American King

by Sierra Simone

  But Greer moves closer and rises up on her tiptoes and buries her nose in my neck. Smelling me.

  The raw carnality of it has me fighting back a groan, a fight I lose when I look up and see Ash watching us with glittering eyes, his arms folded across his impressive chest and his erection pushing against the front of his pants.

  And then Greer’s lips are against my throat, my jaw, as I stand completely still, not sure what I’m allowed to touch. What I’m allowed to enjoy. I dip my gaze to the woman kissing my jaw and then lift it back to Ash.

  Can I?

  “Say please,” he says.

  “Please,” I breathe, without the slightest hesitation.

  Ash gives me a nod, and that’s enough permission for me. I yank my queen in against my body, one arm banded around her waist, the other behind her neck, and I press my hungry mouth to hers for the first time in what feels like forever.

  “God, you taste amazing,” I mumble against her mouth. “Fuck.”

  In response, she slides her arms around my neck and pulls herself up, wrapping her lean legs around my waist, and it’s instinct that has me catching her under the thighs to support her.

  It’s curiosity that sends my hands sliding up her legs to her ass.

  No panties.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  My hands are as hungry as my mouth, and they’re currently filled with the delicious flesh of her bottom, and I am squeezing and plumping under her skirt as my lips finally slot against her own in a way that coaxes them to part. And then I’m truly tasting her mouth—sweet champagne and the clean taste of her, just her—in the first real kiss I’ve had since…since when? Since that night in Ash’s office? When he’d crushed his body into mine, guided my hand to where he wanted it?

  And how long since the three of us? It must have been Camp David, after I brought Greer home and before I flew to Seattle. Almost five months.

  Five months. And I am so fucking tied in knots over just a kiss from Greer. How am I going to survive the rest of my life without her? Without him?

  I kiss her for a long time. Long enough for a full waltz to play, long enough for my muscles to remind me that I’m carrying her weight on my arms, long enough for me to refamiliarize myself with the swells and swerves of her mouth—the tiny vaults between teeth and tongue, the silky arches of lips, the heat, the taste, the taste. She moans against me, squirms against me, the center of her heat right against my stomach, and I hate every fiber of the fabric that separates my skin from hers.

  “And what about me?” Ash finally asks. “Do I get a greeting as well?”

  Greer unhooks her legs and slides down, squeezing my hand as she steps off to the side. The look she shoots me is encouragement and lust and everything I don’t deserve, and somehow I’ve ended up in some upside-down world where it doesn’t matter. I’m here and they’re here, and that’s all there is.

  I meet eyes with Ash, still standing across the room, still obviously and deliciously erect. I see the corner of his mouth twitch, just a flash of that hidden dimple, and then he lifts his chin the tiniest bit. The meaning is clear: he won’t come to me. I have to go to him.

  I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t for more than one reason: I’m not the man who kneels for him any more; I told him to his face that his authority no longer held moral value for me. I shouldn’t because I know better than I did years ago, and I know now that the bedroom games we play always have power in real life.

  I shouldn’t go to him. But I do.

  I walk to him, the waltz music swirling gently around us and the thick carpet crushing audibly under my shoes, and when I get to him, I stop when I’m just out of reach.

  “How would you like to be greeted?” I ask, not sure what I want the answer to be—not sure of anything, actually, except that I never want to leave. I want tonight to play on a loop for the rest of my life; I want to live inside it forever.

  “Oh,” Ash responds, “I think a kiss would do quite nicely.”

  My heart lifts, I step forward, and I’m caught immediately by a hand at my shoulder. “Not my mouth,” Ash says. “That will take some earning.”

  I stare at him, not comprehending at first, half expecting him to push me down to my knees and make me unbuckle his belt. But he doesn’t do either of those things, and out of the bottom of my eye, I see the movement of his foot.

  I eye it doubtfully. “You’re joking,” I say.

  “Hardly.”

