16. The King’s Move
The King’s Move
Asher
My skin still burns from where I scrubbed it in the shower. I’d clawed King’s scent off of me with my nails, using the harsh soap and a washcloth to scrub the memory of what happened away.
Down the drain.
Never to be thought of or talked about again.
King doesn’t return to our suite, so at six-thirty, I head out to the main part of the resort in black jeans and a dark gray button-up—forgoing the collar and letting it sit on my bedside table.
I feel over-caffeinated and exhausted all at once, jittery and fatigued to the point of almost conceding to a power nap. But I didn’t want to get caught in a vulnerable position… again. I didn’t want to be in the suite any longer than I had to be, in case King came back.
How is it that it was only this morning that we did the cold plunge?
Grabbing my coat, I pull it on before stepping outside. The suite smells like him—that rich, cinnamon scent.
I zip my coat a little too roughly.
Once I close the door behind me, a full-body shiver works through me as the snow falls a little harder now.
Snowflakes get caught in the space between the collar of my jacket and the bottom of my hairline, and even though it’s only a couple hundred yards to the main part of the resort, I wish I’d grabbed a scarf.
It’s dark now, and the bamboo lights hardly make a dent against the falling snow.
My boots sink into the snow with every step as I quickly walk to the main lodge, and my jaw tightens against the cold air.
Fuck, the temperature’s dropped.
My legs sting under the material of my jeans, and I realize a few steps before the door that it’s because I have slight rug burn on my knees.
Wonderful.
Before I can stop it, I think about what happened at cabin from earlier—his voice, and that blinding moment of pleasure?—
Fuck.
I can’t think about it. Pulling the door of the main building open, I relish the warm air of the vestibule.
If I start thinking about the way he tasted, about the salty, bitter taste of his cum, the look on his face as he came, the way his hand gently brushed the back of my head when we were finished, like I belonged to him?—
I quickly pull my coat off and step through another door to the lobby.
Think of literally anything else, Asher.
I wave to a few of the familiar faces as I make my way to the restaurant. Once there, the hostess guides me to a table near the back window overlooking a snow-covered field. Right now, though, it just looks like a dark gray abyss.
Walter’s unmistakable laugh echoes through the room, and when the table comes fully into view, I realize he’s laughing at something King said.
My teeth nearly break from clenching my jaw so hard.
Wine glints in his hand as the other one comes to King’s shoulder, clapping it in a friendly way.
My eyes spot Jacques with an arm around the back of Walter’s chair, and he, too, looks mesmerized by something King is saying.
The man of the hour is wearing a black cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his arm tattoos, paired with dark gray jeans. His hair is mussed, as if he’s been running a hand through it all day like me.
When did he change?
His eyes flick up lazily, finding me instantly.
I stop moving as blood rushes in my ears. His usual smirk is gone, there’s no cocky twist of his lips or mischievous expression. Instead, he almost looks… calm.
Unruffled, yet again, despite having him moaning against a cabin wall just two hours ago. Despite choking on his cock and coming in my fucking pants without a single touch.
I expected a snarky smile after what we did, but as I walk closer, he looks away and continues talking with Walter and Jacques.
He doesn’t look shaken at all.
Every step closer feels heavy. My pride is bleeding out everywhere, and I can’t think straight.
“Ah, Mr. Harrison,” Walter says, standing to greet me. “We were starting to think you’d bailed on us.”
I scrunch my brows and look down at my wrist, only to remember I don’t have my watch anymore. I don’t have any outside connections to the real world anymore.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Did I forget to tell you we moved the reservation to six-thirty?” King asks, standing to take my jacket in a show of faux chivalry.
“Yeah, you must’ve,” I say, gritting my teeth and forcing myself to give both Walter and Jacques a polite smile.
“Asher was probably still recovering from our climb earlier,” King finishes for me, his voice honey-sweet and just worried enough to appease the couple at the table.
I shoot him a look sharp enough to draw blood, and luckily Walter and Jacques can’t see my expression fully. “I’m perfectly fine.”
King’s fingers brush mine as he takes my jacket. “Of course you are. But you can’t be too careful, especially now that you’ve started that new heart medication for your high blood pressure.”
I’m going to kill him.
Grinding my teeth, I take a seat next to him just as he drapes my jacket over the back of his.
I sit stiffly, forcing a relaxed smile onto my face. “Sorry if I kept you all waiting.”
“Not at all,” Jacques says warmly. “We’ve only just ordered drinks. I took the liberty of asking for another red.”
King flags the server down with a slight tilt of his fingers, already so at ease it makes my skin crawl. The server walks over and before I can ask for whiskey, King orders for me.
“He’ll have a cosmopolitan. Extra juice, please.”
Now I’m really going to kill him.
“Actually,” I say quickly, giving the server an apologetic grimace. “I’d like a rye whiskey. Neat.” When King’s eyes flash with dissatisfaction, I tilt my head and give him a sweet smile. “Pumpkin, I’m trying to cut sugar. Remember?”
Walter chuckles like this is all very charming. “Well, you two certainly make for interesting dinner companions. Sparks were flying at brunch.”
“Was that before or after he threw coffee at me?” King asks mildly, already lifting his menu. “Because, honestly, it’s all starting to blur together.”
I inhale slowly, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that my knuckles ache. “I don’t know. Maybe it was after you almost let me fall to my death,” I retort, smiling sweetly at him.
“Oh, come on,” Jacques says with a laugh. “No more bickering. We’re here to relax, right? So, let’s relax.”
King hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like a solid plan.” Looking at me, he quirks a brow, but his mouth is distinctively turned down into a frown.
