A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “That depends.” Julian paused, reaching for the doorknob.

  “On what?” Alistair fought a rising tide of panic.

  “How you feel about our king remarrying.” Julian flattened a palm against the door, clearly steadying himself. “After you left the table, he announced that he plans to take a queen by late summer.”

  “Oh, fucking hell.” Alistair growled the words, then marched to the credenza and poured himself three more fingers of whiskey. He stared dazedly out the windows, at the garden below. There’d always been a hint of self-destruction in Arend—a trait Alistair was all too familiar with in himself. “I can’t save him from himself,” he said softly, returning his gaze from the garden and back to Julian. “Not when he’s willingly allowed his foes to cage him. He handed them the bloody key; they’ve pocketed it now. I cannot save him,” he repeated. “Not from this.”

  “Perhaps not. But we can try,” said Julian, voice quiet and steady. “We must do. He deserves a measure of happiness, whether with me or . . . someone else.”

  Alistair adjusted his spectacles, discreetly wiping his eyes. God only knew that he had never found any such happiness for himself. Arend deserved much better than that. “Give me a half-hour, no longer,” Alistair instructed Julian. “We must make haste to save Arend from his own dreadful guidance.”

  Chapter Seven

  Arend strolled down a well-tended lane, grateful for the vast solitude of Sam’s gardens. The springtime blossoms would have been lovely, were it not for the fact that he felt so dead inside. He’d begun the day in the arms of his new lover, tentatively hopeful of their future together—a future that was now ruined, filled with grim anticipation of but one thing: acting the part of royal studhorse, yet again. And failing at least as miserably as he’d done in his first marriage.

  Arend was wholly dispassionate toward women. He’d learned that much in Cordelia’s bed. “You should have warned me of your true inclinations,” she had admonished on their wedding night, refastening her gown in disgust. “But you will give me a child.” The statement brooked no argument, despite their lack of conjugal success. “We shall become familiar enough to accomplish that.”

  What Arend became familiar with, however, was Cordelia stroking his utterly flaccid cock. The traitor simply would not rise for her, and soon she came to revile both Arend and his unresponsive manhood. As the years passed, everyone wondered if Arend would ever sire a Tollemach heir—and his father, the late king, berated them both.

  But Cordelia always had been clever. He should have recalled that sooner.

  One evening, Arend entered her bedchamber, only to find her wearing gentlemanly smallclothes and one a tailored linen shirt. She’d even donned a waistcoat, unbuttoned down the front. Seeing her in such masculine dishabille?

  Naturally, Arend’s cock rose to swift, ardent attention.

  Oh, his wife was so very clever indeed.

  “Not so buttery-soft now,” she whispered, stroking his turgid manhood triumphantly. There was a taunt in the words that he ignored. He was too hungry, too awakened by the fantasy that a gentleman was in his arms. “Tonight, sire,” she purred in a lowered voice, “I’m the prince you always craved. The male you’ve always needed.”

  “Oh, God, yes. Yes!” he’d barked, starting to spin her—and then to spread her face-down. As he began to part her buttocks, frenzied by erotic pretense, she slapped at his hand.

  “No,” she said. “No, Arend, not like that.” Her voice wasn’t masculine then. Not by half. He’d begun shaking, palms frozen about both her slender hips. “You must put me on my back properly. Put a babe in my belly. This only goes so far.”

  This only goes so far. The words, the cant of them were derisive. Mocking.

  Even so, he quivered and with every thrust pretended her to be his dead prince.

  A few months later, her belly began to swell, and Arend hoped they might be happy together—in their own way. That fiction ended with Darius’s birth. Cordelia summoned him, disdainfully handing over those masculine clothes.

  “Perhaps I should be king and you my queen,” she said with a sniff. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to truss you up in a corset and petticoats. Drape you in soft silks and lace.” She scraped Arend with an appalled gaze. “Yet there you stand, so very masculine. You sail under false colors, Your Majesty.” She clucked her tongue chidingly. “But take heart. There’s always the molly house.”

  When he gasped, mortified, she’d given him a flat look. “No need for all that,” she’d said, patting his scalding cheek. “Not when I know just how desperately you’d love to be buggered.”

