American King

by Sierra Simone

  He’s taking charge again, and I don’t even think he realizes it—but I do realize it and I still accede because I love it when he’s like this. His power is his love, his command is his affection. And as much as I enjoy wrestling for freedom, as much as I savor the looser dynamic between Greer and me, this is what we all need. This is what we all want. Our king, making his little prince and his little princess kneel at his feet.

  I become his proxy, his words directing me. Fast, slow, deep. Hands on her tits, hands on her weeping, needy cunt. Spank to the ass, yank to the hair. His words like a burned melody floating through it all, and Greer comes again, clenching hard around my dick and her cries reverberating off the glass.

  And it’s when she comes down from her climax and looks up at him with wide, liquid eyes, blond hair streaked across her face and tits, that Ash growls wordlessly and surges towards us, all brawn and feral need. And it’s actually scary, actually thrilling, to have such a tall, broad-shouldered man move at you like that, and my heart is pounding, and the next minute I’m slammed against the wall, still inside Greer, and both Greer and I are caged in by his arms. I realize he’s shoved us here because it’s close to the bench, and at the same moment I register this, Greer’s leg is raised and opened and propped up on the edge of it, and Ash’s hard cock is pushing and nosing up against the base of mine. And with a cry from Greer that I’ll be thinking of every night for the rest of my life, he pushes roughly into her wet, empty cunt.

  It’s insane. It’s actually insane, the feeling of his giant cock through the thin wall that separates us. I can feel him moving, and it’s so tight like this, so much tighter than I thought anything could ever be—and his balls rub shamelessly against mine as he fucks up into her, and holy shit, how do I even describe the sensation of his balls against mine under the furnace of Greer’s body? It’s hot and coarse and such a good feeling I could die from it, and we angle our hips to seek out more, to feel more of the press of each other as we alternate hard pumps into our queen.

  Greer is coming apart between us, her hands scrabbling against Ash’s chest as she unleashes an orgasm that has us both groaning from the flutters around our cocks, and she is nothing but gold hair and soft, wet skin, and floating, helpless cries, and we end up supporting her between the two of us as her orgasm shreds away her ability to stand and she slumps, her head lolling back against my shoulder. We still work into her, two throbbing cocks, fucking in tandem.

  “I’m going to come again,” she whimpers, with something almost like grief. “I can’t do it, I can’t—”

  I capture her mouth in a searing kiss, sweeping my tongue across hers, and it’s her mouth so sweet and hungry against mine and her latest orgasm—a rolling thing that has her sobbing brokenly against my lips and bucking weakly in our arms—that delivers the killing blow. With Ash’s penis stroking against mine through the thin membrane of Greer’s walls and with her tight, slick ass—I come.

  I rumble a low moan of agonized pleasure as I crest the point of no return and the muffled stroke of Ash’s cock sends me over the edge. And then the first contraction jerks delicious muscles deep in my groin. Another jerk rips a groan from my lips as I start pouring and spilling deep into Greer, hot spurts that fill her with wet heat, and I can feel the jetting throbs all the way in my thighs, all the way up in my stomach. On and on I pulse, the weight of a satisfied woman heavy against my chest, both of us caged in by her husband’s arms. I look at him as I’m still coming, and if I hadn’t already come, I would now. His face is a mask of raw, undisguised need—dark eyes, parted lips, jaw set.

  And yet, somehow, as I finish my orgasm and slide with a sensitized groan from her ass, he manages to pull out of her pussy at the same time. Without coming. And if I thought he was hard before, it’s nothing like now. Every part of him sings of violent, filthy, frightening need—his cock, his posture, his face—and I can’t even imagine the tightness in his belly right now, the ache of his full balls.

  But his eyes soften when he looks at Greer. I know it’s not that he’s got some complex about going easy on her—I’ve seen him fuck her mercilessly, beat her until she’s sobbing—but it’s that he’s got a plan for tonight, and part of that plan was getting Greer like this. His eyes are softening because he’s made her boneless with pleasure and joy, and that gentles the beast somewhat.

