14. At the Feet of the King
At the Feet of the King
Asher
I fume my way through the short group circle, hardly paying attention to King, or Walter, or the way Jacques’s eyes flick between King and me periodically. For a second, I wonder if he heard us arguing, but I can’t think about that right now.
On the hike back, I follow King silently, lips flat, nails biting into my palms. We don’t speak, which is fine with me.
The veins in my neck pulse, and I’m clenching my teeth so hard I’m afraid my molars might shatter. It’s thirty whole minutes to watch him effortlessly walk ahead of me, fantasizing about him falling off the cliff, or a boulder crushing him.
And in those thirty minutes, I stew.
I think of Brooklyn and whoever King’s supposed date was for this week, and it becomes glaringly obvious that he set this all up. But why? He said it wasn’t revenge, but it feels like that. If it’s not revenge, then why the hell is he doing this? Because I fired him ten years ago?
By the time we get back to the retreat, I’m shaking—fighting the heat coursing through my body, the edgy, twitchy feeling that has me seeing red.
I should go back to the room. Take a cold shower. Write some fucking pitch notes for Walter.
Instead, I follow him.
King walks ahead of me like he owns the place, like I’m not burning alive behind him. His coat swings with each step—like he didn’t press his hand against my thigh earlier to fix my harness. Like he didn’t hold my life in his hands and whisper things he knew would rattle me.
He’s leading me somewhere. I know it. He’s not looking back, but he knows I’m following him.
I don’t stop.
The trees thin. The path narrows. Then there’s a cabin—one of the smaller, private wellness rooms tucked behind the main lodge. King pushes the door open and steps inside like he has a key. Maybe he does.
I follow. The door clicks shut behind me.
The room is small, warm, and dimly lit. There’s a fireplace. A yoga mat. Two folded towels. We shouldn’t be in here, but I also know I don’t want Walter or Jacques to witness how I’m about to tear into him.
He turns to face me, crossing his arms.
“You’re following me,” he says simply.
“You planned this.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”
“You’re trying to fuck with my head.”
He steps closer. “It’s working.”
“You’re such a smug, controlling piece of shit.
” I pant, nostrils flaring when I see the way his eyes flash with something akin to anger.
Knowing my words are affecting him is addicting, and my whole body hums with satisfaction.
I keep going. “What is wrong with you? You’re psychotic.
And the worst part is, you want people to think you’re wholly unaffected.
” I let out a cruel laugh as his expression falters, and something dark passes behind his eyes.
“That night ten years ago? I hardly remember it. All of this is for nothing.”
His jaw feathers, but that’s the only indication that I’m breaking into his hard shell.
“Are you done?” he asks, eyes glinting with rage.
“No, I’m not. I want to know what you want from me.
I want to know why you’ve taken it upon yourself to make my life a living hell.
I said I was sorry for what happened in San Diego.
” My hands press against his chest. “Get. The. Fuck. Over. It.” I shove him harder with each word, but he doesn’t move.
What the fuck do I have to do to break through to him? To wound him?
Looking down at where my hands rest against his chest, he tilts his head and laughs.
Bastard.
Fucking bastard.
I’m hot and cold all at once, and I want to scream. I want to crack him open, see if there’s anything soft underneath the marble, because if there is, I want to break it. Burn it. Whatever it is that I have to do to make him feel as untethered as I feel every second in his presence.
“You know what I think?” I hiss. “You’ve spent ten years trying to prove I didn’t break you.
But if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here.
You wouldn’t need to play whatever game you think you’re playing.
And you definitely wouldn’t be stalking me across frozen trails just to watch me fall apart. ”
He goes still.
I step closer. “You’re not invincible. You’re obsessed. ”
His nostrils flare. “You think I came here to prove something to you?”
“I think you came here because you couldn’t stand that I forgot you.”
That does it. He shoves me, just once, but hard enough to stagger me back a step.
“Fuck you,” he snaps. His voice breaks on it. Just slightly. Just enough.
He turns away, but I see it. The shift. The storm brewing under his skin, the flash of something real in his face, something pained, cracked open for just a second before he can slam the door shut again.
I see him—the real, raw vulnerability he hides so easily—and I suddenly can’t take it.
I don’t know why I do it, but the feeling of saying something that affected him—of proving that perhaps he does feel things under that facade—it’s too much to handle. The feeling overwhelms me completely, and I panic.
Maybe I’m trying to punish him—or maybe I’m trying to punish myself .
I know it’ll get more of a reaction from him, and I’m desperate to see more of the real him.
I don’t know why, but it’s all I can think about doing.
I want more. I want to see the real, soft part inside of him that no one gets to see.
So I drop to my knees.