  He wanted to scream in Cordelia’s face that what he’d love was for her to fucking die. And when she unexpectedly fulfilled that wish a few years later, Arend didn’t even feel guilty. What he felt was uncaged, like he could breathe. Perhaps, he even dared wish, I might yet have a prince of my own.

  But Arend’s people had other plans.

  Cordelia’s funeral cortege drew thousands from their provinces, a deep, unexpected grief seizing his realm. As his people tossed flowers and wailed during that procession, Arend knew any future courtship would be perceived as a betrayal to Cordelia’s memory. At least for a very long time.

  And thus, he’d remained celibate and solitary for more than a decade—until he’d summoned his courage and walked in to Temple Sapphor. Until he’d signed those concubinary papers, binding Julian to him legally and intimately. So why had he just squandered a decade’s worth of courage in the space of one bloody luncheon?

  Alistair was going to flay him. Julian was going to eschew him—and probably beg to be returned to his temple. Why would he not, when Arend had just wholesaled their concubinage for a pittance?

  Arend stepped inside the box hedge maze, grateful for the privacy of its thick, leafy walls. He sagged against the tall bushes for a moment, despairing so badly that he thought he might cast up his accounts. He rubbed a gloved hand over his roiling belly, then closed his eyes, willing himself to disappear. Willing his realm—and the demands of kinghood—to vanish, too. “Oh, Julian, what have I done?” he murmured. “Julian . . . .”

  “Yes, sire?” came the unexpected, soft-timbred answer. Arend jolted against the shrub, opening his eyes with a start. Julian stood but a few feet away, just inside the box hedge entrance. Arend wanted to rush to him, sweep him into his arms. Hold him and be held in turn.

  “I—I didn’t expect you . . . .” What could he possibly say to the man? He gaped wordlessly for several moments, trapped somewhere between his dreadful past and his desperate present.

  Julian folded both arms over his chest, his expression turning fierce. “Speechless in the main. Now? When you were so very loquacious at luncheon?” Julian neared, his expression stern. “You shall account for your actions, Your Majesty. You will explain them to me.”

  The tone was crisp, delivered like a blade. This Julian—the feisty, rankled, and steely version—always left Arend near witless. And feverishly aroused. His lover’s forcefulness, so surprising given Julian’s sweet nature, stirred him profoundly. It became a heated caress along Arend’s cock, hardening it instantly.

  Cordelia had understood this part of Arend, his privately-held need to relinquish control. I know just how desperately you’d love to be buggered.

  Arend drew his frockcoat about his waist, praying that Jules wouldn’t observe the prominent bulge in his trousers.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Julian pressed him. “Not even a word in defense of your recklessness?”

  The ferocious accusation brought Arend back to the moment. “Mind yourself,” he growled, knowing that his actions were indefensible. “And your place.”

  Julian’s golden eyes flashed. “On the contrary, sire, you must mind yourself, if you’ve a hope of survival.”

  The stern rebuke lashed Arend, and his manhood strained within his buckskins. His cock ached perversely, reacting to that strict tone of Julian’s. Arend
blew out a tortured breath. “I did not intend to betray you nor humiliate you, Julian,” he admitted quietly. “Humiliation is a cruel weapon.”

  “Yet you goaded me about a courtship you knew to be fictitious! Whilst I sat there, trapped among strangers, knowing . . . .” Julian’s expression grew pained. “Knowing that you’d just destroyed our concubinage.”

  Arend raised a silencing hand. “You mustn’t speak so imprudently, Julian. Anyone might overhear.”

  With a huff, Julian made a great show of examining the empty path, looking first one way and then the other. “We’re positively overrun by witnesses, sire.”

  “Don’t be glib. You know that you mustn’t speak of our . . . arrangement openly.” Arend began shifting his hips in a desperate bid to conceal his fully erect cock, but the traitor had filled out his buckskins to snug perfection.

  Julian watched Arend’s shuffling discomfort, seemingly happy to let him squirm. “Besides,” he said, “I was already sufficiently set down by Mr. Finley earlier.”

  “For what?” Arend’s hackles rose at the mere mention of Alistair’s name.