  “Let’s rinse one more time,” he says, “and then we’ll dry off.”

  “You haven’t come yet,” Greer murmurs, eyes all pupil-wide and cheeks flushed. She’s deep in subspace or endorphin-space or some kind of space, and maybe it’s the power of knowing I got her that way or maybe it’s the simple joy of seeing a lover fucked into sheer bliss, but it’s fucking seductive as hell. I can see why Ash is so addicted to being a Sir if this is what he gets out of it.

  “Don’t worry,” he says to our queen. “The night isn’t over yet.”

  FOURTEEN

  EMBRY

  now

  A few minutes later, clean and dried with soft, fluffy towels, Ash wraps a fresh towel around Greer and scoops her easily into his arms. I expect that I’ll follow them into the bedroom, and I’m looking forward to the view—Ash’s tight ass and the muscled slopes of his back, the delicate lines of Greer’s lower legs and pointed toes as they hang over Ash’s arm…maybe even the silver glow of her eyes peering at me from around her husband’s shoulder.

  But instead, Ash turns to me. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  Greer is still in her glassy-eyed sex coma, giving me a drowsy smile from where her head is nestled against Ash’s chest, and I can’t resist. I step forward and take her into my arms, my chest going tight as she lets out a contented sigh and rests her head against me just like she had with Ash. She feels made to be in my arms—or my arms feel made to carry her—and there’s a tiny wail of grief inside my mind as I consider that I might never get to carry her like this again. That I could have had this every night, and now I never will.

  I’m still grappling internally with this as we go into the bedroom (I did get that view of Ash’s perfect ass after all) and I lay Greer carefully on the bed.

  She rolls to her side, eyes gazing all pearl-gray and languid up at us. “You’re hard again,” she murmurs, running a finger up my thigh and down my fresh erection to prove her point.

  I am hard again. I can’t help it, I honestly can’t. It’s her and it’s him, and I love them, and my love for them has always come bound up in sex. That is to say, the way I love them is through my body and my soul, it’s with all parts of myself, every single part of Embry Moore. But I have the decency to be embarrassed about it. It’s not like I’ve gone without tonight, and even with the excuse of my celibacy, it’s still a little ridiculous. Like feasting all night at a banquet and then hearing your stomach rumble with hunger in front of your host.

  And after five orgasms and two hours of vigorous play, it’s obvious that Greer is spent and sore. It feels selfish to want more. Graceless and greedy. But she doesn’t seem to think so, letting her legs fall open as she continues to tickle light fingers along my hard length.

  “Greer, sweetheart.” I catch her hand, catch her eyes with my own. “You don’t have to do that. You’ve already done enough for me tonight. I can just jack it off real quick.” Or I could lie and tell her that it’ll go down on its own after a while, but I know that’s not true. Not with Ash still hard and full next to me. Not with Greer so heavy-limbed and well-used, spread across the bed in easy invitation.

  “No,” she pouts, a little crease in her brow. “I want you to come inside me again. Please.”

  My cock gives a little jump at her words. “I’d love that, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t hurt me,” she promises, spreading her legs even more. Her pussy is flushed and swollen and wet, tempting beyond belief—not the least because it’s flushed and wet from me. I’ve already come inside her tonight, and then I remember that Ash fucked her in the shower with my spend still in h
er pussy, and my semen must have been streaking and sliding all over his cock along with her arousal and his own, and I have to catch my breath. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. The messes the three of us make together.

  And then there’s another hand on my cock—male, rough, big. There’s no may I? this time, no pretense, no game. There’s just his hand on me, where his hand belongs, and then I look up and my heart drops to his feet. Where it belongs.

  His face is that raw mix of tender violence, and in the ambient lamplight scattering in from the corners of the room, I remember why it took me so long to figure out his eyes. They’re both dark and light, pale jade and vivid emerald and a thick lake-green, and they change, they deepen and lighten, they glint and go smoky, like leaves tossed green and thick on a fire.

  His lips part as our eyes meet, and I’m haunted by the memory of his mouth on my body. Those lips that are so firm and pretty-shaped and full that whenever he looks serious or sad or even angry, they turn down into a beautiful, masculine pout—and he has no idea.

