5. The King Always Wins
The King Always Wins
Asher
We’re instructed not to remove the collars, so as King and I put our shoes back on and exit the workshop, it feels like we’ve been in a movie about someone else’s life.
I feel… lightheaded and altogether unglued.
Excusing myself from Jacques and Walter, who’ve struck up a conversation, I decide to break away to find a bathroom.
I need a few minutes away from King.
He doesn’t say anything to me as I excuse myself, and he doesn’t need to.
I suppose that’s why he’s a Dominant.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Of all people, I know that once a seed has been planted, it doesn’t stop growing until you kill it off.
And this one’s already curling around the edges of everything.
Thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Questions I don’t have the guts to ask.
Once inside the spa-like bathroom, I lean on the sink and look at my reflection.
I don’t look any different. The collar doesn’t change my appearance at all. And yet… something inside feels like it’s shifted. Something that’s still raw, like an exposed wire, yet it’s pulling me toward whatever this collar means with a sickening clarity.
I splash some cold water on my face, tamping the new feelings down.
Go figure he’d be a Dominant. The way he carries himself—the voice, the stillness, the way he watches without needing to speak—it makes more sense now.
Dominance and submission are topics I’ve avoided for most of my life.
They just never interested me, and I suppose it’s because I’ve always assumed I’m the dominant type.
Control the pace. Take the lead. Be strong.
Be certain. But if I’m being honest… I’ve never minded letting someone else take over. In fact, it’s usually easier.
Let my exes set the pace. Let them call the shots. Let them decide how far, how fast, when.
I told myself that was respect, that I was being a good guy. Being decent.
But maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe I liked it that way.
The thought hits harder than I want it to.
I’m jealous of King’s quiet dominance, if I’m being honest. That confidence. That ease. That control.
I’d give anything for a quarter of it.
What kind of Dominant is he?
Calm? Caring? Thoughtful? Or the kind with rope under the bed and rules you follow without question? Does he dominate women? Men? Both? He mentioned his partner for this retreat had male pronouns, so… is he gay? Bi?
The questions come uninvited.
Unwanted.
I mean, I’m straight—obviously. Always have been. Those few times I kissed a guy while drunk? Those don’t count.
Even if I still remember it. Still dream about it. Still wake up hard and hating myself.
Who doesn’t experiment, though?
Relationships. Hookups. Dating apps. Women. That’s the box I’ve kept myself in.
But King’s voice?
That shouldn’t twist something in my gut.
It’s not attraction. It’s simply curiosity.
Fascination, maybe. Especially because I’ve obsessed over the idea of him poaching Trent Marchand.
In my mind, he’s this evil guy with a curly mustache.
Instead, I’m finding that despite how furious I still am about the poaching, I respect King.
I exit the bathroom and walk back to the group, and everyone is led to an early dinner at the retreat restaurant. The lighting is low and tinted pink. Huh. The tables are two-tops, and I suppose that means all couples will be eating together.
Wonderful.
I’m halfway to the host stand before I clock the sign on the door.
Valentine’s Day Prix Fixe Menu. No Substitutions.
I stop short. “Are you serious?”
King steps beside me, expression unreadable. “Did you expect something else for Valentine’s Day at a couples retreat, Harrison?”
I lift my hand out of instinct to check my watch, but again, I’m met with a tan line and the sinking feeling that I haven’t been paying enough attention to my surroundings.
Before I can reply, we’re led to a small table in the corner, tucked under a vintage chandelier and surrounded by other couples. Walter and Jacques wave at us from nearby.
I catch their wave and smile—a little too quickly, a little too wide.
Even though my skin is still buzzing from King’s voice in my ear, I fall right back into the corporate role. No matter what just happened, more than anything else I need Walter to see me as someone worth trusting.
Worth hiring.
The server carries two red-colored cocktails in coupe glasses, the surface shimmering beneath skewered heart-shaped strawberries.
“Subtle,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” the server chirps, looking between King and me.
“My partner was just saying he likes the cocktail,” King answers.
“Oh! Thanks. It’s part of the menu today,” she says, delighted. “Raspberry gin fizz. We call it ‘Love in the Air.’”
King raises his glass. “Cheers.”
My throat makes a sound that could be a laugh or a snarl, but I clink my glass against his. “You’re insufferable.”
He just chuckles.
The food arrives. Too beautiful. Too perfectly portioned. I pick at it like it might explode.
Across the table, King eats like he has all the time in the world. Just that same infuriating calm, like he’s still savoring the damn scallops.
I hate scallops, but I force myself to eat them and pretend like we’re having a nice meal. People are watching us, after all.
Halfway through the main course, the server drops off a little folded card on thick papyrus.
“Complimentary with every couple’s dinner,” she says, grinning. “You can read them out loud if you want. Most people do!”
As soon as she leaves, I flip the card open. “Say one thing you’ve never told anyone.” I slam it face down on the table. “Nope.”
King reaches across, picks it up, and reads it silently.
When he looks at me, he’s not smiling anymore. He doesn’t say anything. Just tucks the card into his jacket pocket like it belongs to him now.
King wipes his mouth with his napkin, then leans back in his chair. “You’re different,” he says suddenly.
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Just remembering something.”
I narrow my eyes. “You say that like we’ve met before.”
