Cross Me

by Geneva Lee

  She took a step toward me, holding out her arms and crossing them at the wrists. “Let’s play.”

  My tongue darted over my lips, imagining it was her I was tasting. She always understood exactly what I needed. She hadn’t offered her submission to me for weeks. In fact, she’d turned the tables on me. I craved it now more than ever. “Not planning to top me tonight?”

  “Sometimes I need to remind you of your place,” she said simply. She held her breath as I wrapped my tie around her wrists, drawing in a sharp breath when I knotted it tightly. “Sometimes I need to show you mine.”

  She lowered herself on to her knees turning her face up expectantly. “You are my King. You are my master. Everything I am belongs to you.”

  I knew what it cost her to say this to me now, after she had fought so hard to prove she could be independent. But that was the point. She could be independent. She chose when and where and how to give me control.

  Fuck, she was beautiful.

  “What do you want?” My hand fisted in her hair, pulling it back to raise her face. I stepped closer to her, removing the distance between my body and hers. Clara tugged slightly against my hold and pressed soft lips to the bulge growing in my pants. My cock, which had been keeping track of our conversation with interest, hardened painfully. Clara continued to press soft kisses through the fabric. “Is that what you want, Poppet?”

  She nodded, not abandoning her devotion.

  I let go of her hair and reached down to undo my buckle. I drew my belt off slowly and allowed it to fall to the floor. There was a time when she would have tensed at the movement. A time when she remembered what that strap of leather felt like on her bare ass. Now, she didn’t so much as blink. She trusted me, but I couldn’t help wondering if I had earned that trust.

  “Is this what you want?” I slid a hand past the waistband of my pants, adjusting my shaft against the restrictive clothing.

  “Yes, please.” She licked her lips invitingly. Her hands were tied, but she tried to reach up and tug my pants away.

  “Patience,” I told her as I shoved them past my hips. My cock sprang free and I caught it in my fist, running my hand down the length of it. I stepped back just far enough she couldn’t reach me.

  “Who do you belong to?” I asked in a low voice.

  “You.” She stopped trying to move closer. She seemed to understand the silent instruction I was giving her. If she belonged to me, then she had to trust me. I continued to jack myself off—just the thought of her watching and wanting— getting me off.

  “X,” she whispered. “Together.”

  And there it was, her plea to me. It called me back to her.

  I moved toward her, but I was no longer interested in watching her kneel before me. Instead, I kicked off my shoes and shucked off my pants in the process. Leaning down, I lifted her onto her feet.

  “Together,” I repeated, catching the shell of her ear in my teeth and nipping it. I captured her mouth, kissing her languidly, exploring with my tongue while our bodies pressed urgently toward one another. Her tied hands found my cock and gripped it possessively.

  “Together or nothing at all,” I told her, pulling free from her. Hooking one finger around the tie that bound her wrists I led her to the sofa, urging her toward its rolled arm. She sat gracefully on its edge, her legs spreading in invitation.

  “Christ, you’re perfect,” I growled at the sight of her naked cunt.

  “X, please. I need to feel you.”

  I grabbed her hips, kneading them roughly before I flipped her around. My hand moved protectively to her stomach, as I bent her over the sofa’s arm. The tip of my cock slid along her seam and she moaned, half frustration, half pleasure.

  “Shh, Poppet. I know what you need. I know what we need.” Holding her in place, I started to move inside her. She squirmed, trying to capture me. I smacked her ass lightly and she squirmed and moaned with pleasure.

  “Do you like that?” I asked her roughly, smacking the other cheek, my cock twitching at her entrance.

  “Yes, please,” she cried.

  I smacked her ass cheek harder, this time leaving the red imprint of my palm. She writhed, circling her hips against my crown, but I held her steady.

  “Why would you want to leave me?” I asked her, something dark overtaking me. I felt the shadows of my past all around me, and for once, I didn’t want to keep them at bay. I wanted to show her how far I was willing to go to prove that she belonged to me.

