17. To Break a King #2
“Yes,” he pants, voice ragged. “Yes. Fuck, I—please?—”
“That’s better.” I stroke his jaw, almost gentle now. The alcohol is still flowing through me, making my blood thrum, making me feel light and admit things I’d never admit sober. “You beg so sweetly when you stop pretending you hate me.”
“I do hate you.”
I roll my hips again, this time grinding us both harder, and his sentence breaks off into a strangled gasp.
“No, sweetheart,” I murmur. “You hate how much you want me.”
His hands clutch at my back, nails digging in. His body arches into every pass of my hips like he’s starving. Like this is something he’s needed for a very long time.
And I’m going to give it to him.
All of it.
“Your piercing. It’s—I like it. A lot,” he admits, cheeks flushed.
“I know you do,” I murmur. “I’ve thought about this for years,” I growl into his ear. “You—desperate, begging me to touch you. I didn’t know it’d be like this, though. Didn’t know you’d be so fucking perfect.”
He whimpers, and it’s real. Not performative, not bratty. Just raw, humiliating need.
“And this?” I whisper, grinding our cocks together again, our taut heads sliding against each other’s. Wrapping one of my hands around both of us, I hold us together. “This is mine .”
“Oh my god,” he gasps. “Please—don’t stop?—”
“That’s it.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his neck. “So perfect, taking what I give you.”
I feel the tension in his legs under me—feel how close he is.
He’s going to come.
“Ambrose,” he whimpers, looking at me through his lashes.
“Ah, ah, not Ambrose to you.” Leaning down, I bite the shell of his ear, relishing the way he shakes beneath me. “It’s Daddy to you.”
He chokes out a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan. “I’m not calling you that. I’m almost twenty years older than you,” he adds, slurring his words slightly.
I reach my other hand and wrap it around his neck, just under the collar—gently, but firmly enough to remind him who’s in control.
His breath catches, and I feel the pulse jump beneath my fingers.
I squeeze just a little, just enough to make him hold still.
To make him listen. My thumb strokes lazily along his jaw.
“You’ll call me whatever I fucking tell you to, sweetheart.”
He chokes out something that sounds like a sob, and then his cock tightens, curving even further against mine.
He quivers uncontrollably, and then he’s coming, gasping and twisting beneath me as his release coats our cocks and his stomach.
I keep rutting against him, grinding through it, and my own orgasm crashes through me seconds later.
I bury my face in his neck and groan as I spill onto him, using our cum to milk the last of it out of both our bodies.
Our bodies are slick and shaking. He’s panting, boneless under me, and I can’t move.
I just stay there, one arm curled around the back of his neck and the other one around his throat, breathing him in.
He doesn’t push me away, he doesn’t say anything at all.
It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize how tightly I’m holding him down. How my fingers are still wrapped around his neck, and how his hips are still twitching like his body doesn’t know it’s over yet.
His lips are wet, and his eyes are glassy. But when he looks at me, it’s not just lust anymore.
It’s something else.
Something dangerous.
“You okay?” I ask. My thumb brushes the side of his face. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Why does it feel like this is some kind of punishment?” His voice is ragged.
I freeze. He’s certainly not wrong.
“You left me,” I say, quieter now. “In that bathroom, ten years ago. You walked away like none of it meant anything to you. Like I didn’t mean anything to you. You didn’t just fire me, Asher. That’s not why I’m still angry. You just… pretended I never existed.”
His brow furrows, and I see it—all the years of denial catching up to him. All the excuses. The repression. The sick need to control every part of his narrative so he wouldn’t have to admit what he gave up, or what he was running from.
“I couldn’t stay,” he whispers. “If I’d stayed… I would’ve given you everything.”
“You still might,” I murmur, brushing sweaty hair from his temple. “And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. His hand lifts slowly, resting on my chest. Right over my heart.
“You win,” he says, voice broken. “Happy now?”
I roll off of him and reach for a towel, trying to think of what to say to that. Because, yeah. I should be happy. I finally broke him. I had him underneath me begging for more. Isn’t that what I wanted?
I don’t respond, though.
Because I’m a coward.
Cleaning us up, I hand him his boxers before walking to the bathroom on shaky legs.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I take in my flushed expression and wild eyes.
I want him again.
And not just like this.
After getting ready for bed, I walk back into the suite, only to find Asher curled up on his side, sound asleep. His dress shirt is discarded off to the side of the bed, and I can see the band of his boxers just under the edge of the duvet.
I turn the main light off before sitting on the edge of the bed in only my boxer briefs. As I watch him breathe, lips parted, lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, all I can think is, This is what he took from me. Ten years ago, he could’ve had all of me. And he walked away.
And now?
Only a few minutes ago, he moaned into my mouth like he wanted to be broken open.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his chest. My cock is already getting hard again, just from watching him.
Just from remembering the way his breath hitched when I wrapped my hand around our cocks, the way he said a muffled “Please” around the cotton of his boxers like he’d choke on them just to be good.
It’s not enough.
None of this is enough.
I want more. I want him begging for it when he’s stone-cold sober, and I want to take him when I’m not drunk, either. When I have a chance to remember every detail. Because right now, everything is still fuzzy around the edges, and my body feels heavy.
I want him admitting it—out loud—that he wants me more than his job, more than his pride, more than his polished little facade.
I want him to want me as much as I want him.
Maybe it’s the alcohol making me come to terms with it, but I hate myself for finally admitting that I never wanted revenge.
I just wanted… him.