Chapter 7 Garden Pact #3
“Let me worship all of you,” he groaned, dragging his tongue over the sensitive skin between my toes, licking up the arch, trailing saliva over every inch. “You’re perfect. You’re a goddamn masterpiece.”
My cock throbbed at the praise, at the sight of a king made supplicant, desperate for even the taste of me. I thrust my foot against his mouth, demanding more, silently begging him to go further, to lose himself in worship.
He moaned, sucking hard, tongue fucking the gap between my toes, fingers pressing into my arches, kneading, squeezing, worshipping with mouth and hands and voice. Every muscle in my body locked tight, thighs trembling with the effort not to come just from the sight of it.
A sharp knock shattered the spell, echoing through the warm hush like a gunshot. Both our heads jerked up, breath ragged, hunger snarling beneath the abrupt intrusion.
The king’s hands lingered at my ankles a moment longer, as if unwilling to let go. His mouth was wet, his jaw marked where my foot had pressed. He wiped at his lips, stumbled to his feet, silk pyjamas hanging open, hair wild and face flushed with sin.
Crossing the room, he cracked the heavy door just wide enough for a silhouette. Authority slipped back into his voice. “What is it?” he demanded, trying for steel but still hoarse with want.
Detective Akintola filled the threshold: six feet of unyielding muscle and focus, dressed in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the line of his body humming with quiet power.
Dark eyes flicked from the king’s open collar and tousled state to me—half-dressed, legs sprawled, shirt half-untucked, cock jutting out from unzipped trousers.
His gaze caught, lingered, taking it all in with a slow, hungry calculation.
The king didn’t reach to close his robe or button up. He just stepped aside, voice low and deliberate. “Come in, detective. Stay and watch if you want. There’s room for more eyes tonight.”
Akintola’s composure barely cracked, but the way his fingers shifted—just brushing the front of his trousers, knuckles flexing—betrayed the stir beneath.
He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and leaned back against the oak, arms crossed over his chest, feet braced wide.
Silence reigned for a heartbeat. His gaze devoured me, then raked over the king, the flush at the king’s neck, the raw want still painting every line of his body.
The king crossed back to me with a feral sort of grace.
His eyes didn’t leave Akintola as he knelt between my thighs again, palms running up the insides of my calves, spreading me wide, laying me out for inspection.
“Don’t mind the detective,” he purred, voice guttural, “He’s here to see how royalty is served. Aren’t you, Akintola?”
The detective’s voice was rough gravel. “Long as you don’t mind being observed.” His hand stayed at his fly, thumb flicking over his belt, the bulge there unmistakable, pressing hard against dark wool.
The king’s mouth found mine, all spit and teeth, no patience left.
His tongue forced my lips open, filthy and deep, tasting of sweat and wine and something darker.
I sucked his tongue into my mouth, then spat—long, wet, landing right back on his tongue.
He grinned, then spat back, catching my lower lip, smearing slick between us.
His teeth grazed my jaw, lips dragging down my neck, open-mouthed, savage, wet.
He shoved his hand inside my pants again, fisting my cock, jerking slow, squeezing until my hips bucked off the chair. “You want everyone to see you like this?” he whispered, biting my ear. “Want to show off?”
Akintola’s gaze never left us, eyes gone dark and greedy, breathing deepening as he watched the king spit again, thick and heavy, straight into my mouth. I swallowed it down, pulling the king closer, daring him for more.
“Don’t stop,” I growled, wrapping my legs around his waist, grinding up into his fist, loving the heat in Akintola’s stare, the way his hand pressed harder against his own bulge, cock already straining at the seam.
The king’s tongue slid into my mouth, slick and filthy, swapping spit, every breath a low, aching whine.
My hips thrust into his fist, pants shoved down my thighs, balls aching for release.
The king pulled back, lips swollen, face wrecked with hunger, then glanced up at the detective—silent question, invitation, or just raw display, I couldn’t tell.
Akintola uncrossed his arms, fingers sliding slow down his zipper, watching us with predator’s patience, his body tensed and ready.
The king dove down again, mouth crashing against mine, the taste of spit and hunger and need making me shake. He pulled me up, teeth scraping my jaw, breath ragged, his own cock pressed against my thigh, silk slick and hot.
“Let him watch you fall apart,” he growled, words spat into my mouth, every syllable a claim, a promise, a dare.
