American King (New Camelot #3)

by Sierra Simone

  No.

  No, I’m not playing this game with you tonight. No, I’m not your pet, your boy, your plaything. I’m not your lover. I’m not your prince. I’m your enemy and you said you loved me tonight and then you drowned me in your power, you held me under until I was clawing at my own throat and the blood vessels exploded in my eyes and all I could taste was you.

  It would be so easy to say it. So easy to stop.

  So why am I not stopping it? Why am I letting him throw me on the bed? Crawl over me? Yank off my jacket and tie and shoes as if they’ve offended him somehow?

  It was less terrible when I didn’t have a safe word, when I didn’t have any agency in my own humiliation. When I could fight back knowing that Ash would win, pretending I didn’t have a choice. But now, I have the easiest word of all—no—and the mere existence of the word is driven into me like a nail, like a spear into my heart and I’m leaking blood and water around it. It can’t kill me because I’m already dead, or at least my self-respect is, because I could stop this, but I won’t.

  I won’t, I won’t.

  I’m disgusted with myself.

  I’m stripped bare, and the moment my cock springs free from my boxer briefs, Ash gives it a punishing slap, making me cry out and arch. My cock responds in the most embarrassing way, bobbing and leaking merrily, my balls drawing up tight to my body as if they’re ready to spill their load at any moment.

  He slaps it again, and his answering erection is so massive right now. He gives it a thoughtless, impatient shift to readjust it, too busy making me feel bad to make himself feel good.

  Another slap. There’s pre-cum on my belly again, my toes are digging into the covers, and Greer is slowly undressing by the side of the bed, her eyes glued to the sight of my punished cock.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask on a groan.

  “Because maybe you’ve forgotten after two years apart,” he says, “but you belong to me.”

  Another slap. My erection is mottled in shades of red, and I’m shivering with the sudden endorphin rush from the pain.

  “You could say no,” he says. “Right now. Tell me that you don’t want to me to touch you. To speak to you. To look at you.”

  I close my eyes. “Fuck you,” I whisper.

  “That’s not your safe word.” Another slap, this time lighter but right against my testicles. I grunt in pain. “Do you need help remembering it? It starts with n and ends with o. Say no to me, Embry. Say it right now. You’ve never had trouble saying it to me before.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I love you and I’m going to make you cry tonight if you don’t say no to me.” My nipples are twisted with savage speed, I’m rolled over and spanked so hard on the ass that I feel it reverberating through my hair follicles, spanked on that tender spot where my thighs meet my butt, spanked so hard that I know he must have ruptured blood vessels in his palm.

  I grunt into the covers, my body rigid. It hurts like fuck, but he can beat me till I scream and I still won’t cry for him. Not tonight, not ever again.

  “Goddammit, Embry, just say it,” he seethes. His palm is like a hail of fire behind me; Moses himself has never seen fire like the kind Ash is burning into my ass, and he doesn’t stop, he won’t stop until he wrenches that safe word from me, but he won’t get it—or my tears—he doesn’t get to parade victory in every corner of my soul tonight. No fucking way.

  “I hate you,” I mumble again into the sheets, and then there’s the cool, slim fingers of Greer’s hand on my neck, running through my hair. I feel her curling over me, her hair soft and whispering against my skin, and I’m distantly aware that she’s naked too, and that she’s murmuring gentle things into my ear as Ash lays blows on my ass like I’ve never had before. It’s okay and you’re so brave, so good to him to let him do this and you’re so handsome right now, I’m so wet over you, Embry, so wet.

  “Say it,” Ash growls though gritted teeth. “Fucking say it.”

  “You can’t make me safe out,” I gasp. “And you can’t make me cry.”

  “And you can’t make a liar out of me. You’ll cry.”

  “You already lied,” I say petulantly into the bed. “You said you loved me before the debate.”

  The spankings stop; the bed dips as he climbs over me, and the fabric of his trousers on my bare, spanked ass is so cruelly abrading. “I do love you,” he murmurs into my ear.

  “Liar.”

