Page 91 of Kneel with the King
When the water starts to run cooler, I shut it off and wrap a towel around my waist. I crack the bathroom door open, steam spilling into the room.
King’s still on the bed, having changed into sweatpants and another t-shirt, propped against the headboard now, reading…thatbook.The Dominant’s Discourse. The moment I step out, his gaze lifts—and lingers.
I tell myself I’m imagining the way his eyes track the bead of water sliding down my collarbone.
“Comfort clothing,” I mutter, grabbing the softest t-shirt I own from my suitcase. I turn my back to him to pull it on, but I still feel the weight of his stare against my back like a searing brand. Stepping into new boxer briefs under the towel, I manage to get into my own sweatpants without revealing anything.
Not like he didn’t seeeverythinglast night.
“Ready?” he asks, too casually, as we both pull socks on. “I figured we could eat something quickly before the massage?”
“Yep.” I shove my feet into sneakers and grab my coat.
He does the same.
We leave the cabin, the cold air biting at my damp hair. King walks just close enough that our arms almost brush, but not quite. Once inside the main building, King and I make our way to the brunch buffet. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I didn’t eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning.
Stacking my plate six pancakes high, I add some fruit and grab a quad espresso.
King’s plate is a lot more sensible—whole wheat toast, fruit, and an omelet.
We sit and eat in silence, and I go back for seconds.
When we’re both finished, we head out of the main lodge and toward a smaller building tucked near the trees. A wooden sign out front reads‘Couples Massage Room. Private Sessions Only’in looping script. King pulls the door open and steps aside, his palm resting briefly at the small of my back as I pass.
It’s warm inside, dimly lit, and the scent of lavender wraps around me. Two padded tables sit side by side, white linens crisp and waiting. There’s a small fire going in the fireplace, and tinkling meditation music playing softly.
“I’ll go first,” King says, stripping himself down to his boxer briefs.
I’m suddenly not sure if this is a good idea at all.
There’s a small leaflet about the basics of massage therapy—pressure points, where to start, how to “communicate with your partner through touch.”
My skin feels hot just reading it.
“You okay, Harrison? You’re kind of flushed.”
I nod absently. “Yeah. It’s just warm in here.”
King smirks as he climbs onto the table, face down, the blanket draped low over his hips.Fuck.
“I’m ready for you.”
I swallow and move closer, setting the leaflet down. My fingers curl as I gear up to touch him. I pump some oil into my hands and look down at his muscular back.
Start with long, slow strokes,the leaflet had stated. I do, my hands gliding over the expanse of his back, feeling the tension gather and release under my touch. His skin is warm under my palms, solid muscle shifting as he breathes.
King sighs, low and deep, and it sends a jolt straight through me.
I work my way lower, kneading the ridges of muscle along his spine, brushing close to the edge of the blanket each time.
“Can you do my chest? I hold a lot of tension there,” King says, his voice muffled against the head pillow.
He turns over before I can respond, shuffling down on the table a bit and moving the sheet lower down, covering his hips and?—
And that’s when I notice it.
The way the fabric at his hips tents.
