Page 111 of Kneel with the King
He smiles. “Perhaps.”
The air between us crackles. My back is still against his door, his body caging mine in, and I’m not sure if we’re about to argue again or?—
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I want to figure out what the hell this is, and stop pretending like I don’t need you.” Something shifts in his expression, just a fraction, but it’s enough to loosen my chest. Enough to make me believe he wants that too. “I missed you,” I tell him before I can stop myself. It’s bare and ugly and terrifying, but it’s also the truth.
His eyes squeeze shut for a beat, like it costs him something to hear it. “I missed you too,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
And that’s all it takes. The restraint snaps.
I grab him by his tie and yank him to me, my mouth crashing into his. Our mouths are hungry, searching, sloppy. His hands are everywhere—my jaw, my hair, my lower back—pulling me in until there’s no space left between us. Until I can’t feel anything but his cock pressed against mine, and the feel of his hard, warm body.
“Lock the door,” I murmur against his mouth.
He reaches behind me without looking, and the soft click of the lock makes my whole body hum.
I push him backward toward his desk, our mouths still fused, our hands pulling at each other’s jackets. I don’t care that we’re at work, but there are still a few people just outside the door.
“Ambrose, wait?—”
“Shh,” he says, but it’s gentle this time. His hand slides up under my shirt, hot against my skin, and I can’t help the sharp breath that escapes me.
We slow down then, the frantic edge giving way to something sweeter, steadier. His mouth softens against mine, and I realize this is him choosing not to just take—this is him giving. His thumb strokes over my cheekbone like he’s memorizing me.
“I’m not running again,” I tell him, my voice breaking just a little.
“Good,” he says simply, before kissing me again, slower this time, like we have all the time in the world. And, in a way, I suppose we do.
We break apart just enough for me to breathe, my forehead still resting against his. The warm circle of his palm at my waist makes it hard to think.
“Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you in this again?” he murmurs, tugging lightly at the collar.
My mouth quirks, even as heat licks down my spine. “Figured you might like it.”
“Like it?” His lips curve in a slow, dangerous smile. “I’m trying to decide whether to kiss you stupid or ruin you right here on my desk.”
“Why not both?”
That earns me a low sound in his throat—half laugh, half groan—and then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, like he’s trying to drag every last excuse out of me with his tongue. My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until he’s spinning me, until my ass hits the edge of his desk.
He doesn’t rush me. Instead, he starts peeling away layers—my jacket first, then my tie—each move unhurried, deliberate. His fingertips ghost down the column of my throat, over my shirt buttons, until they’re resting just above my belt.
I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t seem to find the words.
“You’ve been in my head every damn night,” he says, voice rough against my mouth. “I’d fall asleep thinking about you. Wake up thinking about you. Even when I was angry.”
I swallow, my chest tight. “Same.”
The admission makes his pupils darken. He slides a hand behind my neck, and his other hand drifts lower, cupping me through my trousers.
I gasp into his mouth. “Ambrose?—”
“Be quiet, Asher.”
I nod, dizzy from the heat pooling in my stomach.
Then, without warning, he drops to his knees. My breath catches as he pushes my shirt up, kissing the strip of skin above my waistband before working my belt open.
The cool air hits my cock first, then the heat of his mouth, slow and deliberate, as he takes me in. My hands brace against the desk, the world narrowing to the slick slide of his tongue, the steady pressure that builds with each stroke of his large hand wrapped around me.