The detective’s eyes gleamed, fingers tightening at his groin, anticipation coiling in the room like lightning about to strike.
The king’s mouth branded mine, spit and hunger and all that need rolling through me, shaking me to the bone. His cock pressed hot through silk against my thigh, hips rocking, desperate for friction. Akintola’s eyes burned a hole through my skin, hunger and challenge flashing in the dim.
Alexandre’s fingers found my jaw, tipping my head back. “Come,” he said, voice jagged and thick with command. “Both of you. There’s somewhere else I want you.”
He broke away, barely decent in his open robe, cock straining under the thin pyjamas, chest heaving with the effort to stay in control.
His hand caught Akintola’s wrist, then mine, dragging us both through a hidden panel in the wood—a flush seam beside the fireplace.
A cold gust of air swept across my chest as the door swung open, revealing a narrow stone stairwell descending into shadow.
My pulse hammered. Every sense sharpened. My cock throbbed with the promise of what waited below.
Down stone steps, damp and old, the air thickened, full of old secrets.
The king pushed open another heavy door.
The scent of leather, sweat, and old wood filled my lungs—a private world, untouched by daylight.
Candlelight flickered over racks of polished restraints, padded benches, and a sprawling bed draped in wine-dark velvet.
Chains hung from the ceiling, rings bolted to stone.
The marks of memory lingered—worn cuffs, faded bruises, ghosts of pleasure and pain.
The king’s eyes glistened, mouth trembling.
“I haven’t opened this room since my wife died,” he confessed, voice almost lost in the hush. “We built it together. All those nights… I want new memories. Take me apart.”
I stepped closer, chest to chest. “You want to be worshipped?” My lips grazed his throat, tongue tasting salt and need. “You want to be ruined?”
“By both of you,” he breathed, gaze darting to Akintola. “Don’t make me beg.”
Akintola’s hands found the king’s belt, unfastening the silk robe in one smooth motion.
Fabric pooled at Alexandre’s feet. My own hands skated beneath the pyjama top, palms gliding over heated skin, nails dragging lines down his ribs, the fine hair at his stomach.
Akintola’s mouth claimed his collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue painting a wet line to the hollow at his throat.
Alexandre shuddered between us, cock twitching under silk, arms reaching for my shoulders, then Akintola’s, caught between command and surrender.
“Let us see you, Majesty.” My voice rumbled in his ear as I yanked the shirt wide, baring his chest. Akintola sank to his knees, hands curling under the king’s pyjamas, pushing them down just enough to expose hips, thighs, that aching length trapped by nothing but want.
Our mouths devoured him—mine at his jaw, tongue tracing his pulse, Akintola’s lips at his navel, teeth biting the soft skin above his cock. Alexandre moaned, helpless, clinging to my arms as we stripped him, leaving him in nothing but silk pyjama pants twisted low, every inch of him trembling.
I caught Akintola’s eye. No words needed.
We moved in tandem—Akintola crossing behind, taking Alexandre’s wrists in those broad, careful hands, lifting them overhead.
I unhooked leather cuffs from the chain dangling from a ceiling beam, securing one wrist, then the other, leaving the king stretched, bare, back arched, toes barely brushing the stone floor.
Alexandre’s breath came in jagged bursts. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it. I want to remember this every time I close my eyes.”
Akintola kissed his shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, and murmured, “You’ll feel this for days.
” His hands slid down, gripping Alexandre’s waist, dragging him back against his own chest. My mouth found a nipple, sucking, biting, lavishing every inch with tongue and teeth.
The king arched into my mouth, moaning, body writhing, cock straining under silk.
Akintola’s hands mapped him—palms gliding over abs, hips, down to the waistband, fingers dipping under, teasing the line of dark hair, stroking the king’s cock through silk.
My teeth grazed the peak of his nipple, lips slick with spit, tongue swirling as I fed on the sounds he made, those desperate, broken noises echoing off stone.
“Fuck,” Alexandre gasped, head falling back, chains rattling above. “More. Take more.”
I pressed my lips to his belly, tongue circling his navel, tasting sweat and longing. Akintola gripped the king’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, then spit into it—long, slow, a filthy offering. Alexandre swallowed greedily, eyes fluttering, begging for more.
“Beautiful like this,” I muttered, kissing the hollow of his throat, licking up to his jaw. “You need us to use you.”