  “Do you really think that I can’t be angry and in love at the same time?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He unknots his tie and it drops ominously next to my face. I feel him unbutton and shrug off his shirt. I feel him unzip his pants and tug them down his hips, and then he’s flipping me over and straddling me. I moan as he leans forward and our naked cocks knock together, which makes him smile wickedly.

  “What I just said,” he breathes, leaning down to run his nose along my jaw again. “For you to know that no matter how far you run, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you think you hate me, you will always belong to me.” He bites my earlobe, straightens up, and then rubs his cock along the abused length of mine.

  “Shit,” I gasp. “Holy shit.”

  He does it again, hot velvet skin on hot velvet skin, and all the tender spots on my cock are singing, weeping, thrilling with ecstasy. Pain and pleasure sizzle up my spine. My skin sparks into the very air.

  “Greer,” he says, his hands bracing by my head, and holy shit, he’s moving his entire body over mine, moving over me like a man fucking another man below him, but he’s not fucking, he’s teasing. Cock against cock, heat against heat, hard against hard. Shit, it shouldn’t feel so good, but it does, it does.

  Greer is perched in nude perfection next to me, her legs kicked out to the side and bent a little in an adolescent display of indolence that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. Her hard nipples peek through the tumbled veil of hair over her breasts and her hands are fisted in the blankets.

  “Yes?” she answers Ash.

  “Hand me my tie.”

  She does, holding one end of it while he pushes off my body and I groan with the loss. And then he’s measuring, studying, the length of silk and my penis and my testicles—no tailor or architect was ever as serious or as focused as Ash right now with this fucking tie—and then I feel the cool silk rubbing against my balls, my inner thighs, my frenulum. I writhe and whine.

  “You know what I’m going to do with this, Embry. Tell me not to.”

  “Go to hell,” I pant, bucking my hips against the touch of the tie. It’s too much, too soft and it feels too good and it’s so demeaning, and oh Jesus, I’m going to come if that tie slips against my skin one more time…

  But it never comes. Instead he makes good on his word and begins binding up my erection and my balls, and a heartless cinch around my sac means the orgasm building behind my dick is mercilessly yanked away. And then more cinches and Ash says, in a voice so gruff with wonder and excitement that I almost do manage to come despite my bound cock, “Look at you. Look at you.”

  I look. I look at my cock so fucking swollen and dusky-red and sad. I look at Ash hovering over me, pants yanked down to his hips, his own dick so rigid and thick that it points straight up to the ceiling, his chest moving in deep, excited breaths. I look at Greer next to us, wearing nothing but red lipstick and flushed cheeks.

  “Ash,” I beg. “Don’t leave me like this. Please.”

  “That’s getting closer to your safe word, but yet you’re still missing the mark. It’s no, remember? You say, no, Ash, don’t tie up my cock and tease me. And if you don’t say that, then you say yes, Sir.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else,” he says with an evil look, reaching for Greer, “you don’t get to taste Greer’s cunt.”

  I drop my head back with a growl. “That’s cheating.”

  Ash raises Greer to her knees, not answering me. Instead, he asks her, “What’s your safe word
, precious?”

  “Maxen,” she replies promptly.

  “And do you have any objection to torturing Embry with me?”

  She sends a coy smile down at me and my cock throbs. I growl again.

  “I want nothing more.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He helps her move over me, and in a moment’s work, she’s got her knees astride my head and her hands on the headboard, and her pussy unfurls like a flower in bloom right above my face. On instinct, I lift my head to suckle at her, but I’m stopped by Ash’s hand cupping her, his fingers now firmly between my mouth and her wet skin.

  More growling.

  “Say it. Say yes, Sir, and that cunt is yours to eat.”

  “Embry,” Greer pleads, my name dripping with honey as it leaves her lips. “Please eat me. Please.” And it’s the sweet sound of her helpless need and the little wiggle of her hips—as if she’s trying to press against Ash’s hand and get closer to my mouth at the same time—that undoes me.

  Ash has me and he knows it, and he was right earlier, I do belong to him and I want to belong to him, and I love him just as much as I hate him, and I only hate him because he’s better than me, because he’s the third side of our triangular heart, because I can’t live without him.

