27. Kings and Pawns
Kings and Pawns
King
When I get back to the suite a few hours later, Asher is asleep with an open book on his chest. He’s still wearing his reading glasses, and something in my chest aches as I watch him breathe in and out.
His forehead is smooth, and his expression is relaxed—so different from his normal scowl and furrowed brow.
His hands are resting on his sides, open and vulnerable, and there’s something so… domestic about it all.
Without thinking, I walk over to where he’s sleeping, gently moving the book to the side table, face down, so that he doesn’t lose his place.
Then, I slowly take his glasses off, folding them up and putting them next to the book.
He’s lying on top of the duvet, so I pull one of the spare throw blankets over his large body, careful not to disturb him.
I take a step back and look down at him, wondering how the hell I started catching feelings for this bratty, old man.
He doesn’t look old, though—asleep, he looks like he’s in his mid-thirties.
His dark blond hair is neat, still full with only a few silver strands near his temples.
His scruff is fully blond except for a small patch in the center of his chin.
And other than his frown lines, he’s free of wrinkles.
Reaching forward, I brush the back of my hand against his cheek.
I can’t help it—I like touching him. I like spending time with him.
I like him. He’s exactly how I remembered ten years ago, but also better, in a way.
Slightly less cocky than he used to be. The arrogance has been taken down a notch.
He’s also more serious now—less jovial. But…
it suits him. I think it makes him feel more human—more real, and less like a Ken doll.
“Is there a reason you’re touching my cheek affectionately, Ambrose?” His voice is deep, tinged with sleep, and slightly croaky.
My lips pull into an easy smile. “You’re handsome when you’re not being an ass.”
His eyes fly open, outraged, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Is that a compliment?” he asks, sitting up. He reaches his hand to my forehead, brows knitting together. “Are you feverish?”
I smack his hand away. “Yes. It was a compliment, you bastard.”
He smirks, and my chest does a weird, fluttery thing.
“You almost slept through our couples cooking class,” I tell him, glancing at the alarm clock. “It starts in five minutes.”
“Hard pass.”
My brows lift. “Hard pass?”
“Yeah. Me, you, aprons, and a room full of people pretending to be Martha Stewart? No thanks.” He flops back on the bed, stretching out. “Go. Have fun. Bring me a cupcake.”
I don’t move, trying to tamp down the disappointment. “It’s not about the…” I sigh, running a hand down my face. “It’s about showing up. Together.”
He smirks and shrugs. “We can show up together anywhere. Hell, we can show up right here.” Patting the space next to him, I narrow my eyes. He’s acting strange, and I don’t think I like it.
My gaze sharpens. “You just don’t want to go because you might have to smile at people. It’s okay, sweetheart. You can admit it.”
He grins. “I’m smiling at you right now.”
“That’s not a smile. That’s you trying to get out of something.”
A flash of irritation passes over his expression. “Maybe I just want to spend the evening in bed instead of making cookies. Maybe I’m sick of… pretending.”
I chew on my lower lip, letting my eyes flick over the way his body is stretched out on the bed. If I had to choose between making cookies and spending the night in bed with him, I’d choose him, full stop.
There’s a flicker in his eyes as he studies me, something between annoyance and heat—the same look he gave me on the ropes course when I helped him after he almost fell to his death.
“Does this have anything to do with the massage?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He sniffs, looking away, and that’s when my eyes wander down to the bulge between his legs.
“It won’t go down. I went to sleep hard, and I’m still hard. So, fuck you,” he adds, glaring at me.
I tilt my head. “Hmm. That’s too bad. I suppose you’ll have to wait a little bit longer.”
His mouth drops open as I grab my jacket, and as I open the door to the suite, I let my eyes float down to where his cock is pressing against his pants.
“One word of advice, Harrison… do not try to one-up me.”
His eyes darken, but not with arousal. With rage. Good.
“Fine. I know how to take care of myself.”