  I look back up to him and see his hidden dimple flash. “It’s just for fun, little prince,” he says quietly. “I won’t interpret your kiss as anything other than what it is.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because this changes nothing.”

  “Nothing,” agrees Ash.

  And I get to my knees and I bend down and I kiss his foot. The skin is warm and clean, and underneath the slight pressure of my lips, I feel the slender rods of bone and plump give of veins and rigid ropes of tendons. How can a mere foot radiate so much power? So much perfect masculine strength? And yet it does, it does, and I could kiss his foot for so much longer than a few seconds—and I have in the past—but he pulls his foot away from me.

  “Thank you, I enjoyed that,” he says, walking over to the bar cart by the window. I stay where I’m at on my knees, touching my lips, not ready to give up the feeling of his skin against them.

  “Do you want a drink?” he asks. “We put some champagne on ice for you, although Greer’s already taken care of the first bottle.”

  “Champagne sounds nice,” I say distantly, my mind still replaying the feeling of my lips on his feet. One day, I need to figure out why the fuck I love that feeling so much.

  Greer floats past me to help Ash at the bar, and I stand and lean against the back of a nearby sofa, trying to regain some measure of control over my feelings.

  “Have a seat,” Ash says over his shoulder. “We’ll be right over with your champagne.”

  So I sit and watch the cutely domestic tableau of Ash opening the bottle and Greer hunting under the cart for three flutes. She jumps ever so slightly when the bottle pops, and Ash laughs at her, and then she sticks her tongue out at him, and his eyes darken into a shade I know all too well. “Careful, little princess,” he murmurs. “Or you’ll get yourself into trouble.”

  Judging by the smile she can’t hide, even with her eyes cast demurely down, trouble is exactly what Greer wants. And I know the feeling.

  Soon, the two of them are joining me in the sitting area, Ash handing me a flute of champagne and Greer settling on the sofa at a right angle to mine—I could reach out and touch her arm if I wanted. Ash stays standing in front of me.

  “We should toast,” he suggests. “What to?”

  “Not my wedding,” I say, and then realizing how much that revealed, I feel the tops of my ears warm with embarrassment. “Please,” I add. “Anything else.”

  “Let’s toast to tonight then. The three of us together.”

  “To tonight,” Greer says, leaning forward with an extended glass.

  “Tonight,” I echo. And our glasses clink together with a bright, happy sound that I don’t deserve.

  Ash and I drain our glasses and Greer sips hers and sets it aside. Then Ash settles on the sofa across from me, stretching an arm along the back and crossing a long leg over the other.

  “I missed you,” he says straightforwardly. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too,” I admit. “It was a long day. And it’s been a long couple of months.”

  “Abilene and the baby are well?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  Beside me, I feel Greer flinch. She called me about six weeks ago, after Abilene had showed up at her office uninvited and done what Abilene does best—disturb people. Greer had warned me that she thought Abilene was unstable (no surprise there) and also to haltingly apologize for assuming I’d betrayed her. We’d come to a painful understanding about it, painful because the truth no longer had the power to make a difference. There would
still be a baby. I would still run against Ash. And she’d confessed then how much she wished she was pregnant too, how jealous she felt of Abilene for stealing that privilege away from her, and the worst, basest parts of me wanted to beg her to meet me, lay with me, give me as many chances as it would take to plant a child in her. Prove to her that it had always, always been her I imagined carrying my child, ever since that night in Chicago.

  I didn’t beg her to do that, of course. Yes, Ash had made it clear that Greer and I were free to see each other, but I think both of us knew then—and still know—that seeing each other without him would eventually sow a harvest too bitter to reap.

  And there was already enough bitterness in bloom.

  I explained to her why I had to run against Ash, exactly how I believed he couldn’t keep her safe, and what I would do in his place if I had the power to do it. And nothing was more terrible than the silence on the other end as I talked, than her expressionless I see when I finished.

  What are you thinking? I’d asked, hating how insecure I sounded.

  Her voice had been careful when she answered. Are you asking for my approval?