  “I don’t,” she whispered and I spanked her again.

  “You said he was cute. Hot,” I quoted her.

  “X.” There was a warning in her voice now. She wanted to play, but she was beginning to suspect this was a different game than when she began.

  I wrapped my hand around her hair and yanked her face up, twisting her at an awkward angle so that I could see it over her shoulder. “I need to know that no one will ever come between us.”

  She stared at me, her eyes searching for a moment, but whatever darkness she found there, she didn’t close herself to it. Instead, she said softly, “No one. No one will ever come between us.”

  I thrust inside her, abandoning my fear and losing myself to her. Releasing her hair, I wrapped both arms around her torso, holding her to me as I continued to pound deep inside her. A strangled cry of pleasure spilled from her lips. I bent my knees, allowing myself to move deeper, to fuck her harder. I slid a hand between her legs as her cries faded. They tried to close against me, her own climax shuddering to its conclusion. Forcing my fingers past her folds, I spread her sex open and rubbed her clit furiously as I continued to stroke inside her. Her breathing came in pants and fragments of words. I had no idea what she was trying to say to me. I didn’t care. I only wanted to feel her come again, to feel her clenching greedily around me, to feel her helpless in my arms. I lifted her into my arms, piercing her to the core and holding her captive. Her body tensed and my own responded, releasing inside her as she broke over me and then went limp in my arms.

  I held her there, spent, my dick still pulsing inside her. Finally, after a minute—after an eternity—she whispered my name. I withdrew slowly, unsure what to expect when I faced her. She turned to me and held out her wrists. I untied them, my eyes never leaving hers and the questions reflecting there like a storm over the ocean. I had no answers to give her. I trusted Clara. I loved her. I was doing my goddamn best to be the man she deserved. When her hands were free, I braced myself. The last time I used her so completely, I thought I’d lost her forever. I deserved to.

  But there was no slap. She didn’t walk away. Instead, her arms encircled my neck, her fingers knitting through my hair and pulling me down to meet her. I knew she had questions. I knew I needed to find the answers. For now, though, she offered me the protection of her kiss and I took it, finding safety there.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALEXANDER

  The Sovereign Games were becoming a headache. Not only were they a logistical nightmare that required constant attention from me and my staff, but they took up nearly all of Clara’s time. Between the games and Elizabeth, we saw each other in passing during the day and sought one another in bed at night. There wasn’t enough time in the day for me to heal the damage I’d done to our marriage. Our lovemaking was gentle—tender. Each time I touched her body it was a silent apology. She clung to me after, falling asleep entwined in my arms, as though afraid she would lose me in the dark. But the more space and safety she gave me, the harder it became to tell her the truth.

  Unfortunately, when it came to affairs of state there was no choice but to do just that. News of Oliver Jacobson’s arrest had leaked to the press. Now I had a half dozen angry Members of Parliament and the Prime Minister in my offices demanding answers.

  I paused outside the meeting room when I saw Prime Minister Clark waiting for me.

  “You might have warned me.” He sounded tired and cross—two conditions I knew well.

  “It would have undermined o
ur investigation.” My words implied an apology I wouldn’t offer. We had proof that Jacobson had been involved in my father’s death. I owed that bastard nothing and I didn’t give a damn what any of them had to say about it.

  “They’re out for blood, Alexander,” he warned me in a low voice. “The monarchy isn’t as popular with Parliament today as it’s been in the past, especially since…”

  “I was crowned?” I guessed. “They’ll like me even less after today.”

  “They see it as a breach of contract,” he explained. “You’ve overstepped your bounds.”

  “Is that so?” I asked coolly.

  “In their eyes,” he retreated.

  I pressed my lips together, tipping my head in acknowledgment of the warning. It was the most he would get from me. My father had turned over an unprecedented amount of functions to the governing body. At the time, I’d considered it a windfall. It would be less for me to oversee when I took his place. Now I saw how it had skewed my position. Parliament believed it was the one with true power. I was merely a figurehead. They were wrong.

