17. To Break a King
To Break a King
King
He’s drunk when we get back. I can see it in the lazy way he shrugs off his coat, in the flush that spreads across the tops of his cheekbones like war paint. He’s looser than I’ve seen him—and even more drunk than he was that night ten years ago.
Not that I’m any better. I matched his every drink with one of my own, and right now, I feel exposed, like a live wire.
Dangerous.
“Careful,” I murmur when he stumbles slightly, one hand catching the wall. “You’ve had a lot to drink, Harrison.”
“Fuck off,” he slurs, but the bite is gone. He kicks off his boots and socks, and then he turns toward me, swaying just slightly. His eyes are glassy with something more dangerous than alcohol. Pupils nearly black, I almost stumble when I see the want written all over his face.
This isn’t going to end well, I can already tell. Especially since we’ve both been drinking way too much. My normal control is reed thin, barely hanging on, and one push from Asher is all it will take to lose it.
“I mean it,” I say, stepping closer. “If you’re drunk, you don’t get to beg for things you won’t remember in the morning.”
His mouth parts, lips red, possibly from sucking me off earlier today. That thought makes my cock jump in my pants, and I have to curl my toes to keep my control.
“You’re drunk, too. And… what if I want to forget, Ambrose?”
He says it too quickly. It’s too honest, and throws me for a loop. For a split second, I almost falter. It’s the use of my first name on his lips. He says it so casually.
“Do you want to forget?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
But then his hand finds my chest and he shoves me back, weakly, but the intent is still there.
“Asher,” I warn, prying his hand from my chest and trying not to stumble. My nerve endings are buzzing from the alcohol, and I already know this is dangerous. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Bullshit. Don’t pretend you care about being a good guy all of a sudden,” he mumbles.
He’s right. Of course he is. I don’t give two fucks if he’s too drunk to consent or remember tomorrow.
I’m sure as hell not. In fact, I can’t seem to draw up any inkling of self-discipline.
Normally, I don’t drink during scenes. I like to stay sober, like to stay in control. But I suppose that’s what Asher does.
He makes me fucking lose control.
I stare down at him, noting the flushed cheeks, slick mouth, darkened pupils—and something inside me snaps .
I’m not a good man. I never claimed to be.
I step into his space and lean over him, my breath shaky, my voice low. “You think I care about being good?” I ask. “You think I came here to be noble?”
He blinks at me slowly. His drunk expression is confused and… vulnerable .
I can’t look away.
“I didn’t come here to heal. I didn’t come here for closure,” I rasp. “I came to ruin you. To watch you unravel. To take everything you ever wanted, and then take some more until there’s nothing left.”
He’s panting now, body twitching beneath mine like he doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
“I’ve been good my whole fucking life,” I growl, teeth bared.
“Graduated high school at sixteen, earned my degree at nineteen fucking years old. Left my family—left everything I knew and loved to start over. I’ve followed the rules for ten goddamn years.
I’ve built walls and systems and codes to stay in control.
I play it safe. I make sure there’s consent in everything I do.
The only person who ever made that control falter is you, ” I hiss.
I press a hand to the middle of his chest and feel the frantic hammering of his heart.
“And tonight,” I whisper, reaching for the collar on his nightstand and quickly securing it around his neck.
“Tonight, I don’t care about that. Tonight, I just want to take. ”
The moment his anger twists into hunger, I feel it.
He’s trembling.
I rove my hands up his shirt, feeling the hard, muscled abdomen under my nails before I drag them down his sides—just hard enough to leave red lines.
He lets out a sharp gasp, and his eyes flick to my mouth.
Oh, Asher. You beautiful, predictable man.
“You have no idea what it’s cost me to stay composed around you,” I start, voice slurring slightly. I wobble on my feet a bit, but I don’t even care. “Every second of your bratty, infuriating bullshit—I’ve let you get away with it because I wanted to see how far you’d push me.”
My voice breaks on the next phrase. “And you did.”
I dip my head to his ear, voice shaking now. “So go ahead. Hate me tomorrow. Call me a monster. But I’m done pretending I don’t want you like this.”
I grind my hips against his, rough and unforgiving, and he releases a heady groan.
“ Mine, ” I murmur, pressing my cock against his as one finger loops under the collar around his neck. I pull on it firmly, as if to drive the point home. Even through our pants, I can feel him—can feel how hard he is, and how much he wants this.
