26. The King’s Touch
The King’s Touch
Asher
I’m halfway through taking my boots off when King comes in holding a folded flyer.
“Couples massage in an hour,” he says casually.
“’Kay.”
He chuckles, sitting down next to me on the bed as he unties his boots. “You sound super excited.”
“I don’t like people touching me,” I admit. “I’ve never been a massage person.”
He hands me the flyer, and I glance at the words on the page. “It’s just you and me, Harrison.”
Couples Massage Connection Workshop.
“Learn the art of touch with your partner in this guided, hands-on workshop,” I say slowly. “No strangers. Just you and your other half, taking turns giving and receiving relaxing massages with complete privacy. All materials provided. Comfort clothing recommended.”
“I do give really relaxing massages,” King offers, leaning back on his elbows and looking at me with hooded eyes.
Abort!
Abort!
“Um, yeah. I’m not that great at it.”
“That’s okay. I can teach you,” he mutters, eyes flicking between mine.
Why did I take my shoes off? I need to get out of here.
Looking back over at King, he looks… too comfortable.
“I need a shower,” I say quickly, hopping off the bed and walking into the bathroom quickly. Shutting and locking the door, I sit down on the closed toilet seat and sigh heavily.
This is all so fucked.
Turning the shower on, I wait for the water to get hot before taking my clothes off and stepping inside.
Steam curls up around me as the hot water beats against my back.
I press my palms to the tile and breathe, trying to rinse away the sudden heat in my skin that has nothing to do with the shower temperature.
It’s just a couples massage. People do them all the time. No big deal.
Except it’s King. And King’s hands. And me lying there pretending not to notice how good they feel.
When the water starts to run cooler, I shut it off and wrap a towel around my waist. I crack the bathroom door open, steam spilling into the room.
King’s still on the bed, having changed into sweatpants and another t-shirt, propped against the headboard now, reading… that book. The Dominant’s Discourse . The moment I step out, his gaze lifts—and lingers.
I tell myself I’m imagining the way his eyes track the bead of water sliding down my collarbone.
“Comfort clothing,” I mutter, grabbing the softest t-shirt I own from my suitcase.
I turn my back to him to pull it on, but I still feel the weight of his stare against my back like a searing brand.
Stepping into new boxer briefs under the towel, I manage to get into my own sweatpants without revealing anything.
Not like he didn’t see everything last night.
“Ready?” he asks, too casually, as we both pull socks on. “I figured we could eat something quickly before the massage?”
“Yep.” I shove my feet into sneakers and grab my coat.
He does the same.
We leave the cabin, the cold air biting at my damp hair. King walks just close enough that our arms almost brush, but not quite. Once inside the main building, King and I make our way to the brunch buffet. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I didn’t eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning.
Stacking my plate six pancakes high, I add some fruit and grab a quad espresso.
King’s plate is a lot more sensible—whole wheat toast, fruit, and an omelet.
We sit and eat in silence, and I go back for seconds.
When we’re both finished, we head out of the main lodge and toward a smaller building tucked near the trees.
A wooden sign out front reads ‘Couples Massage Room. Private Sessions Only’ in looping script.
King pulls the door open and steps aside, his palm resting briefly at the small of my back as I pass.
It’s warm inside, dimly lit, and the scent of lavender wraps around me. Two padded tables sit side by side, white linens crisp and waiting. There’s a small fire going in the fireplace, and tinkling meditation music playing softly.
“I’ll go first,” King says, stripping himself down to his boxer briefs.
I’m suddenly not sure if this is a good idea at all.
There’s a small leaflet about the basics of massage therapy—pressure points, where to start, how to “communicate with your partner through touch.”
My skin feels hot just reading it.
“You okay, Harrison? You’re kind of flushed.”
I nod absently. “Yeah. It’s just warm in here.”
King smirks as he climbs onto the table, face down, the blanket draped low over his hips. Fuck.
“I’m ready for you.”
I swallow and move closer, setting the leaflet down. My fingers curl as I gear up to touch him. I pump some oil into my hands and look down at his muscular back.
Start with long, slow strokes, the leaflet had stated. I do, my hands gliding over the expanse of his back, feeling the tension gather and release under my touch. His skin is warm under my palms, solid muscle shifting as he breathes.
