatically. And there he is. Walter Davenport. The whole reason I agreed to this godforsaken retreat in the first place.
He’s in a navy cashmere sweater, slim-cut slacks, and a smile that always feels just a little too knowing. He closes the distance with easy confidence and pulls me into a quick, two-handed shake that borders on affectionate.
“Didn’t know you were coming to this,” Walter says, giving me a once-over. “Strategic Partnerships? West Coast?”
“New York now, actually,” I say.
He makes a hum of approval. “You clean up well.”
Before I can reply, a man in a sharply tailored suit steps up beside him. Late forties, silver at the temples, warm brown eyes.
“This is Jacques, my husband,” Walter says.
Jacques offers a hand, and I take it. His grip is firm.
My brain is buzzing with what to say to keep Walter here. I need more time—more opportunities to speak with him about his financial readiness. He would be my biggest client to date, and I don’t plan on leaving this retreat until it’s a done deal.
But I have to start slow. He’ll run in the other direction if he knows I’m trying to acquire him as a client, and execs with his kind of power can sniff that out from a mile away. I agreed to attend knowing that after a few drinks, I could likely drop in the suggestion casually.
I decide to ask about the retreat, since he’s the one who organized it. Everyone loves a compliment.
“This place is incredible, by the way. How did you find?—”
“There you are,” King says, appearing at my elbow like a summoned demon. His hand grazes the small of my back in a move that feels far too natural for him.
I go still. Not because I’m offended, but because something inside of me reacts.
It’s not the kind of touch I’m used to.