  “Chiefly, for violating common sense and decency by approaching the gentleman in his private chamber.”

  Arend’s arousal dampened immediately. In its place came an iron-fisted terror, the likes of which he’d rarely known. “You were in my foster brother’s boudoir,” he managed tightly. “In Alistair’s most private rooms?”

  “We were hardly knocking boots, sire.” Julian searched his face earnestly. “Have you so little faith in me?”

  Arend’s breath nearly left him. “Only yesterday,” he rasped, “you described him as ‘sodding gorgeous’. When you first arrived.”

  “Yes, and you know I was only baiting you. I did swiftly apologize for that, too.” Julian caught Arend’s gaze and held it with a reassuring smile. “Finley is gorgeous, but that does not mean I wish I were his concubine instead of yours.”

  “But . . . at luncheon.” Arend scraped palms over his face, sagging against the shrub behind him. “The way you gazed at him, that undisguised admiration.” He dropped his hands, staring at Julian accusingly. “You’re tethered to my bed, Julian. Not his.”

  Temper flashed in Julian’s light eyes. “You’re impossible, sire. I’ve never met a more imperious man in my life.”

  Arend harrumphed and in a condescending tone said, “I am a king. Whatever else would you expect from me?”

  “Self-restraint,” Julian shot back. “A modicum of self-restraint. Dominion over your unfettered possessiveness.” He folded his arms.

  “What the devil are you suggesting?” Arend demanded. The fact that he was guilty as charged did not prevent him from feeling affronted.

  Julian moved in on him, voice firm. “I’m suggesting, sire, that the royal person endeavor to control himself.”

  No one ever spoke to Arend thusly. “You . . . you termagant!” Arend sputtered, his face heating. “Ordering the royal person about like a draft animal. If you were anyone else, I’d have you strung up.”

  Julian’s mouth twitched upward slightly, nearly into a smile. “Careful with that wicked temper, sire,” he said, “or I shall be forced to take you in hand myself. I’ve had training when it comes to ‘stringing up’ noblemen, incidentally.”

  Arend gaped in outrage, wondering why, for the love of all things holy, he’d just grown wickedly erect. “I would like to see you try.”

  “Very well, then, Your Majesty. Please do be a good king and follow me.”

  And with that, Julian flung himself past Arend without so much as a backward sniff.

  Arend trailed Julian as if secured by a leash, craving his lover more than he’d done since contracting his services. When they passed into a shadowed portion of path, one where an overhead trellis offered extra privacy, Arend reached for Julian, lightly grasping him about the waist. Determined to mark what should be his alone.

  Arend glided his palms down to Julian’s hips, urging him closer. He was about to level the man with a scorching kiss when Jules ducked away with a barely audible, “Not now.”

  “Not now?” Arend repeated incredulously. “Is that your idea of what taking me in hand should mean? If so, it hardly aligns with the wicked expectation you’ve created in me. Nor with your threats of punishing this kingly lad.”

  “I wasn’t threatening to . . . to punish you. You’re still my master.” For now. Julian didn’t need to embroider further.

  “Right-o. Saving the good bits for my brother, then, are you?” Arend muttered, stalking past his concubine.

  Julian lunged sideways, blocking his path. “The ruse had to appear believable,” he explained. “Lord Vincent suspected me as your lover; you saw for yourself. He all but lobbed the accusation at you, right at that table! Finley had no other choice but to act on your behalf. I merely sold the affair as convincingly as I could.”

  “And sell it you did. The scandal sheets will have a smashing time, especially after having mocked Alistair, with his shy sturdiness, for years. Years,” Arend repeated, widening his eyes. “He’ll be expected to marry you, you know.”

  “Which is why I went to him in the first place,” Julian explained. “To prevent that very outcome. For that reason, and not to seduce the gentleman,” Julian explained, “but, rather, that we might save you from your own dogged efforts at self-destruction.”

  “P-pardon?” Arend sputtered, knowing full well that he deserved the brutal assessment.

  High color flooded Julian’s cheeks. “You advised two council members of your intention to take a queen,” he said steadily. “You, who are fully inclined toward males.” The golden flecks in Julian’s irises became engulfed by a brighter green, almost an emerald. “You—to whom I’m legally bound as concubine. And wish to remain so for years to come.” Julian gave him a wan smile. “Such are the dreams of a man who was locked and gated away for a full decade. But they’re my dreams all the same.”

