32. Kiss the King #2
“Lock the door,” I murmur against his mouth.
He reaches behind me without looking, and the soft click of the lock makes my whole body hum.
I push him backward toward his desk, our mouths still fused, our hands pulling at each other’s jackets. I don’t care that we’re at work, but there are still a few people just outside the door.
“Ambrose, wait?—”
“Shh,” he says, but it’s gentle this time. His hand slides up under my shirt, hot against my skin, and I can’t help the sharp breath that escapes me.
We slow down then, the frantic edge giving way to something sweeter, steadier. His mouth softens against mine, and I realize this is him choosing not to just take—this is him giving. His thumb strokes over my cheekbone like he’s memorizing me.
“I’m not running again,” I tell him, my voice breaking just a little.
“Good,” he says simply, before kissing me again, slower this time, like we have all the time in the world. And, in a way, I suppose we do.
We break apart just enough for me to breathe, my forehead still resting against his. The warm circle of his palm at my waist makes it hard to think.
“Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you in this again?” he murmurs, tugging lightly at the collar.
My mouth quirks, even as heat licks down my spine. “Figured you might like it.”
“Like it?” His lips curve in a slow, dangerous smile. “I’m trying to decide whether to kiss you stupid or ruin you right here on my desk.”
“Why not both?”
That earns me a low sound in his throat—half laugh, half groan—and then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, like he’s trying to drag every last excuse out of me with his tongue. My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until he’s spinning me, until my ass hits the edge of his desk.
He doesn’t rush me. Instead, he starts peeling away layers—my jacket first, then my tie—each move unhurried, deliberate. His fingertips ghost down the column of my throat, over my shirt buttons, until they’re resting just above my belt.
I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t seem to find the words.
“You’ve been in my head every damn night,” he says, voice rough against my mouth. “I’d fall asleep thinking about you. Wake up thinking about you. Even when I was angry.”
I swallow, my chest tight. “Same.”
The admission makes his pupils darken. He slides a hand behind my neck, and his other hand drifts lower, cupping me through my trousers.
I gasp into his mouth. “Ambrose?—”
“Be quiet, Asher.”
I nod, dizzy from the heat pooling in my stomach.
Then, without warning, he drops to his knees. My breath catches as he pushes my shirt up, kissing the strip of skin above my waistband before working my belt open.
The cool air hits my cock first, then the heat of his mouth, slow and deliberate, as he takes me in. My hands brace against the desk, the world narrowing to the slick slide of his tongue, the steady pressure that builds with each stroke of his large hand wrapped around me.
I look down. The sight of him—my Ambrose King, on his knees for me, eyes locked on mine—is almost enough to undo me right here. I groan, and my hips twitch forward without my permission. He plants one big hand firmly on my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me.
Controlling the pace.
Making me take it the way he wants to give it.
Then he pops off my cock for a second, puts his middle finger in his mouth, and generously covers it with saliva. Fuuuck.
Placing his lips back on me, I feel his other hand slide lower, his knuckles brushing over my balls in a way that makes my cock jump in his mouth. My breath stumbles. His middle finger drifts back, dragging over sensitive skin until it presses against me.
It’s a light touch at first, a tease, the barest pressure at my rim that makes my thighs tense. He covers the area in his spit, and a few seconds later, he pushes a little harder until the thick pad of his finger slides inside.
My entire body jolts.
The heat of his mouth is already almost too much, but now there’s this deeper sensation, stretching me open while his lips and tongue work me.
I feel every inch of him—the wet pull of his mouth, the slick glide of his finger curling inside me.
My knees start to go weak, and I have to brace my hands hard against the desk behind me just to stay upright.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips still wrapped around me, the vibration of his voice buzzing straight through my cock. I let out a shaky exhale, trying to loosen up, and the moment I do, he slides in to the second knuckle, filling me in a way that has my vision blurring.
Then he finds it— that spot —and rubs it just as his tongue swirls over the head of my cock. My entire body locks up.
“Jesus—Ambrose—” My voice cracks, a groan or a plea, I’m not sure.
“What is it that you want?” he asks sweetly.
I buck my hips. “More. Of that. Please .”
He hums like he likes the sound of it, the deep rumble making my stomach twist with pleasure.
The push and pull is maddening, his mouth dragging up my length while his finger presses and works my prostate inside me, each sensation amplifying the other until I can’t separate them.
My pulse is thundering in my ears, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
“Beg for it,” he says a minute later.
He keeps the rhythm steady. Suck, stroke, curl, press. Soon, I’m panting like I’ve just run a sprint. My thighs clamp around his shoulders, my toes curling inside my shoes, and still he doesn’t let up.
“Please, Daddy. Fuck—” I choke out, not even sure what I’m begging for anymore.
“That’s it. What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me. Beg me.”
“I want—to come. I want you to swallow every drop,” I add, squeezing my eyes shut.
He groans, and I can tell he liked what I said, because his finger twitches inside of me.
He pulls me deeper into his mouth, his throat working around me, and at the same time his finger presses harder against that spot inside me.
My entire body bows forward, a helpless sound tearing out of my chest.
“Fuck, Harrison. I could suck your cock all day and never get enough.”
My eyes roll back at his words, and I can’t speak—can’t answer. The tugging sensation inside of me breaks suddenly, and the heat at the base of my spine snaps, white-hot and blinding, and I come hard, spilling into his mouth with thick pulses of cum.
It’s not just a normal orgasm. It’s wrung out of me, drawn from the deepest part of me.
I hear King swallow several times, and I can’t think straight.
I’m shaking, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
He keeps going through it until the very end, his mouth swallowing around me while his finger moves slowly, coaxing every last spasm out of me until I’m practically sagging against the desk.