  Monster.

  “Yes, Sir,” I say. And then I’m broken forever.

  Ash makes a low, satisfied noise at the verbal signal of my inner destruction and pulls his hand away from Greer’s pussy. Faster than a spark flying from a fire, my hands are digging at her hips and tugging that beautiful cunt to my mouth. I give her a long, dirty lick, just like I did last night, and then I trace every crease of her with my tongue, I dart tasting licks into her vagina, I suck her clit between my teeth and work it like it’s my job. I hold nothing back, not even when she is riding my face and all I can breathe is her.

  “That’s it,” Ash approves. “I know you’ve missed our princess, and one night wasn’t enough, was it?”

  And then he is astride my chest, his hands resting large and demanding over mine on Greer’s hips, and there’s almost no warning when he wedges his cock at her entrance and pushes inside his wife. Greer cries out from being filled, and Ash lets out a vicious exhale as my tongue traces along his shaft, as I gently suck on his sac.

  “Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah.”

  That’s how we move, with me flat on my back, cock bound and leaking, and Ash and Greer astride me, my mouth searching to service them both.

  “Lick me, Embry,” Greer begs in a whisper. “Lick me, lick me. Make me come, oh please, oh please—”

  She comes on Ash’s cock and my tongue at the same time, all while I’m mindlessly writhing against the air myself, my ass and thighs and cock one continuous clench and ache, and then as she comes down, she looks over her shoulder to Ash, whose eyes are gazing down at where he and his wife join, at where I’m running the flat of my tongue along the underside of his cock every time he pulls out.

  “You said he didn’t deserve his mouth getting fucked,” she says, voice still honeyed with arousal. “But maybe he’s done enough to earn your cum.”

  Ash’s hand drops underneath Greer’s ass to cup the back of my neck. “Would you like that?”

  Where’s the shame in admitting it now?

  He’s won.

  He’s won, he’s won.

  In response I open my mouth, tongue over my bottom teeth, my cock threatening to split open merely at the idea of being used like this.

  “Fuck,” Ash groans, unravelled by the sight of my mouth waiting for his cock, and he lets loose into Greer with a flurry of hard, brutish thrusts, and from down here, I can see how powerful he really is, how sculpted those thighs and how tight that stomach, how wide and hard his cock. I can see the intimate, practical biology: the stretch of her cunt around his erection, the sway of his balls, the wet glisten of aroused skin.

  “Open wide, little prince,” Ash grunts, and then he pulls of out Greer’s tight pussy and into my open mouth, shoving down into my throat and erupting with a groan that I can feel everywhere in my body, the kind of groan I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Primal and male and triumphant.

  Hot semen pours down my throat, and he’s coming so hard I can actually feel the pulse and throb of his organ as my lips stretch around him and I can feel the contractions that clench all the inner workings of this cock I love so much.

  “Oh, you have such a pretty mouth,” he growls, his thumb running along the corner of my lips to gather up a pearl of leaked cum, and then he licks it off his thumb as he keeps pumping his hips and fucking through the last spurts of his orgasm. “So fucking pretty. I want to fuck it every day.”

  He leaves my mouth with a faint pop noise, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he uses his fingers to guide his cock back into my mouth and to rub it around my lips.

  “Greer,” he says. “I know what you want, and you can have it. And as for you,” he says, fingers pressing down on the top of his cock to push it between my lips again. “Clean me off.”

  Greer is scampering down to my cock like a happy little bunny, and then she’s moving, and oh, fuck, oh fuck, she’s on top of me, she’s touching me, she’s sinking down onto my aching, abused penis and taking it inside her body. I can’t help but to arch and buck and whimper around Ash’s cock, and he loves it, his eyes are glowing with heat and amusement—and goddammit, even with love—and Greer rides me hard and fast, her fingers at her clit, and her wetness everywhere, ruining Ash’s tie, but who cares, who fucking cares—

  “Suck it,” Ash says darkly, shoving his cock into my throat again, and then it’s as I’m choking on his cock and Greer is shaking in a fresh orgasm that I come, and it’s the worst and best thing ever to happen, so fucking painful and so fucking brilliant that I’m sure I lose consciousness, just as I’m sure that Ash keeps fucking my mouth for the half second that I fade out, and then he pulls out as Greer and I both shudder to stillness and completion. And with a massive hand around that brutal organ, he jerks off hard and angry, fists a hand in my hair, and marks my face with his cum.