  His concubine’s voice lilted with downright feminine intonation, and that thin blade of contradiction, as always, set Arend’s lust ablaze. He groaned softly, his cock throbbing within his taut buckskins. “I want you, Julian,” he rasped. “I need you. Let’s not waste any more time being cross.” Arend allowed his jacket to fall open, revealing the front of his buckskins.

  Julian’s eyes went wide as he glimpsed Arend’s fevered state. “You’re so . . . inflamed.” His gaze traveled back to Arend’s face, puzzled. “You were angry . . . .”

  “Jealous. Unseated by new emotions and fears.” Arend paused, beholding his lover. “You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, male or female,” he observed frankly. “And I want you. So bloody badly. Every moment, every day, whether we’re bickering or tupping. This”—Arend pressed gloved fingers to his own aching manhood—“is how you affect me.”

  Arend slowly outlined his erection again, gloved fingers splayed over his groin. Julian stepped closer, as if magnetized by the display. Arend stroked himself, gaze locked with Julian’s. “Look at me. At my need for you.” He drew Julian’s hand to his trouser flap. “Feel my hunger.”

  Julian’s hand moved beneath Arend’s own gloved one, stretching along Arend’s swollen length. “I waited years for you,” Arend admitted, throat suddenly tight as he trembled beneath Julian’s subtle caress. “You weren’t the only one locked away in a tower dreaming, you know.”

  Julian’s gaze snapped upward, colliding with Arend’s. And then each of them simply nodded, not needing words. They shared a hidden path, a quiet longing—one they’d shared together, even long before they met.

  “Nothing’s changed, Julian. Not the things that matter. Not my yearning for you, nor my hopes. We’ll fix all the rest. Somehow, we shall—I shall put everything to rights.” He beseeched Julian with his gaze. “You see how you stir me,” he admitted raggedly. “But . . . I also need . . . more.”

  Put me upon my back, demand that I spread for you.

  Order me to forget Cordelia and a
ll her cruel taunts.

  Julian neared, so close that Arend could feel the warmth of his breath. His concubine met and held his gaze, and then, subtly grazing fingertips along Arend’s cock, Jules bent near, brushing his lips against Arend’s cheek. “Tell me all of it, Arend?”

  Command me to open my legs and yield to you, utterly vulnerable. Demand it of me.

  “How much more? How much more do you need, my Arend?” Julian murmured, hot breath fanning Arend’s cheek. But it was Cordelia’s ghostly voice that filled his ear, scandalizing him. Taunting him. Stripping him bare. There’s always the molly house.

  Jules stroked Arend with slow deliberation, from root to tip, dragging a moan from the royal lips. “Yes,” he said with a knowing nod as Arend moaned again, louder. “Yes, that’s it. Tell me precisely what you need. Arend, you must do so.”

  You must do so. The words speared him, awakened him, like almost none others could.

  Arend’s manhood leapt brazenly. “All of you.” He gasped. “I need all of you, Julian.”

  “And yet . . . .” Julian outlined Arend’s cockstand with exquisite attention. “I think what you most want isn’t all of me—but to surrender all of yourself.” His eyes locked on Arend’s.

  Arend swallowed hard. “I never said that.”

  “No,” Julian answered quietly. “You did not.” He thumbed Arend’s tip, circling it until Arend’s smallclothes dampened. “But in my experience, men like you—powerful and resistant—are the ones who crave it most of all.”

  “Crave what?”

  “Surrender.” Julian’s gaze was unwavering.

  Arend began shaking. He rubbed his chest, breath turning ragged. “You’re saying men like me long to be buggered. We’re the ones who most . . . most—”

  “Yearn to be buggered,” Julian finished for him. “Yes, if you want to refer to it that way.”

  “Cordelia always said . . . .” Arend shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “No. No, you’re wrong. She was wrong.” He backed away from Julian, away from his lover’s caresses. Oh, why did his groin have to ache so keenly at even the suggestion—at Julian’s mere use of that word.