Page 69 of Kneel with the King
I squeeze some of the bodywash into my palm, using it to wash my body when I’m done with the shampoo. Now, I’ll get whiffs of his bodywash all day.
And probably an erection, too.
It’ll be like being inside a sensory prison designed by someone who knows exactly how to get under my skin.
Stepping out of the shower, I dry myself and brush my teeth, quickly getting dressed and ready for my day.
Bracing both hands on either side of the sink, I stare at my reflection, trying to find something in my own eyes. A clue, maybe. A sign that I’m still who I thought I was.
But all I can think about is the way his voice sounded against the shell of my ear last night. The way his hand wrapped around my throat. The press of his cock against mine, the unbearable slick friction of skin on skin, the heat, the weight, the ache.
Is that what you want to be? You want to be a good boy for me?
The way I came so hard I saw stars.
The way he didn’t immediately stop touching me after.
It should’ve been humiliating. Itwashumiliating. But somewhere between the filthy things he whispered and the way he looked at me afterward—like I was the center of his world for five seconds—I stopped caring about humiliation.
That’s what terrifies me the most about all of this.
My hand twitches toward the collar still sitting next to the sink.
No. No.
I shake my head once, hard, and straighten my shirt. I rebutton it with slightly trembling fingers just to kill some time, just to give my heart a chance to calm down.
Opening the door, I see King readingThe Dominant’s Discoursein bed, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans.
“Itinerary for the day is on the bed,” he mutters, eyes not leaving his book.
COUPLES THERAPY - 10:30 AM
CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING - 1 PM
HORSE-DRAWN SLEIGH RIDE - 6 PM
I crumple the paper and throw it into the trash. “I have my meeting with Walter. See you at therapy.”
“You’re wearing that?” King asks, looking at me over the top of his book.
I look down at my light blue chambray shirt and black slacks. “Yes?”
He climbs out of bed and walks over to the closet, and my brow furrows when he walks back out with a navy sweater. Holding it out to me, I stare down at the soft cashmere.
“Put this on over your shirt. It’s more casual. This isn’t a one-to-one in New York.”
Reaching out for the sweater, I pull it over my head. The softness is nice, as is the smell of King all over it.
Fuck, what iswrongwith me?
Just as I start to walk away, King reaches out with both hands and flips my shirt collar over the neck of the sweater. His hands linger for a second, and then he pats my chest.
“Better.” I’m just about to thank him for the unsettlingly kind thing he just did, when he adds, “May the best man win, Harrison.”
I don’t bother saying goodbye before grabbing my coat, and I tell myself that’s for the best.
After all, I have a meeting to win.