  He glances down at where he holds me, and I get a glimpse of white, even teeth as he licks his lower lip in an unthinking, automatic response. And then he squeezes me, as if he’s testing for himself how hard I am for him, and he licks that lower lip again, and I make a noise in the back of my throat.

  “What is it?” he asks, looking up and sending a lock of raven-colored hair tumbling over his forehead.

  “You’re too handsome,” I accuse him. “It’s upsetting.”

  “Mmm,” he hums, still fondling me and stepping closer as he does. His naked toes touch the side of my foot, his cock only bare inches away from my hip, and I can practically feel the heat coming off it. “I think you’ll find that I’m far more upset about you.”

  “Upset means ‘hard,’ right?” I whisper as his hand dips low to cradle my testicles. In front of us, Greer is still spilled over the covers in endorphin-doped pleasure, a sinuous ribbon of satisfied woman. She continues running idle fingers around my nakedness, watching Ash and me with that lechery in her eyes I find so adorable (and also so fucking hot.)

  “Upset means hard,” confirms Ash, his hand now cupping me with a possessive urgency. “Very, very hard.”

  He shifts closer, his mouth close to my ear and his hand leaving my sac so he can put a firm palm against my dick. “Do you know what else?” he asks in a low voice, and it’s difficult to think right now with him pressing me so cruelly, pinning my cock between his hard hand and my hard stomach. I’ve oozed enough pre-cum that it smears across my stomach as my crown brushes against the skin, and feeling the wet evidence of my arousal is somehow just as overwhelming as having my cock pinioned like this.

  “What?” I finally manage to breathe out.

  Ash runs a finger around my navel, smearing it through the wet mess of pre-cum I’m leaving on my stomach. It’s humiliating, and Ash seems to think so too, saying in an amused voice, “I didn’t realize all you needed was an indifferent palm and your own stomach. I think I’ve wasted a lot of effort over the years.”

  My hips are moving shamelessly against his touch now, and I don’t bother fighting off the indignity of it. I like the indignity, crave it, I’ll starve without it—even if I’ve always struggled to admit that to myself when I’m in my right mind. So instead I say gaspingly, “Your palm isn’t indifferent, you fucking liar.”

  He laughs and grinds the heel of his hand harder against me for that as a punishment for my sass. Or maybe it’s a reward. Sometimes, Ash makes it hard to tell.

  “What I was going to say, before you so charmingly made a mess of yourself,” murmurs Ash, “is that I think I know why you’re still not satisfied after two rounds with your queen.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because,” he says, his lips moving across my jaw and ear and neck as he talks, “I haven’t fucked you yet.”

  He’s right.

  “You’re wrong,” I say.

  “Oh, I am definitely not wrong,” he croons, and I feel his other hand run down my spine. My cock jolts without his permission and I can feel his smile all the way through my toes. “Poor Embry. Poor, poor Embry with no one to fuck him. With no one to make him feel good.”

  His hand slides over my ass, and habit makes me widen my legs. “Poor Embry not being able to make me feel good,” he says in that low croon still, a fingertip pressing against my ass. “Because you love making me feel good, don’t you? Letting me use that ass whenever I need?”

  His finger breaches my hole, and the sharp flare of invasion goes straight to my dick, straight to that place low in my pelvis. Every single sensation feels like it’s spiraling out from the place where he fingers me, and I buck back against his hand, trying to drive him deeper inside.

  “Look at you,” mocks Ash. “Grinding against me like a needy whore. Are you that hard up for it? Are you that desperate to be fucked?”

  “You’re not playing fair,” I groan. Ash has his hands on both the front and the back of me, Greer’s fingers are flitting everywhere private and prurient, and I’m about to tumble face first onto this bed because I don’t know if I can support my own weight anymore.

  “Why would I play fair?” Ash asks, his finger pushing in to the knuckle. It’s going in dry, so it burns, but I welcome the burn and the sting. The biting proof that the man I love is inside me.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, my head hanging down and my eyes nearly closed with lust. “I don’t like it when you play fair anyway.”