He freezes when he hears the rustle, turning slightly. His eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, and I feel in-fucking-vincible.
“Asher—”
“Don’t talk,” I clap back. It feels good to make him speechless.
He doesn’t stop me as I crawl forward, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down with shaking hands. I’m not slow or precise. It’s not seductive. It’s angry.
I drag the fabric down just enough. He’s already hard, because of course he is. His shaft is thick, the head a deep red color, and veins stand against the soft-looking, taut skin.
I go still when I see the metal.
Two polished barbells, one on each side of the head—symmetric, precise, gleaming in the low firelight.
Pierced.
My mouth parts. I don’t even realize I’m staring.
A bead of precum slips over the curve of the right barbell, catching at the base of the ridge. It makes the silver shine wetter. It makes everything filthier, and my pulse spikes when I realize that letting me see his cock turns him on.
“You don’t recognize it?” King’s voice is low. I don’t answer. He exhales through his nose. “King’s crown,” he says. “A dydoe variation. Double.” His voice drops an octave. “Sensitive as fuck. Painful as hell to get done.”
My throat works. I don’t dare speak.
He’s watching me like he already knows what I’m thinking. Like he wants me to imagine what it feels like. What it would taste like. What it would do to someone’s mouth.
He smells like cologne or bodywash mixed with sweat-dampened skin. Not bad, not at all—more salty, with an edge of spice. There’s something so male about it, and it makes my mouth water without even thinking about it.
“Still curious?” he murmurs.
And I fucking hate him, because I am.
I don’t give him time to process.
My mouth wraps around him like a dare. The heated, salty taste hits my tongue.
He groans, low and broken, his hands flying out to brace against the wall, his head tipping back against the cabin’s wooden beam.
I keep going—hard, fast, mean. Like I know exactly what I’m doing, despite only ever being on the receiving end of a blow job.
His cock is heavy in my mouth, and despite receiving many blow jobs in my forty-seven years, I’ve never really imagined what it would feel like from this side. How smooth it is, how it slides against the roof of my mouth, how it tastes like skin and something spicy and him.
I hate him for it. I hate the way he’s shaking. I hate that I feel powerful doing this. I hate that I feel like I might need this.
His hand brushes my hair like he’s about to grip it, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t let himself. But I can make him fall apart without permission. I want to. Need to.
My cock is pushing hard against the material of my sweatpants, throbbing with each unhinged noise he makes. I can already feel the wet spot where precum is beading and soaking into the material.
“God—fuck—” he gasps, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. His thighs tremble. His voice breaks on a groan, and it spurs me on.
I hate that this is the most turned on I’ve ever been in my whole life.
I hate everything about this, and that fuels the seductive wrongness I feel about it all, heightening the sweet sensation of my cock pressing against the soft material of my sweatpants.
A familiar tightening of my balls has me stumbling over my movements. I couldn’t possibly be about to come, could I?
A low moan escapes my lips, and I take King deeper into my mouth.
I feel the barbells touch the back of my throat, and before I can pull away, one of his hands snakes behind my head and holds me there.
He ruts his hips into my mouth, rolling them perfectly as his hard shaft chokes me.
Panic seizes me, but then something splits open inside.
A flash of white heat crashes through me, so sharp I see stars behind my eyes.
My cock pulses once, twice—and then I’m coming, just from him. From this .
Searing pleasure works down my spine as I come in my sweatpants, and tears roll down my cheeks as the intensity of it works through me. My hands shake as they dig into the flesh of his hips, and my whole brain turns warm and fuzzy as I empty myself, as the orgasm slows and throbs through me.
King comes with a muffled groan, like he’s still trying not to give me the satisfaction of hearing it.
I swallow every salty, bitter drop, suctioning him to the roof of my mouth out of instinct as my throat pulls his cum out, drop by aching drop.
I’m too distracted with my own orgasm to really process the taste, but I don’t hate it.
Somehow, knowing it’s coming from him… it feels like he’s giving me a part of himself.
He shudders when I pull back slightly, licking my way around his sensitive, still leaking head.
As I pop him out of my mouth, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My chest heaves. My palms are burning. My knees sting from the woven carpet on the floor.
He’s still shaking, and so am I.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter without thinking. He begins to pull his waistband back up, and I stand on shaky legs.
He pauses, eyes flicking down to the obvious wet spot on the front of my pants. “Then don’t make it mean anything, Harrison.” He walks toward his coat, which he must’ve discarded while I was blowing him. “I agreed to dinner with Walter and Jacques. Meet you at the restaurant at seven.”
He leaves, a gust of cold air hitting me hard as I lean back against the wall of the small cabin.
Looking down, I run a hand over my face when I see the ruined mess in my pants.
Fuck.
Him.