My whiskey arrives a second later, and I drink half the glass in one go.
I avoid looking directly at King until our food arrives, but the heat of his body beside mine is impossible to ignore. His thigh brushes mine under the table, and he doesn’t even flinch.
He’s in charge of his emotions, apparently, and it’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
We all eat our starters, which is some kind of fancy tiger shrimp. I pick at it, wondering if I should perhaps order something else.
“You need to speak up when you don’t like something, Harrison.”
Walter launches into a story about a disastrous product launch for his multimillion-dollar company, and I nod along, half listening, until King leans in slightly and says under his breath, “You’re not wearing your collar.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
I don’t look at him—I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his voice and the feel of his breath against my ear affect me.
Instead, I smile at Walter and ask a question I don’t hear the answer to.
King’s knee nudges mine again, and I nearly snap.
Because this time, he does it with more intent.
The weight of his thigh settles firmly against mine beneath the linen-covered table.
I’m just about to turn and glare at him when his hand snakes around the back of my chair, and he grabs the back of my neck firmly.
My body nearly goes limp, and I feel my entire thought process short-circuit. My spine straightens on instinct, but my shoulders ease under his touch like they’ve been waiting for it.
I want to shove him off, twist away, or say something —but instead, I freeze.
Not from fear, or arousal, but from… something else.
Something inside me—some ancient, humiliating instinct—sits up and listens.
The heat from his palm burns through my skin, and my breathing slows. My body is responding to something it’s not supposed to… like I’ve been waiting for someone to put their hand there.
Like I forgot I liked it.
But I don’t like this. I don’t need it.
Across the table, Walter is still talking. Jacques is swirling his wine. No one notices the war happening inside my mind and the racket of my speeding, silent heart rate.
Except King.
His fingers flex slightly, just enough to remind me who’s touching me. Who owns the space between us.
Who owns… me.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice a quiet purr of mock concern, too soft for the others to catch.
I hate that it sounds good. I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing. And worst of all, I hate that it’s working.
That my body is responding.
That I seem to… like this.
I keep my expression neutral when I answer. “Peachy.”
He doesn’t move his hand, and I don’t ask him to. It’s not until I go to force a bite of shrimp into my mouth that his fingers pinch the back of my neck.
It doesn’t hurt, but it does surprise me.
I lean forward to get away from his touch, feeling like my entire body is on fire all of a sudden.
“I have to say,” Walter starts, gesturing with his wineglass. “This retreat has already paid for itself in entertainment alone. You two are something else.”
“We get that a lot,” King murmurs, low and velvety, like he’s being modest.
Jacques grins at us. “It’s nice, honestly. Seeing a couple that can challenge each other.”
“Oh, Asher challenges me constantly,” King answers, still too soft for them to realize the way it’s meant. “He’s very… resistant,” he adds, almost like an afterthought.
My blood is boiling, furious but also wanting the feel of his hand on my neck again. The heavy weight, the guiding force.
“That’s one word for it,” I mutter.
“I prefer willful ,” King replies smoothly. “But it’s fine. He breaks beautifully.”
Jacques laughs like he’s heard a romantic joke. I nearly tip my plate into his lap.
“Tell me about the meet cute. Obviously we know about Trent, but how did it happen?” Walter asks, clearly amused.
King beats me to it, which is good because his hand slowly comes back to my neck and squeezes once.
I’ve lost all ability to think clearly.
“Technically, we met ten years ago. He was my boss,” he admits, and I nearly drop my fork. “Internship just out of Columbia.”
Columbia? Wasn’t he nineteen?
My spine snaps straight, but King just keeps sipping his wine, smiling at Jacques and Walter.
“Oh?” Walter lifts a brow, intrigued. “I didn’t realize it went back that far.”
King hums. “It didn’t end well.”
“You quit,” I say, tone flat and dangerous, not wanting to get into our history in front of them.
“You fired me,” he counters, voice still pleasant.
The table goes quiet for a moment, and King leans in again, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “But that’s okay. Maybe I’ll forgive you one day.”
I turn to look at him finally, facing him fully.
Walter laughs again, oblivious to the emotional warfare happening right in front of him. “Well, whatever happened, it clearly didn’t scare either of you off.”
King’s smile widens, wolfish and serene. “No. I always finish what I start.”
My skin prickles. He’s going to say something. I can feel it. I see the moment he pivots from charming to strategic in his eyes, how he goes from almost teasing to vengeful.
He had the same look on his face right before I dropped to my knees in the cabin.
And then, smiling at Walter, he says lightly, “Actually, I was hoping to ask if you and I might set up a one-on-one meeting later this week. Something off-hours.”
The table goes still, and my stomach drops.
Walter blinks, surprised. “Just you?”
King’s voice is warm, breezy—almost apologetic. “Only if that’s not crossing any lines.”
Jacques raises his wineglass with an elegant shrug. “Not at all. You should absolutely connect.”
Walter chuckles, glancing between us. “Well then. Let’s put something on the calendar before we head out.
I’d be curious to hear your pitch… solo.
” Then he turns to me, casual as ever. “And if we’re still on for coffee tomorrow morning, I suppose I’ll just have to see who makes the better case, hmm? ”
My jaw clenches so tight I swear I hear my molars grind.
King leans back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine. “May the best man win.”
I’m going to fucking kill him.
Not just for undermining me, and not just for taking the moment, but for doing it while his hand is still on the nape of my neck and his thigh is pressed against mine.
And while I can still practically taste his cum in the back of my throat.
I’m furious and hard all at once, and that’s exactly what he always does to me, it seems.
I could kill him.
But instead, I drink.