King sighs, low and deep, and it sends a jolt straight through me.
I work my way lower, kneading the ridges of muscle along his spine, brushing close to the edge of the blanket each time.
“Can you do my chest? I hold a lot of tension there,” King says, his voice muffled against the head pillow.
He turns over before I can respond, shuffling down on the table a bit and moving the sheet lower down, covering his hips and?—
And that’s when I notice it.
The way the fabric at his hips tents.
Oh .
My mouth goes dry, then immediately waters, heat pooling low in my stomach. I should look away, pretend I didn’t see how turned on he is, but my hands falter, just enough that King feels it. He turns his head to the side, glancing at me with a lazy, knowing look.
“Keep going,” he says roughly.
I do, and my own pulse hammers inside of my chest. The slow drag of my palms over his skin starts to feel less like a massage, and more like my own version of foreplay.
Or hell.
Fuck. My. Life.
By the time I circle back up to his shoulders, the ache between my legs is impossible to ignore. I shift my stance, hoping my tight boxer briefs hide the fact that I’m hard from touching him.
He doesn’t comment as I finish up the rest of his massage, but the faint curl at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly how much he’s affecting me.
King’s chest rises and falls under my hands, and just when I’m sure I can’t keep my own reactions hidden any longer, he shifts, sitting up.
“Your turn,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I step back automatically, and he pushes up off the table with that slow, deliberate grace that makes my pulse kick. He jerks his chin toward the other table.
“Lie down.”
I hesitate, but only for a second. Then I’m washing my hands before stripping down to my boxer briefs. If it weren’t for the arousal rushing through me and making me think of only one thing, I might try to hide my erection a little bit more. But fuck it.
A second later, I’m on my stomach, cheek against the padded headrest, the faint scent of lavender mixing with the sharper note of King’s skin.
The blanket slides down my back as he folds it away, baring me to the waist. His hands are on me a moment later—broader, heavier than mine, kneading into my shoulders with just enough pressure to make me groan.
“You’re tense,” he says, almost idly, but there’s an edge under it.
His touch works lower, fingers following the line of my spine until they hover just above the waistband of my boxer briefs. The sound of a bottle opening breaks the quiet, and then cool slickness is drizzled over my lower back. He peels my boxer briefs off, and my skin is so hot.
I jolt at the first pass of his hand, not quite where I expected it, palm cupping and squeezing my ass cheeks in a way that makes my breath falter.
“Relax,” he murmurs. The word feels like an order, not advice.
His thumbs press into the muscles at my lower back, working slow circles, and then his fingers dip lower, skimming over the curve of my ass again.
My hips twitch involuntarily.
The next touch is bolder—fingers slipping around the front of my hips, the warm tips of his fingers brushing against the side of my hard length, calloused fingertips dragging over the sensitive skin he can access.
“Turn over.”
Eagerly, perhaps a little too eagerly, I twist around so that I’m lying on my back.
Before I can react, King dribbles massage oil all over my abdomen and cock.
Without warning, his hand glides over me with obscene ease, warm fingers wrapping around my length.
The smell of the open fire mixing with the cinnamon scent of his skin, and the lavender oil…
it does things to me. Wet, salacious sounds echo through the room as he works me slowly, and when his hand rolls over the head of my cock, I bite back a sound, my body jumping under him.
“King—”
“Shh. I’m not done.”
He works me with infuriating patience, his other hand anchoring my hip so I can’t squirm away.
The hand wrapped around my cock moves slowly, gripping more firmly at the root as he strokes up, loosening around the head in a way that makes my whole body shudder with each pass.
Every stroke pulls a little more sound out of me—a sharp inhale, a low groan I can’t swallow down.
My toes curl against the table, my fingers digging into the padding for purchase.
I feel like maybe I need to hold on to something.
The slick glide is maddening, the pace steady but just slow enough to keep me hovering on the edge. Each downward stroke makes my stomach clench; each upward one has my hips twitching for more.
Heat coils tight and low, building with every pass until it feels like my skin’s too small for my body, like I might explode, like whatever is about to happen is too big for this small room.
My thighs tremble, the muscles straining from holding so much tension, every nerve trained on the next stroke, the next drag of his palm.