My free hand curls at my side, and when I look back at him, I drop the playfulness.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice low and even. “Don’t touch yourself.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I step closer to the bed, leaning down just enough to bring my mouth to his ear. “You’re not going to come until I say so. Not with your hand. Not with anyone else’s. You want relief? You earn it from me.”
He lets out a disbelieving laugh, but it’s strained, his body shifting restlessly under my gaze.
“I’m serious, sweetheart.” I straighten up, letting my eyes sweep over him—his stretched-out body, the hard line of him pressing against his pants, the collar around his throat.
“You try to one-up me, you’ll regret it.
How about you think about what you’ve done to deserve getting off,” I add, knowing it’ll piss him off.
I need to walk out before I do something I’ll regret. But, of course, Harrison can’t keep his mouth shut.
“What I’ve done?” he says, voice all innocence but eyes sharp, like he’s testing me. “You mean besides let you torture me in a massage room and leave me like this for hours?”
My jaw tics. “Careful.”
He leans back on the bed, spreading his legs just enough that my gaze goes there before I can stop it. “You really think I’m going to sit here and not touch myself? That I won’t get off without you?”
My grip tightens on the jacket. He knows exactly what he’s doing—pushing, needling, daring me.
“Try me,” he says, his voice dropping. “Or better yet… stop me.”
That’s it. The jacket hits the floor, and I’m across the room in two steps. My hand’s in his hair before he can smirk again, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look up at me.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I growl.
He grins, and it only makes me harder. “Guess not.”
I lean down and kiss him, hard and deep, biting at his lower lip until he groans into my mouth. Then I shove him back, climbing over him, my knee pressing between his legs.
His hands come up like he’s going to push me away, and I pin them to the mattress instead, leaning down until my chest is flush against his.
“You want me to stop you?” My voice is low, dangerous. “Too bad. I’m not going to stop you. Because, for whatever reason, I lose all sense of myself when I’m around you.”
The words land—I see it in the way his pupils blow wide, in the hitch of his breath.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, until we’re both breathing hard. My hands slide down his arms, grip his wrists tight one last time before letting go so I can get to what I want. His pants are gone in one hard tug, boxers shoved down just enough for his hard cock to slap against his stomach.
He’s already flushed, hard, and slick at the tip, precum beading against his abdomen, and the sight alone makes my teeth grit.
“Still so worked up from earlier,” I murmur, stroking once, slow and deliberate, watching his entire body tense, watching as his lashes flutter. And then I remove my hands from his cock.
“Fuck you,” he breathes, groaning.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” I mutter, smirking as I push him back against the pillows. “But I’ll give you something.”
Before he can ask, I’m sliding down the bed, my hands braced on his thighs. I nudge his legs apart and settle between them, keeping my gaze on his as I lower my mouth. The second my tongue drags along the underside of his cock, his head tips back, a moan spilling out.
I wrap my lips around him, taking him in slow, sucking just enough to make him twitch. His hands fist in the sheets, hips flexing up toward my mouth. I pin them down immediately.
“You stay there,” I say, my voice low and sharp before I swallow him once more.
He’s already trembling when I hollow my cheeks and bob my head, letting my tongue swirl around the head before sliding back down. Every sound he makes goes straight to my cock, but I keep the pace steady. Too steady.
He bucks, needy, his head tipping back into the pillows.
Fuck. Watching Asher Harrison fall apart underneath me is my new favorite sight.
When his breathing changes—when it starts coming faster, harsher—I pull off entirely, gripping him firmly at the base so he can’t come.
The frustrated noise he makes causes me to chuckle.
“You—”
“Not yet,” I say, licking a slow stripe along him before swallowing him down again.
I do the same thing again. Build him up until he’s shaking, until his thighs are tense and his toes curl, until I know he’s seconds away—and then I stop, pulling back to watch him fall apart without relief.
By the fifth time, he’s swearing at me, pleading under his breath, his voice rough and hoarse.
“You want to come?” I ask finally, stroking him once, slow, my thumb brushing over the head. A dribble of precum slides down, and I lean my mouth to the tip, licking it up with a light flick of my tongue.
