The King

“I drink all the time.”

“You’re in a funk all the time. I thought it would get better when your friend turned up. Where is Søren anyway?”

“I pissed him off. He left.”

“Well, un-piss him off. I like him.”

“The last thing we need is a priest hanging around this house.”

Blaise’s mouth fell open.

“He’s really a priest? That wasn’t a joke?”

“I wish.”

Blaise laughed so hard the chaise longue shook.

“I can’t believe I did kink with a priest. I can’t wait to tell—”

Faster than either of them expected, Kingsley rolled up, grabbed Blaise and put her flat on her back underneath him. He grasped both her wrists and slammed them down by her head.

“King—”

“Shut up. I mean it.” He tightened his grip on her to the point of pain and stayed there. “Not a word to anyone that you did anything with a priest. Do you understand me?”

Blaise looked up at him in fear—real fear.

“Fuck, fine. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’ve never seen me this serious before, have you?”

Blaise shook her head. “No.”

“There’s a reason for that. You will tell no one.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I swear.”

Kingsley held her down another few seconds, long enough to make her nervous and long enough to get him aroused.

“Good girl.” He bent his head and kissed her before letting her go.

He rolled on to his back again, crossed his legs at his ankles again, watched the light dance again.

Blaise sat up and looked down at him.

“You scared the shit out of me.” She put her hand over her heart.

“Good.”

“For someone who says he doesn’t like Søren, you’re awfully protective of him.”

“Love him or hate, he’s one of us. We take care of our own.”

“I can’t get him in trouble, you know. I only know his first name.”

“Actually, you don’t.” Kingsley laughed to himself. Søren had introduced himself as “Søren” to Blaise, not Marcus Stearns. There was no “Søren” on anyone’s records anywhere. If she tried to find a Catholic priest in the United States named Søren, she’d be searching forever. So that’s why Søren told her his real name? That fucking brilliant blond monster. Now it all made sense.

“He told me his name, remember?” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to put me in the mood, but not enough to ruin it. Now I’m going to get very drunk so you should go unless you want to make yourself useful.”

“Maybe I want to make myself useful,” she said, lifting up his shirt. She pressed her lips into his stomach, and the soft curling tips of her hair tickled his skin. Yes. This. Right now he needed this. Distraction. Desire. Anything to keep from remembering. “I like it when you scare me like that.”

“And that,” he said, caressing her cheek, “is why you are my chouchou.”

She kissed lower, deeper, and with one hand she unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t hard yet, but if she kept doing what she was doing, he would be any second now. She took him in her hand and massaged him lightly. When he stiffened, she bent her head and licked the tip. For a few minutes it was all she did, kissing, licking, teasing, focusing all her attention on that one part of him. Blood rushed through him, and he grew hard in her hand. He sighed softly as she stroked him before bringing her mouth down on to him.

Perfect... Her mouth was so wet and warm. She rubbed him with her talented tongue and sucked hard. The pressure built in him, and he lifted his hips into her mouth, small undulations that set every nerve inside him alight. He wove his fingers into her hair, seeking connection with the woman who did this erotic kindness to him.

She paused and used her hand on him, rubbing the shaft from base to tip, squeezing and stoking him to greater pleasure.

“I love your cock,” she whispered before lapping at the wet tip. “I love how big it is. I love how it tastes.”

“You’re too kind. Keep it up, chouchou, and I’ll give you the honor of swallowing.”

Blaise grinned seductively at him. “You keep it up, and I’ll keep it up.” She gave him a dirty wink before resuming her task. She sucked even harder now, deeper, and he grew painfully hard. She swirled her tongue around him, up and down, over and over. With her gentle fingertips she eased his foreskin back and lapped at the tip so skillfully his back arched in the shock of pleasure.

A deep muscle tightened in his lower stomach. He felt blood pooling, pressure building. His heart raced, and his fingers dug into the fabric of the chaise lounge. For a few more seconds he held off, trying to prolong the release, wanting to put off as long as possible the return to bitter reality. Blaise sucked him, stroked him, coaxed him, pulled him to the depths of her throat. He hovered at the edge of orgasm, breathing through his nose as Blaise continued to work on him, taking ownership of him with her mouth. She took him deep and massaged his testicles with her tongue. She pulled back to the tip again, and Kingsley came hard into her mouth, spasm after spasm of pleasure washing over him as he spurted his semen into her welcoming throat.

Like the good girl she was, Blaise swallowed every drop of him before releasing him from her mouth. She kissed her way up to his lips, and he tasted himself on her tongue.

“Are you in a good mood now?” she asked, wiping her mouth with one of the towels stacked next to them.

“Better,” Kingsley said. “For now.”

Blaise groaned in frustration.

“You are the king of top drop.”

“You’re making up words again.”

“Top drop. It’s that funk dominants fall into after the scene’s over. You brood.”

“Brooding is my version of afterglow.”

“Call the priest. You’re in a better mood when he’s around. He doesn’t brood like you do.”

“He invented brooding. He holds the patent on brooding. He gets royalties whenever anyone broods. You just haven’t seen him do it yet.”