Page 54 of Kneel with the King
I see him—the real, raw vulnerability he hides so easily—and I suddenly can’t take it.
I don’t know why I do it, but the feeling of saying something that affected him—ofprovingthat perhaps he does feel things under that facade—it’s too much to handle. The feeling overwhelms me completely, and I panic.
Maybe I’m trying to punish him—or maybe I’m trying to punishmyself. I know it’ll get more of a reaction from him, and I’m desperate to see more of therealhim. I don’t know why, but it’s all I can think about doing. I wantmore.I want to see the real, soft part inside of him that no one gets to see.
So I drop to my knees.
He freezes when he hears the rustle, turning slightly. His eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, and I feelin-fucking-vincible.
“Asher—”
“Don’t talk,” I clap back. It feels good to make him speechless.
He doesn’t stop me as I crawl forward, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down with shaking hands. I’m not slow or precise. It’s not seductive. It’sangry.
I drag the fabric down just enough. He’s already hard, because of course he is. His shaft is thick, the head a deep red color, and veins stand against the soft-looking, taut skin.
I go still when I see the metal.
Two polished barbells, one on each side of the head—symmetric, precise, gleaming in the low firelight.
Pierced.
My mouth parts. I don’t even realize I’m staring.
A bead of precum slips over the curve of the right barbell, catching at the base of the ridge. It makes the silver shine wetter. It makes everything filthier, and my pulse spikes when I realize that letting me see his cock turns him on.
“You don’t recognize it?” King’s voice is low. I don’t answer. He exhales through his nose. “King’s crown,” he says. “A dydoe variation. Double.” His voice drops an octave. “Sensitive as fuck. Painful as hell to get done.”
My throat works. I don’t dare speak.
He’s watching me like he already knows what I’m thinking. Like hewantsme to imagine what it feels like. What it would taste like. What it would do to someone’s mouth.
He smells like cologne or bodywash mixed with sweat-dampened skin. Not bad, not at all—more salty, with an edge of spice. There’s something somaleabout it, and it makes my mouth water without even thinking about it.
“Still curious?” he murmurs.
And I fucking hate him, because I am.
I don’t give him time to process.
My mouth wraps around him like a dare. The heated, salty taste hits my tongue. He groans, low and broken, his hands flying out to brace against the wall, his head tipping back against the cabin’s wooden beam. I keep going—hard, fast,mean.Like I know exactly what I’m doing, despite only ever being on the receiving end of a blow job.
His cock is heavy in my mouth, and despite receiving many blow jobs in my forty-seven years, I’ve never really imagined what it would feel like from this side. How smooth it is, how it slides against the roof of my mouth, how it tastes like skin and something spicy andhim.
I hate him for it. I hate the way he’s shaking. I hate that I feel powerful doing this. I hate that I feel like I mightneedthis.
His hand brushes my hair like he’s about to grip it, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t let himself. But I can make him fall apart without permission. I want to.Needto.
My cock is pushing hard against the material of my sweatpants, throbbing with each unhinged noise he makes. I can already feel the wet spot where precum is beading and soaking into the material.
“God—fuck—” he gasps, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. His thighs tremble. His voice breaks on a groan, and it spurs me on.
I hate that this is the most turned on I’ve ever been in my whole life.
I hate everything about this, and that fuels the seductivewrongnessI feel about it all, heightening the sweet sensation of my cock pressing against the soft material of my sweatpants.
