Page 36 of Kneel with the King
I can still feel the way the snow seeped into my knees as I knelt on the forest floor. The sting of shame on my tongue, the heat of his gaze when he ordered me around.
Like I’m some kind of fuckingpet.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, both from the cold and the humiliation. A part of me wants to hit something—orsomeone. My hands shake as I remove the heated jacket, and when I pull the damp wet suit off, I can’t ignore the worst part about all of this.
My cock springs free, heavy and hard. It throbs, but I resist the urge to touch myself.
Because as angry as I am, there was some sick part of me thatlikedit.
I pull on a dry robe and pace the length of the suite. My fists curl tight at my sides, and I go from feeling cold to burning up inside.
I shouldn’t be hard.
I shouldn’tstillbe hard.
But the more I think about it, the worse it gets, especially when my fingers graze the collar around my neck. The weight of it—of what it means—sinks deep into me, making everything feel heavy and throbbing.
“Good boy.”
God, what an asshole. His low, sultry voice—the way I knelt so easily, the way I obeyed.
The way Ienjoyedpleasing him.
“Fuck,” I hiss, dragging a hand down my face. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I work. I’m straight. I’ve never been attracted to men—sober, at least.
My cock aches, and every brush of the robe against the sensitive head only makes things worse.
I glance at the door. I’m alone—King is gone. I’ll hear his shoes crunch on the snow outside, hear the beep of the key card before he walks in.
Without thinking, I pull the robe apart and wrap a hand around my length, using my other hand to brace myself against the wall, muttering a curse.
My cock is flushed, aching, and already leaking precum.
I wrap my hand around it and squeeze—too hard. Out of spite.Fuck him.
The first stroke is rough. Frustrated.
I close my eyes. I tell myself I’m thinking of someone else. Anyone else.
But he’s still there. Standing over me in that forest. Unmoving. Waiting. Dominating without even lifting a finger.
I bite back a groan and stroke again, faster now, using my precum from the tip as lube.
I tell myself this isn’t about the pleasure. Not really. It’s about proving something. Taking back control.
My breath falters. My thighs tense, toes curling against the carpet. I tighten my grip, like I’m trying to chase the shame out of me. I spit into my hand and stroke harder. The shame and the feel of my cool hand around my cock makes me groan, and when I close my eyes, I imagine it’s not my hand.
I canalmostconvince myself it’s not.
I rut into my hand, chasing my orgasm like I’m on a time limit, because I kind of am on a time limit. I picture King behind me, hand on the back of my neck, mouth against my ear.
His cock between my lips, pressing against the back of my throat.
His hands in my hair.
His breath hot and low as he says,“Good boy.”
I swear under my breath, but the visual doesn’t leave me.