He tilts his head, unreadable. He looks at me again. For a second, his hard expression softens. Something twists in my gut.
“You don’t like scallops, do you?”
I blink. “What?”
“I remembered, after the food arrived.” He takes a long drink. “But you ate them anyway.”
I stare at him. How the hell did he know that?
“How do you?—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He sets his glass down and looks at me. “You need to speak up when you don’t like something, Harrison.” His tone is neutral, but the words cut right through me.
“Thanks for the tip,” I retort caustically.
“Easy, boy,” he murmurs, eyeing my collar. His eyes twinkle with mirth. Fucker. He’s enjoying messing with me. “Wouldn’t want Walter to think we’re fighting.”
I look over at Walter, and he’s watching us. I give him a quick nod before turning back to King.
He places both hands on the table. I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“Hold my hands,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear him.
I narrow my eyes but comply—because Walter’s still looking, and I don’t exactly have the luxury of peeling away from the performance now.
His fingers close around mine, steady and unyielding. That same heated jolt pulses through me, and I shift, uncomfortable in my own skin. The collar digs into the flesh of my neck, and instead of enjoying the feeling like I did earlier, it suddenly feels oppressive and… too fucking much.
I just need to get laid. That’s all this is.
“Smile,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. His grip tightens just enough to cause me to wince. “You look like you’re plotting my murder.”
“‘Murder’ is excessive,” I mutter. “I might be plotting some casual incapacitation, sure. Perhaps some minor flesh wounds, but I don’t want to go to jail. I’m too pretty for that. Ask me how I know.”
His lips curve, slow and sharp. That twinkle in his eye returns, like he knows I didn’t mean to bring up my ex-felon twin.
He leans in slightly, his grip still on the verge of almost hurting. “Hmm.”
I glare. “What?”
His thumbs trace small circles on the backs of my hands. It’s too casual to be affectionate, yet too calculated not to mean something.
Games. He’s playing games. And I hate that I don’t know the rules.
“I’m impressed,” he says finally, his tone unreadable.
“You’re better at this game than I gave you credit for.
” He pauses, only continuing once he’s lowered his voice.
“But I should’ve guessed. You’ve got that defiant streak…
the kind that talks the talk but only plays tough until someone pushes back in the right way. ”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he just studies me. And for some reason, that rattles me more than anything he’s said.
I pull my hands back, showing him that I’m the one who chooses when this ends.
His eyes stay on mine, tracking my movements.
“I’m not playing any game,” I say, even though it sounds like a lie the second it leaves my mouth. “It’s just business, right?” I add, throwing his words from last year back at him.
King leans back in his chair, gaze still pinned to mine. He stretches his arms across the top of the chair like he’s lounging, but it’s too poised to be casual.
“You keep telling yourself that,” he says, voice a shade too smooth in case anyone is listening in. For all they know, we’re casually flirting. “But you keep showing up. You keep… engaging. Letting me pull you closer, one inch at a time. And… doing exactly what I say.”
I laugh, and the sound is dry and sharp. “You think that’s what this is? Me being pulled ?”
He tilts his head, slow and patronizing. “You think it isn’t?”
The air around us thickens. A flush creeps up my neck, and I hate that he sees it. I can feel him registering everything—every breath, every shift in my posture. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t gloat. Just catalogs.
Like he’s studying a new acquisition.
And I know the type. I’ve worked with men like this for decades. I thought I was a man like this—smooth, calculated, assessing.
“You’re not in control of this,” I say, but it sounds weak. Defensive. Like I’m trying to convince myself more than him.
King doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. He just exhales slowly, fingers steepling.
“I don’t need to be,” he says. “That’s the difference between us.”
I stare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, lowering his voice again, “some people try to control the room. Others are the room. And learning the difference is essential.”
I should leave, but I can’t. It would cause a scene, and right now, I need to act like I’m in love with the man across from me.
I stay there, spine rigid, mouth dry, skin prickling with heat I can’t shake.
Before either of us can say anything, however, dessert arrives.
Of course he ordered the chocolate cake. Dark, layered, dense. Something about it feels like a test.
I glance up just in time to see him take the first bite.
His fork slices through the center with clean precision, and his mouth closes around the edge with a kind of calm focus that shouldn’t be doing what it’s doing in my head.
Eyes half lidded, he savors it. A flick of his pink tongue.
A hum that’s barely audible, the sound vibrating down my nerve endings.
Then his tongue flicks out again to catch a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
Jesus.
I shift in my seat.
Is he doing this on purpose? He must know what he looks like when he eats.
Also, is this guy a goddamn monk? Does he do an hour of meditation every morning to stay so calm and collected? What the hell is his deal?
I tear into my crème br?lée angrily, spoon clinking against the ceramic dish.
I don’t look at him again—I don’t trust myself.
Halfway through, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out that stupid folded card—the one the waitress gave us earlier.
The one I slammed face down on the table.
He unfolds it slowly, stares at it for a moment, then slides it into his wallet like it was always there.
Like it’s a souvenir.
I don’t know why that gets to me, but it does. He wanted me to see him do it.
A minute later, when he stands up from the table, he does it unhurriedly.
“Come on,” he says softly, brushing past me. “Wouldn’t want to be late for our next round of public intimacy.”
I swallow hard. My legs move before my brain catches up, and, for a second, I wonder why I’m so damn eager to follow his orders.