  There were loopholes large enough to ride a horse through in every assent bill he’d issued. I’d studied them at length. This wasn’t the time to reveal that, though. I’d dreaded this moment as much as I’d looked forward to it. Jacobson hadn’t been cooperative. He’d offered us riddles instead of information. I suspected that whoever showed up today might be worth looking into further.

  “Gentlemen and ladies,” I greeted them, unbuttoning my jacket as I took a seat at the head of the table. They welcomed me with glares. This was off to a brilliant start. “You have questions.”

  “How long has Oliver Jacobson been in custody?” The man on my right asked. At least we were getting straight to the point.

  “A few weeks,” I said. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice he was missing until now.” A few mouths twitched, but no one dared laugh. It wasn’t a joke but rather an observation.

  “We don’t meet over the holidays,” Alistair May, an aging member of the House of Lords shouted. “It’s a mockery to arrest a man over Christmas.”

  “It’s treason to kill a king, but we aren’t keeping score.” I trained my eyes on him, wondering if he’d rise to my challenge. He was older than the others and the most likely to take offense to my youth. But he fell silent, his beady, black stare meeting mine. He’d been a thorn in my father’s side during his reign. With any luck he would die during mine. He had to be nearing a hundred.

  “This won’t stand.” A fist belonging to an overly boisterous sixty-something MP named Edgar Byrd hit the oak council table. A few of his colleagues had the manners to look offended by the dramatic gesture, but I simply folded my hands and waited patiently. To the others, it was undignified. It wasn’t British to lose one’s temper, especially in mixed company—and there was no more mixed company than the crown and Parliament.

  I, on the other hand, had enough Greek blood in me to appreciate him losing it, because it was about time one of them did. Why had they come, for fuck’s sake, if not to shout?

  “I assure you that you’ll know more when our investigation concludes,” I said, speaking at a normal volume. I might appreciate his anger, but I wasn’t about to rise to it.

  Next to me, the Prime Minister tugged his tie nervously. This was what he had tried to warn me about. They didn’t want to talk to me. They were coming for me. Let them try.

  “Oliver Jacobson is a member of the House of Commons and a British citizen. He has rights.”

  “Rights he forfeited when he plotted against the crown,” I told him. I leaned back in my seat, studying him closer. Perhaps I needed to be looking into Byrd. “I’m surprised that your sympathy lies with the traitor.”

  I allowed the implication of my words to sink in.

  “I don’t think that’s what Clark is trying to s-s-suggest,” the Prime Minister stuttered. It was too late to defuse the situation. He had already let it get too far. Parliament seemed to be under the impression that they held sway over my decisions. I knew now they’d believed they would come in here, level a few threats, and get what they wanted.

  But if they thought they could come in here and intimidate me, they had another think coming.

  “We have definitive proof and a confession from Jacobson that he plotted against the crown and took part in the assassination of my father,” I said with deadly calm. I almost hoped one of them would challenge what I said. Instead, eyes widened at this announcement, so I continued, “Furthermore, Mr. Jacobson has led us to believe that he did not act alone.”

  No one so much as breathed. I looked to each of them in turn, wondering if I might spot guilt on one of their faces.

  “The man who shot your father died that day,” Clark interrupted.

  “Yes, he did. But someone supplied the weapon. Someone gave him the security plans. He wasn’t smart enough to do it on his own.”

  “And what proof do you have?” May demanded.

  “A couple more dead bodies. A few attempted murders. We sent someone in undercover to find out who was behind this.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman, of course.” He didn’t need to know more, and I wasn’t going to out Georgia Kincaid as my source. I propped my arms onto the edge of my chair, wondering when the interrogation would end. I couldn’t tell if disbelief drove his questions or if he was testing me. “She eventually led us to Jacobson.”

  “And the trail ended with him?” The Prime Minister prompted, sweat beading on his forehead. He sounded hopeful and anxious at the same time.