When he finally pulls back, he slides his finger out just as slowly, like he knows I’m raw and trembling. He stands, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and looks at me like he’s just conquered something.
His mouth is still damp when he kisses me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue. My hands find his belt this time, and he doesn’t stop me. I push his trousers down just far enough to free him, stroking him once, twice, and watching his jaw go tight.
“So worked up from that,” I murmur, my thumb brushing over the head of his cock that’s dripping with precum. His hips jerk at my touch, the muscles in his stomach tightening under my hand.
“From you,” he corrects, his voice low and raspy. I do it again, this time using my other hand to cup his balls.
“Fuck,” he groans, bracing one palm against the desk beside me. “I’m already close. Just—” His eyes flick up to mine, dark and almost feverish. “Just touch me, sweetheart, and I’ll come.”
The way he says it… like it’s a promise, like he’s already picturing it… makes my cock twitch even though I’m still wrung out. I wrap my hand fully around his shaft, and it pulses in my grip. My strokes are slow at first, my thumb circling over the slick head just to watch his jaw tighten.
His cock twitches in my hand again, hot and slick with precum, and his grip closes tight around my wrist.
“Not like that,” he murmurs, voice low but commanding. He moves my hand for me, setting the rhythm he wants—firm, punishing strokes, his thumb guiding mine over the head until he groans.
“Eyes on me,” he says, and I look up without thinking.
It’s a mistake. Or maybe it’s exactly what he wants, because the second our eyes lock, deep inside me stirs. His gaze is molten, almost lazy in its hunger, like he’s savoring every inch of me. His pupils are blown wide, and when my stroke hits just right, his lips part on a sharp inhale.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s talking more to himself than to me. “Just like that. You’re perfect like this.”
The words shouldn’t affect me the way they do, but my chest goes tight, my cock twitching even though I just came.
I keep my eyes on him, watching every shift in his expression.
How his brows pinch for a second, how his jaw slackens when my thumb drags through the wetness at the tip.
His breathing goes uneven, his hips rolling up into my fist like he can’t help it.
“Faster,” he mutters, and I obey without thinking. His gaze never leaves mine, and it’s so intimate, so raw, it makes my stomach clench.
“Fuck, Asher…” His voice cracks on my name.
The moment hits fast; his entire body goes taut, his mouth falling open like the air’s been punched out of him, eyes still locked on mine. It’s the most unguarded I’ve ever seen him, and it turns me on so hard I nearly groan.
His cock jerks in my fist as he comes, hot and thick over my hand, and I don’t stop. I keep stroking him through it, watching his face soften, his lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to keep looking at me.
When it’s over, his grip on my wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go completely. His forehead tips to mine, breath warm, eyes heavy lidded but still holding mine like he’s not ready to break whatever’s between us.
“You’re mine,” he says, quiet but certain.
And for the first time, I don’t feel the urge to argue.
His breathing slows, and I can feel the way he settles back into his body.
But his eyes don’t leave mine. Not even when he reaches down, fingers curling around my hand, the one still wrapped loosely around him.
Without a word, he guides it up, his gaze dropping briefly to where my knuckles are glistening with his cum. Then he brings my wrist to his mouth.
My pulse kicks hard.
He keeps eye contact as his tongue drags slowly over my skin, tasting himself from my hand like it’s nothing, like it’s normal. His mouth is warm and deliberate, lips brushing over each finger before sucking them clean one by one. It’s obscene and intimate all at once.
When he’s finished, he doesn’t let go. He holds my hand between both of his, thumbs stroking the inside of my wrist, right over the collar.
“You see this?” he murmurs, his voice so low it feels like it vibrates through me. “You wearing this for me… doing that for me… it means something.”
I swallow hard, unable to look away from him. “I know.”
“Good.” His mouth softens into something dangerously close to a smile, and he presses a slow kiss to the inside of my wrist before finally releasing me.
My shirt is rumpled, my tie hanging loose around my neck, and he’s not much better—jacket half off, hair mussed like I’ve been running my hands through it for hours.
I don’t even remember touching his hair when he was blowing me, but I must’ve.
“People are going to wonder if we walk out together,” I murmur, voice still a little rough.
“Let them,” he says easily, smoothing my collar as if he’s not the reason it’s crooked in the first place. “They’re going to need to get used to it.”
We both straighten our jackets, and I reach down to fasten my belt. My hands are steady now, but just barely. He’s still watching me, and when I glance up, there’s something in his expression that makes my chest tighten, like he’s committing me to memory.
It’s the most open I’ve ever seen him, and if I wanted to, I feel like I could ask him anything right now.
I clear my throat. “We should probably…” I gesture vaguely toward the door.
“In a minute.”
He closes the distance again, just enough to press his lips to mine. The kiss is unhurried, and a complete contrast to everything we just did. It’s not about heat this time, or chasing a release, or proving something.
It’s a claiming .
When he pulls away, his hand lingers at my jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of my mouth. “Don’t make me wait another two weeks for that again.”
I smirk, though it doesn’t quite hide the way my stomach flips. “Only if you promise to give me Trent Marchand.”
His eyes spark with mischief. “Ah, I see now. You were playing the long game.”
I laugh. A true, real laugh. It feels… really fucking good.
“Maybe I was.”
King’s eyes rove down to my lips. “I’d say it’s a fair trade. Trent Marchand for daily hand jobs.”
“Promise, Daddy?” I ask, my voice feigning innocence.
Now it’s his turn to laugh, and by the time we get ourselves put together, both of us are flushed and happy.
By the time we unlock the door and step back into the outer office, the air between us feels different. Still charged, still dangerous, but steadier now.
Like maybe, for the first time, neither of us is running.