He bucks his hips in response.
I love this—love controlling him like this, getting him so close yet not letting him come just yet.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.” His voice is a pure whimper, and his expression is vexed and shocked all at the same time. Brows pulled together, his chest rises and falls rapidly as he pants like a dog.
“How do you ask, Asher?”
“Please, Daddy,” he begs, his voice trembling. “Please, I’m so c-close.”
I hum, leaning in to take him deep again, this time not pulling back. I suck harder, bob faster, and when he grabs at my hair, I let him, his hips jerking up as he groans my name, saying it like Ambroooooose.
“Fuck, fuck, yes, just like that, I’m going to—I’m com—coming—oh god?—”
Every muscle inside of him locks up and he comes a second later, pulsing hard against my tongue. His back arches as I hold him down and take every drop. He mutters expletives, body shivering, and when I think he’s finished, more cum shoots into the back of my throat.
I swallow it all eagerly, and when he’s done, his whole body relaxes into the mattress. Every few seconds, he twitches with aftershocks, and when I pop my mouth off his cock, he yelps, squeezing his eyes shut.
When I finally look at his face, his chest is heaving, his eyes half lidded and glassy.
I lick my lips, smirking. “Next time, you’ll think twice before bratting out on me.
” His mouth opens in surprise, and that’s when I crawl up to his face.
I pull my cock out, already heavy and aching, and press it against his lips. “Now, suck.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, eyes glittering with both defiance and satisfaction.
“Better than letting you run your mouth.”
We both groan as he takes me in—hot, wet, and still a little unsteady from what I just did to him.
The first glide over his tongue makes my stomach clench. He’s sloppy with it, spit already sliding down his chin as I push deeper, his throat working around me. My hands find his hair, holding him in place, not letting him set the pace.
“So eager for my cock,” I mutter. “Look at you, choking on me.”
He moans in response.
Every time I slide into the back of his throat, my vision threatens to blur. Heat coils low and fast, and I can feel my pulse pounding in the thick, aching weight of my cock. His lips seal tight around me, suction dragging every nerve raw.
I groan, hips starting to move without conscious thought, fucking into his mouth in short, controlled thrusts. The friction is perfect, wet and hot and unrelenting, and every pass sends a jolt through my spine.
“ Good… fucking… boy ,” I pant out.
It builds quick. Too quick. The pleasure stacks hard and sharp until I’m gripping his hair just to keep my balance. My thighs tense, my abs pull tight, and there’s that second, that blinding second, where everything in me locks up, my body straining toward release.
“I want you to swallow every drop,” I choke out, and he nods eagerly.
When it hits, it’s like my entire body snaps. My cock jerks deep in his mouth, thick pulses tearing through me as I spill hard down his throat. My breath comes in ragged bursts, the pleasure almost painful in its intensity, each spurt wringing another shiver from me.
I hold him there, groaning low in my chest, riding out the last waves until I’m spent and shaky, my fingers loosening in his hair.
He swallows every drop, just like I instructed, and when I ease back, my cock slips from his mouth.
For a moment neither of us moves. His lips are swollen, slick with spit, a faint sheen of sweat on his flushed skin.
He’s breathing hard, eyes half closed, looking wrecked in a way that makes my chest feel tight.
I run my thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away a smear of wetness, but he catches my thumb with his mouth and sucks, slow and deliberate. My cock twitches despite being spent.
“You did so well,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His lashes lift just enough for him to meet my gaze, and something passes between us—something too close to tenderness for me to name. That’s been happening a lot lately—too much, in fact.
I clear my throat, pushing it away, and grab the blanket from the foot of the bed to pull over us both.
He sinks back into the pillows, still catching his breath, his body loose in that way that comes only after I’ve taken him apart.
I watch his chest rise and fall, the curve of his mouth softening as his eyes finally close.
And damn me, but I can’t bring myself to move away.
I guess we’re not going to that cooking class, after all.
And to be honest… I couldn’t care less.