  I had been, I had realized with a touch of shame…and with a touch of indignation. Why shouldn’t I? It was for her, after all. Yes, Greer. I need to know that you know why I’m doing this.

  Embry, I love you completely, and I always will. But I’m never leaving Ash’s side, and I think you were wrong to.

  What else could be said after that? I told her I loved her, and then we ended the call.

  We haven’t spoken since.

  What the hell. Tonight is make-believe anyway, an unreal fantasy, just for fun, as Ash said, and so there’s no reason for me not to reach over and wrap Greer’s slender fingers in my own. I don’t say anything as I do it, but when I meet her eyes, she gives me a faint smile.

  “I know,” she says, without me having to say anything. “I wish knowing made it easier…but I know.”

  “It’s a boy, right?” Ash asks. “Any names yet?”

  I keep my eyes on Greer as I answer, trying to gauge if this topic upsets her, but she seems calm enough.

  “Abilene wants something old-fashioned,” I say. “Percival or Alistair or Chauncey or something like that. I’ve been trying to talk her into something more sensible, like, you know, John. Or Jacob. But she wants something that sounds chivalrous, I guess.”

  “I’ve always liked the name Galahad,” Greer suggests. “He’s the knight who finds the Holy Grail. More chivalrous than Lancelot or Percival or even Arthur himself.”

  “Or how about George?” I counter. “Or Gary? Those start with G too.”

  She laughs, squeezing my hand. “It would be an unusual name, I admit, but you can’t have higher aspirations for your child than wanting him to see the face of God on Earth.”

  She’s right, and I’m not religious like Ash and Greer, so I don’t need my son to chase after any grail, holy or otherwise. But I do want the entire world for him, and everything in it, and I want to raise him to deserve it.

  It occurs to me that I have a privilege Ash never had: the right to know my son from birth. Even though I haven’t met him, even though his mother scares the shit out of me, I feel a raw twist of pain in my stomach at even the hypothetical idea of missing a moment of his life.

  How much Ash must feel that with Lyr.

  “You’re right,” I answer Greer as I look back to Ash, who’s staring thoughtfully at his hands. “Morgan tells me she’s still considering your request to meet Lyr,” I say to him.

  He nods. “I’d like very much to meet him,” he replies. “And I’ll respect Morgan’s wishes—though if Abilene goes public with what she knows, I think it will be less traumatic for him if he’s already learned the truth.”

  “I’ll do what I can to keep her quiet,” I promise. “For you and for Morgan and for Lyr.” I think of the solemn-eyed boy who used to love games of chase, of the smart, bored teenager he is now. “He deserves better.”

  “I appreciate that,” Ash says, then smiles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring you here to talk about the upsetting things between us. Would you like another drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He gets to his feet and scoops my flute from the side table, and while he’s refilling it with champagne, Greer threads her fingers through mine.

  “I’ve missed you,” she says, looking down at where our hands braid together. “I don’t know how I got so used to having what we had, when we had it for such a short amount of time, but I did. And I got used to having you here, with us, even before the wedding.” Her throat works, a delicate, silent swallow. “Every day. Every day I miss you.”

  What can I say to that? To her naked, vulnerable pain? So much of it is my fault, and the guilt is like slick oil all over me, because I never wanted to hurt her. I want to keep her safe, I want to make sure no one can hurt her ever again, and yet all of that feels too abstract to explain right now. Too pitiful.

  But why? Shouldn’t I just tell her these things? Maybe face to face, she’d understand, not like over the phone. If I could look into her eyes and just explain…but what if it didn’t change her mind? What if she still thought I was wrong?

  “I miss you every day as well,” I say instead, like a coward. “I’ve missed every single part of you.”

  “I think I can guess which parts,” she laughs.

  “I mean it,” I insist. I slide off the sofa to kneel by her feet and press her hand to my lips. “I haven’t—well, you know I haven’t with Abilene, and not with anyone else either, but that’s not what I mean when I say I miss you. It’s not just the fucking that I ache for. It’s your voice, your gaze, your touch. Even your highlighters and Post-Its scattered everywhere. I’m miserable without you.”

