Page 64 of Kneel with the King
That sharp, desperate tremble that says he’s gone.
He’s mine now.
I smile, trying to keep my shaking hands in control. I roll my hips down again, firm and heavy, and Asher arches into it like he can’t help himself.
“There we go,” I murmur. “Just like that. You’re doing so well.”
His breath catches, muffled by the boxers stuffed in his mouth. His hips jerk up beneath me, like the words hit deeper than the much-anticipated friction.
Interesting.
“Please,” he begs, voice muffled. He slides his cock against mine like he’s done it before.
“Is this what you want?” I rasp.
He nods desperately, still gagged, eyes pleading. I keep my weight against him, dragging my cock against his in punishing strokes.
“Come for me like this,” I whisper. “Rub against me until you lose control.”
I keep going, keep grinding us together, my own cock leaking against his. The heat between us is unbearable. Raw and slick and filthy. I slide my hand up his chest, over the open buttons of his shirt, and press down just enough to pin him.
“Good boy,” I whisper against his throat, and his entire body shudders before he lets out a long, tortured groan.
Oh.There it is.
“Is that what you want to be?” I ask, rocking harder against him, slow and rhythmic. “You want to be a good boy for me?”
He moans around the boxers in his mouth, muffled and completely wrecked.
For me.
I pull them out slowly, letting them fall beside us.
“Say it,” I demand, my voice dark now. “You want to be good for me?”
“Yes,” he pants, voice ragged. “Yes. Fuck, I—please?—”
“That’s better.” I stroke his jaw, almost gentle now. The alcohol is still flowing through me, making my blood thrum, making me feel light and admit things I’d never admit sober. “You beg so sweetly when you stop pretending you hate me.”
“Idohate you.”
I roll my hips again, this time grinding us both harder, and his sentence breaks off into a strangled gasp.
“No, sweetheart,” I murmur. “You hate how much youwantme.”
His hands clutch at my back, nails digging in. His body arches into every pass of my hips like he’s starving. Like this is something he’s needed for a very long time.
And I’m going to give it to him.
All of it.
“Your piercing. It’s—I like it. A lot,” he admits, cheeks flushed.
“I know you do,” I murmur. “I’ve thought about this for years,” I growl into his ear. “You—desperate, begging me to touch you. I didn’t know it’d be like this, though. Didn’t know you’d be so fucking perfect.”
He whimpers, and it’sreal.Not performative, not bratty. Just raw, humiliating need.
“And this?” I whisper, grinding our cocks together again, our taut heads sliding against each other’s. Wrapping one of my hands around both of us, I hold us together. “This ismine.”