  The shower is silent.

  What is there to say?

  But even with the stain of the election, we can’t stop touching, can’t stop wanting, and in silence Greer sets her foot up on the shower bench and reaches for me, and in silence, Ash and I share her. He takes her ass, I take her cunt, and she takes both of us, both our devotions and both our hearts. These two people I love so much that I’m dead with it, and a disconsolate voice inside my head wonders if it would have been better if we’d never met at all. If I’d never had to feel surrender and union and real marriage of souls—because then I wouldn’t have to feel its absence or live inside the hollow of what might have been.

  Once more is not enough—when it is it ever?—so then there’s twice more, three times more, the final time a joining of such excruciating sweetness that when the three of us meet mouths to kiss and to taste and to simply breathe together, I do cry.

  Ash wins.

  I cry and Ash tastes my tears and Greer nuzzles into me with her own face tear-soaked, and he tastes her tears too. And it’s a strange thing to orgasm as tears drip down your face, but it’s beautiful too. To climax in joy is such a common, ordinary thing—but to come in anguish, in torment and in sorrow, what a rare jewel indeed. Faceted and flashing. Unforgettable.

  Just like two years ago, we cradle Greer between us, and I fall asleep with the gentle swell of her chest against mine, the cool kiss of her hair twined through my fingers, the steady, metronomic sound of Ash’s breathing. And like last night, I fall asleep dreaming of a different place, a different life. It’s us and Galahad and all the other children we can grow, and a puppy maybe, why not a puppy?—and every betrayal, every tragic misunderstanding and missed opportunity is gone forever. There’s only what should have been from the beginning, which is this love the three of us have found like a city in the desert, strange and holy. Empty and waiting just for us.

  M
y sleep is light and troubled, and when I surface to Ash’s voice, it almost feels like I haven’t been asleep at all, save for the lingering memories of a place that doesn’t exist and children that haven’t been born, and an easy joy that could never, ever be mine. Greer wakes too, but like a cat stirring when someone leaves the room. She stretches, yawns with an apathetic glance around her, and then falls right back asleep.

  I don’t.

  Ash is at the other end of the suite, speaking German in a low voice, and I only catch a few words in my hazy state. Berlin is one, gipfelkonferenz is another—a word my high school German skills weakly translate to a summit or meeting—and then nachste woche. Next week.

  Next week, Germany, some kind of meeting or conference? I filter through my brain, flipping through my internal database of schedules and events, because surely I’d know if Ash was going to Germany next week, sure that would have been on my radar?

  I hear Ash ask in German how the person is doing, if their cold has cleared up, if they need any help with anything, and I’m surprised more by his tone than by his late night diplomatic call. If this were truly just business, then I know exactly the voice he’d use. Strong, clear, and kind in the way that weather is said to be kind, not because of its unpredictability, but because of its distance. It’s so easy to earn Ash’s respect, his good nature, his earnest collaboration—but his genuine affection and warmth? You might as well try to cup a sea-reflection of the moon in your hands. You’d feel foolish for even hoping.

  But right now, on the phone in the dark, speaking German and making plans, his voice is gentle and concerned. Not how he is with his prince and princess, but how I remember him being with the victims in the war. Vy v bezpetsi, vy v bezpetsi, you are safe, you are safe.

  Who the fuck does he know in Germany who deserves that kind of voice?

  He ends his call and stands for a long time at the window, looking out at the city spread below. I know what he sees. It’s a model train world of overnight janitors and ambling cabs and trash men coming for the trash mountains that sprout on New York sidewalks after midnight. Small and twee and twinkling from so high up, and also so big and so busy as to inject even the most extroverted person with a dose of pure, existential loneliness.