  “Tell me you want it,” Ash demands, all the crooning and mockery gone. He’s all Sir now, all the soldier who once fucked me while I was bleeding and high on morphine just because he wanted to. Well, because I told him to.

  Okay, begged him.

  And when I walked in here tonight, I didn’t plan on ending up at this moment, even though I’d secretly hoped for it. Panged shamefully at the idea that I’d be wrestled into submission by my ex-lover.

  It’s embarrassing and foolish, but I can’t shake this prickly belief that it’s unmanly somehow. Not unmanly because of the penetration, you see, but because I’m supposed to be resisting him and publicly challenging his authority…and then a few hours alone with him and all the challenge has left me, driven out by stark craving and this stupid, fateful love for him that I’ll never be able to shake.

  “I want it,” I admit in a defeated voice. “I need it. Please, Ash, please—”

  “Want what, little prince? Need what?” His hands leave me and he walks over to an end table by the bed, and I know he’ll want me to be specific, to beg specifically. He always does.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I mumble, watching the fascinating contradiction of his Bible tremble on the end table while he dug in the drawer for lube.

  “I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear.”

  “I said I want you to fuck me,” I growl loudly. Then I mutter, “Asshole,” under my breath.

  That earns me a dark look. “Don’t make trouble for yourself,” he warns, tossing the lube on the bed and closing the drawer.

  Jesus. When have I ever done anything else?

  Ash smooths Greer’s damp hair away from her forehead. “We need you one more time, my queen. Then you can rest.”

  She nods, turning her head up to kiss his hand. “Do I have to come? I don’t know if I can.”

  Only with Ash is being given permission not to come just as much a mercy as the opposite. He gives a small shake of his head. “You don’t have to come. Now spread your legs and welcome Embry home.”

  With a happy smile and a catlike stretch, she unribbons herself, moving to the center of the bed and opening her legs in the world’s oldest invitation, and both Ash and I simply stare for a moment.

  Glimmers of gold hair spilling over the pillow. A taut stomach with a little well of a belly button. Tits the perfect size for palming and cupping, the nipples furled tight and the undersides dotted with love bites. Even the most mundane parts of her—her knees and her toe
s and the hollows of her armpits—are perfect. This is the same woman who climbed onto a Chicago Ferris Wheel with a complete stranger, who fucked that same stranger in a heady fit of pain and rejection, who can speak three different dead languages and quote medieval poetry from memory, who has coolly stared down journalists accusing her of adultery and left the entire room rattled with her cold dignity. She is all things at once: hot and cold, closed and open. Polished elegance and raw carnality.

  My Greer.

  “I love her,” I tell him.

  “I know,” is Ash’s response. “Go show her.”

  So I crawl onto the bed to join her, relishing the way her eyes sweep down my body as I do, and also relishing just the act of it. Such a small thing to join someone on a bed, to dent the mattress with hands and knees as you crawl, to have them regarding you with anticipation and lust and familiarity. And yet it feels huge now because I don’t have this in my new life, there’s no prowling towards a waiting lover, no slide of skin on blankets as you move and they arch up to greet you. I commit every tiny, ordinary detail to memory as I gently lower my body over Greer’s. The practical little scoots we make on the blanket to line up our bodies. The moment our chests and stomachs touch. The brush of her thighs on the outside of mine. The pleasurable chore of parting the silky fall of her hair so I can brace a hand beside her head.

  “I love you,” I tell her, searching her eyes. I want her to see, I want her to know, and I want her to know it now and forever. Every part of my soul burns for her and always will.

  “I love you too,” she murmurs, looking so soft and pliant that I lean down and kiss her. Her lips part for me on a sigh, and she tastes like sex and the lingering sweet of champagne, and I lick at all of it, drink all of it in. Below the cradle of her hips, my cock leaks vulgar tears onto the bare skin of her pussy, and it’s she who reaches down and takes me in hand. She who guides my tip right to her center. She who wraps her legs around my waist and tries to bring me closer.