Page 94 of Kneel with the King
His hand slips away entirely, leaving me gasping on the table, every nerve buzzing, and then he exits the room. I stay on the table long after he’s gone, trying to will my pulse to slow down, my body to stop straining for something it’s not going to get. Every shift of my hips makes me ache.
I tell myself I don’t care. That it’s better this way. That I don’t need another notch on whatever belt he’s wearing.
But my skin still feels too tight, my mind stuck in that maddening loop ofalmost, almost, almost.
By the time I get back to the suite, he’s gone. I can tell he showered, though, the room smells like his bodywash.
Sighing, I grab my glasses and one of the murder mystery paperbacks above the mantelpiece, collapse onto the bed, and begin to read about anything that’ll distract me from the way my cock is still hard and aching for a man I absolutely should not want as much as I do.
Kings and Pawns
King
When I get backto the suite a few hours later, Asher is asleep with an open book on his chest. He’s still wearing his reading glasses, and something in my chest aches as I watch him breathe in and out. His forehead is smooth, and his expression is relaxed—so different from his normal scowl and furrowed brow. His hands are resting on his sides, open and vulnerable, and there’s something so… domestic about it all.
Without thinking, I walk over to where he’s sleeping, gently moving the book to the side table, face down, so that he doesn’t lose his place. Then, I slowly take his glasses off, folding them up and putting them next to the book. He’s lying on top of the duvet, so I pull one of the spare throw blankets over his large body, careful not to disturb him.
I take a step back and look down at him, wondering how the hell I started catching feelings for this bratty, old man. He doesn’t look old, though—asleep, he looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. His dark blond hair is neat, still full with only a few silver strands near his temples. His scruff is fully blond except for a small patch in the center of his chin. And other than his frown lines, he’s free of wrinkles.
Reaching forward, I brush the back of my hand against his cheek. I can’t help it—I like touching him. I like spending time with him. I likehim.He’s exactly how I remembered ten years ago, but also better, in a way. Slightly less cocky than he used to be. The arrogance has been taken down a notch. He’s also more serious now—less jovial. But… it suits him. I think it makes him feel more human—more real, and less like a Ken doll.
“Is there a reason you’re touching my cheek affectionately, Ambrose?” His voice is deep, tinged with sleep, and slightly croaky.
My lips pull into an easy smile. “You’re handsome when you’re not being an ass.”
His eyes fly open, outraged, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Is that a compliment?” he asks, sitting up. He reaches his hand to my forehead, brows knitting together. “Are you feverish?”
I smack his hand away. “Yes. It was a compliment, you bastard.”
He smirks, and my chest does a weird, fluttery thing.
“You almost slept through our couples cooking class,” I tell him, glancing at the alarm clock. “It starts in five minutes.”
“Hard pass.”
My brows lift. “Hard pass?”
“Yeah. Me, you, aprons, and a room full of people pretending to be Martha Stewart? No thanks.” He flops back on the bed, stretching out. “Go. Have fun. Bring me a cupcake.”
I don’t move, trying to tamp down the disappointment. “It’s not about the…” I sigh, running a hand down my face. “It’s about showing up. Together.”
He smirks and shrugs. “We can show up together anywhere. Hell, we can show up right here.” Patting the space next to him, I narrow my eyes. He’s acting strange, and I don’t think I like it.
My gaze sharpens. “You just don’t want to go because you might have to smile at people. It’s okay, sweetheart. You can admit it.”
He grins. “I’m smiling at you right now.”
“That’s not a smile. That’s you trying to get out of something.”
A flash of irritation passes over his expression. “Maybe I just want to spend the evening in bed instead of making cookies. Maybe I’m sick of… pretending.”
I chew on my lower lip, letting my eyes flick over the way his body is stretched out on the bed. If I had to choose between making cookies and spending the night in bed with him, I’d choose him, full stop.
There’s a flicker in his eyes as he studies me, something between annoyance and heat—the same look he gave me on the ropes course when I helped him after he almost fell to his death.
“Does this have anything to do with the massage?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He sniffs, looking away, and that’s when my eyes wander down to the bulge between his legs.