He makes another broken, needy sound that shatters me.
I bend down to kiss his throat, just over the leather of the collar, and one of his hands comes to the back of my head.
I growl, teeth grazing his jaw and the soft skin under his ear.
I feel light and stupid and completely out of control.
It feels like the ground is moving, but I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that I want him more than my next breath.
“I’m not going to stop, Asher. Not tonight.”
He chokes out a moan and arches against me, and in that instant, I know he doesn’t want me to.
“You reek of whiskey,” I say softly, kissing his neck again. “I fucking love it. Almost as much as I loved your mouth around my cock earlier.” Pulling back, I stare right into his nearly black eyes. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” he tells me, nose brushing mine. “I liked it.”
“You came in your pants for me, Asher,” I remind him, watching the way his eyes grow heavier and more hooded.
“I know ,” he barks. “I know, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and I hate you for that.”
“Good,” I whisper, stumbling over the word a bit. “Hate me while you rub your cock against mine and tell me what a good boy you are.”
His breath catches, his spine going rigid against the wall.
“Do you remember your safe word?”
He nods—barely.
“Tell me.” My voice is a command now as my teeth mark his collarbone.
“Tax season,” he whispers.
“Good. We need to establish a nonverbal safe word, too.” I’m surprised I remember in my state, but I suppose safe words have been drilled into me enough that even tipsy, I make sure we’re covered in that arena.
“Why?” he chokes out.
I smile. “In case your mouth is… otherwise occupied.”
He nods. So eager. So willing. I’m going to fucking love this, I can already tell.
“How about three quick taps on my thigh? Does that work for you?”
“Okay.”
“Make sure you remember both, because once we start, I’m not stopping until I’ve made you come again. And this time, I won’t be kind about it.”
“I’m not asking you to be,” he breathes.
That’s it. The feral beast inside of me breaks, and I see red and lust and sin. I want to hurt him and give him the most incredible pleasure all at the same time, and I want to take it from him—every angry sound, every drop of cum, every ounce of self-respect.
I grab the front of his shirt and twist him toward the bed. He stumbles, off-balance, letting me push him backward until he falls onto the mattress with a muffled sound of surprise.
He stares up at me, cheeks red, breath shallow.
“Take your pants and boxers off,” I say.
He obeys, eyes locked to mine the whole time as he unbuttons his shirt, removes his pants, kicking them away, and slides his boxers down.
Then I bend, pick them up, and press the fabric to his lips.
“Open,” I say.
He hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s not hesitation, it’s anticipation. He wants to know how far I’ll take this. How far he’ll let me.
His lips part.
I stuff the boxers in gently, then press two fingers to his mouth to hold them there.
“You want this?” I slur.
His eyes flutter closed, and he nods once.
“Then rut against me, sweetheart,” I whisper, crawling up to straddle his hips as I unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, and free my aching cock. “Earn it.”
I spit into my hand and use it to slick us both, the wetness catching against our skin. Then I press my bare cock to his, grinding down hard and cruel, and that’s when I feel it.
That sharp, desperate tremble that says he’s gone.
He’s mine now.
I smile, trying to keep my shaking hands in control. I roll my hips down again, firm and heavy, and Asher arches into it like he can’t help himself.
“There we go,” I murmur. “Just like that. You’re doing so well.”
His breath catches, muffled by the boxers stuffed in his mouth. His hips jerk up beneath me, like the words hit deeper than the much-anticipated friction.
Interesting.
“Please,” he begs, voice muffled. He slides his cock against mine like he’s done it before.
“Is this what you want?” I rasp.
He nods desperately, still gagged, eyes pleading. I keep my weight against him, dragging my cock against his in punishing strokes.
“Come for me like this,” I whisper. “Rub against me until you lose control.”
I keep going, keep grinding us together, my own cock leaking against his. The heat between us is unbearable. Raw and slick and filthy. I slide my hand up his chest, over the open buttons of his shirt, and press down just enough to pin him.
“Good boy,” I whisper against his throat, and his entire body shudders before he lets out a long, tortured groan.
Oh. There it is.
“Is that what you want to be?” I ask, rocking harder against him, slow and rhythmic. “You want to be a good boy for me?”
He moans around the boxers in his mouth, muffled and completely wrecked.
For me.
I pull them out slowly, letting them fall beside us.
“Say it,” I demand, my voice dark now. “You want to be good for me?”