  But I can endure it because I know I’ll make you safe.

  “I’m sorry for all of it,” I finish. “But I love you, and that will always be the end of our story.”

  She drops her eyes, her eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. “For me too, Embry,” is all she says. I kiss the back of her hand again and then press my forehead to it. There’s not a river wide enough or deep enough to contain everything I feel for this woman.

  Ash returns with my drink, and I reluctantly push myself away from Greer and back to my seat. Ash hands the champagne to me over the back of the couch, and as I take it from him, I swear I feel a fingertip ghost across the back of my neck. But when I turn, he’s gone, already folding that powerful body back to a seated position on the sofa across from me. And somehow I know from the way those aventurine eyes look at me that he heard my conversation with Greer. That he correctly interpreted my supplication at her feet.

  And that the night is about to change.

  “Where’s my hospitality?” he asks in a voice that is dark and playful and mockingly polite all at once. “I’ve offered you a drink, but surely there’s more that my weary traveler needs?”

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically, watching as he snaps his fingers. In an instant, Greer is kneeling demurely by his feet.

  “Are you sure?” he asks with a raised eyebrow once she’s settled. “Something to eat, maybe? I can easily call down to the kitchen and have them bring something up.” His hand drops to idly stroke Greer’s head and neck. My eyes follow his fingers, jealousy curling smoky swirls inside my mind. I’m jealous of both of them—of Ash for touching Greer and of Greer for being touched by Ash. It’s a knot that I can never fully untangle, a riddle I can’t unpuzzle; I can only hope to survive it with my soul intact.

  “No, I’m not hungry,” I finally answer. Though I think of Greer’s heat against my stomach as her heels dug into my back earlier tonight, and I want to add at least, I’m not hungry for food.

  Ash is toying with her braid now, brushing the tail of it along her jaw, giving it a sharp tug whenever she shivers at the touch. “More comfortable clothes? A shower maybe?”

  Both sound amazing, actually, stripping and washin
g away this terrible day, but I don’t have the right to make myself at home here any more, not even for pretend.

  Ash seems to anticipate the shake of my head and tilts his own head with a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I know what. Greer, our guest needs something from you. Go make him feel comfortable.”

  There’s no hesitation in her voice when she answers, “Yes, Sir,” and no reluctance or shyness when she rises gracefully from her knees to walk over to me. My mouth goes dry as she gets closer, as she gives me a lip-biting smile and then turns to face away from me. With sleek movements and a flirty flounce of her skirt, she’s on her hands and knees on the coffee table in front of me, and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing. The clean, pink soles of her feet, the toned swells of her calves. The soft skin of her thighs, the hem of her skirt just barely covering the naked pussy underneath. My skin is erupting into a thousand thousand needy goose bumps; my cock is swelling fast and hungry against my tuxedo pants.

  I can’t breathe.

  Ash stands up, looking at me from across the slender flat of Greer’s back. He once again rubs her head in idle affection, and she pushes her face against his thigh like a purring cat.

  “Go on, Embry,” he says calmly. “I want to be a good host.”

  I’m still sitting, still several steps behind whatever’s happening right now, and he seems to sense it. Giving Greer’s hair a final caress, he walks over to me and extends his hand. I stare at it a moment, not sure what I’m agreeing to if I take it. But when have I ever not taken his hand when it was offered? I press my palm to his and grip tightly, and then he’s helping me to my feet.

  He runs a finger along the hem of Greer’s skirt, nudging it up ever so slightly and then letting it drop back down, over and over again. Our hands are still clasped tight, but neither of us lets go.

  How good it feels simply to hold his hand. How electrifying to stand here with him behind the woman we both love.

  “It was Greer’s idea,” he says, in a voice still full of the play-dark and the mock-polite. “And I rather like it. Don’t you?”