Page 97 of Kneel with the King
I groan, hips starting to move without conscious thought, fucking into his mouth in short, controlled thrusts. The friction is perfect, wet and hot and unrelenting, and every pass sends a jolt through my spine.
“Good… fucking… boy,” I pant out.
It builds quick.Tooquick. The pleasure stacks hard and sharp until I’m gripping his hair just to keep my balance. My thighs tense, my abs pull tight, and there’s that second, that blinding second, where everything in me locks up, my body straining toward release.
“I want you to swallow every drop,” I choke out, and he nods eagerly.
When it hits, it’s like my entire body snaps. My cock jerks deep in his mouth, thick pulses tearing through me as I spill hard down his throat. My breath comes in ragged bursts, the pleasure almost painful in its intensity, each spurt wringing another shiver from me.
I hold him there, groaning low in my chest, riding out the last waves until I’m spent and shaky, my fingers loosening in his hair.
He swallows every drop, just like I instructed, and when I ease back, my cock slips from his mouth. For a moment neither of us moves. His lips are swollen, slick with spit, a faint sheen of sweat on his flushed skin. He’s breathing hard, eyes half closed, looking wrecked in a way that makes my chest feel tight.
I run my thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away a smear of wetness, but he catches my thumb with his mouth and sucks, slow and deliberate. My cock twitches despite being spent.
“You did so well,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His lashes lift just enough for him to meet my gaze, and something passes between us—something too close to tenderness for me to name.That’s been happening a lot lately—too much, in fact.
I clear my throat, pushing it away, and grab the blanket from the foot of the bed to pull over us both. He sinks back into the pillows, still catching his breath, his body loose in that way that comes only after I’ve taken him apart. I watch his chest rise and fall, the curve of his mouth softening as his eyes finally close.
And damn me, but I can’t bring myself to move away.
I guess we’re not going to that cooking class, after all.
And to be honest… I couldn’t care less.
King of Hearts
Asher
I wakeup hot with the smell of cinnamon surrounding me. For a second I don’t remember where I am. There’s just a heavy arm banded across my waist, a thigh hooked over mine, breath ghosting the back of my neck. The room is mostly dark, but there’s a dark blue glow creeping in through the window, casting the room in moody, pre-dawn light. The fire has been reduced down to embers, and despite the frozen tundra outside, I’m sweating.
The details slowly click into place as I eye the flannel sheets. The soft rasp of breathing against my back. The scrape of trimmed stubble on every exhale. The steady thump of his pulse where his wrist rests low on my stomach.
King.
My body goes loose before my brain catches up. It’s like some traitor switch flips, and suddenly I feel too cozy to move. My muscles unclench, my breath syncs with his, and I relax into the comfortable, memory foam mattress. I don’t know how long I lie there just… letting it happen. Letting him hold me like I’ve been cuddling with men my entire life.
It’s nice. Too nice.
And that’s the problem.
Something in me starts to rattle, a familiar metal-grating panic that says,Wake up, Harrison. The weight of him feels like safety, and my nervous system is begging for more. More touches, more bickering that leads to sexual favors, more making him laugh and making him proud of me.
My head, on the other hand, is already sprinting ahead to next week, when we won’t be fake dating, and I’ll be back to reality.
Because… this isn’t real. I’m not that guy. I don’t do this. I’m not… this.
Bisexual…?
The word lands like a stone in my gut. It’s not that I hate it. In fact, I’ve been quietly donating a lot of money to an LGBTQIA+ rights organization for years. It just feels bigger than I know what to do with. It’s… new. It’s easy to forget what the word implies at night, sure, but in broad daylight? In my real life? That requires confessions and declarations and… I don’t have those. I have numbers and plans and controlled outcomes.
I’m forty-seven fucking years old.
If I tell Maddox and Ari—if I tell myparents—they’ll be supportive, sure. But who in their right mind waits until they’re middle-aged to come out?
This—King’s arm, his breath, the way our legs tangle like we’ve done this a hundred times—doesn’t slot into any plan I’ve ever made for my life.