  I didn’t blame him for being nervous. Until now, we hadn’t shared the full breadth of the investigation’s findings with anyone in the government, including the Prime Minister. He had to be doing the math. If we had proof—a confession even—that implicated his government in a way that might permanently damage his reputation. A few of the other MPs seemed to be thinking the same thing. More than a couple had turned their attention to the papers in front of them.

  May, however, hadn’t backed down.

  “Does it matter? Do you seriously believe more of Parliament was involved? This could become a witch hunt,” he accused.

  “Have you ever studied a witch hunt? Read the findings? Checked the history books?” I asked him coldly. I sat forward, leaning towards him across the table. “A lot of witches burned before anyone realized they were innocent. You would do well to keep that in mind.”

  “Is that a threat?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

  “Just an observation.” I settled into my seat again. “This investigation will continue. Jacobson will continue to be held.”

  “When will charges be pressed?” the Prime Minister asked. “You can’t hold him indefinitely.”

  “I don’t plan to. We’re within the confines of the law. As for charges, we will levy them when I feel we have explored every possible crime he committed.”

  “But why keep him longer? Why not charge him now?” A woman piped up from the back. She spun a pencil in her fingers absently. I almost wondered if she was thinking out loud. Of all of the people here, she seemed the least ruffled by this news. If it bothered her that I was holding one of her colleagues on treason charges, she didn’t show it.

  “As Mr. May pointed out, it was Christmas. I spent it with family. After the attack in Chelsea, we wanted to be certain he wasn’t involved.”

  “And?” Clark asked breathlessly.

  “Our investigation has been inconclusive,” I admitted, though I hated to do so. It felt like I’d shown them my hand. “I expect we’ll file formal charges any day.”

  He could rot in an unmarked prison cell for all I cared, but I didn’t need Parliament calling sessions and demanding a trial. Charges would keep them happy—for now.

  “The press is going to have a field day with this,” the Prime Minister commented as the others filed out of the room.

  “The press have a field day when I snog my wife,” I reminded him. “Everything is
news to them.”

  “This will be different. It’s an international scandal.” He studied me for a moment before clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing, your Majesty.”

  That made two of us.

  * * *

  I promised myself I would never return here. Not until I had the evidence to lock this evil bastard up for good. I wasn’t sure why I was here now. The meeting with Parliament hadn’t shaken my resolve. More than ever, I suspected others had known about Jacobson’s plans. They might not have acted with him, but if they’d turned a blind eye, they were culpable—and they needed to be held accountable. Perhaps they didn’t deserve to be locked away like he did and left to rot for the rest of their lives, but their silence had betrayed my family—they had turned away when they should have stepped forward. That couldn’t be overlooked.

  I didn’t bother to have him taken into an interrogation room. I didn’t need a guard watching over us or Norris standing in the next room to observe what he said. I considered calling Smith Price, who had even more of an interest in this than I did. But he and I rarely saw eye to eye. I was still surprised he hadn’t put a bullet in Jacobson’s head before I could arrest him. In the end, I’d gone alone. This was between Oliver Jacobson and me. He had come after my family. He’d allowed a lunatic to touch the woman I loved. He’d set events in motion that had ended in death. This was between me and him.

  Jacobson looked up from the bare cot on which he lay. It was the only thing in his cell apart from a toilet and sink. The holding cell was clean, dry, and warm, but that was all it offered. There were no sheets. No pillow. No books. No window. I’d deemed him a suicide risk and refused him anything other than meals and shelter, but Oliver Jacobson would no more take his life than I would. It was another means of punishing him—denying him the smallest shred of humanity. He was a rat, the kind of man who enjoyed squalor and misery. He probably loved it here. Sometimes, late at night, I thought of what might actually break him. I wanted to know. I wanted to know what he loved. I wanted to take it from him. That was why I hadn’t come back here. I didn’t trust myself to find those answers, not when such a thin thread of sanity seemed to separate me from him. God help both of us if that thread ever snapped.