Chapter 23 – King
Chapter
Twenty-Three
KING
“I’m so sorry for your loss. My condolences, Emmeline.” I listen to those words over and over again, and my mother soaks it all up.
She shed a single, solitary tear during the service, allowing it to run all the way down her cheek before she daintily dabbed it away with her napkin.
She is center stage today and loving it.
She thrives on the attention. Predictably, my father uses the opportunity to network and connect with his old cronies. They make me sick.
We’ve barely uttered a word to each other since the meeting at their lawyer’s office a few days ago, and they have given me nothing but contempt all day long.
I suspect they wouldn’t have allowed me here to pay my respects if it wouldn’t have made them look bad.
But it was a mistake coming to their house after the service.
There were three people present today who actually loved my grandfather—Leonard, Amanda, and me.
They both left after the service I planned, declining the offer to come to the exquisitely catered wake at my parents’ house.
I can barely stand to be here a second longer. I only came because it felt disrespectful to Grampa to not show my face. But none of these people knew him. None of them gave a damn about him.
Without a word to anyone, I jump on my bike and head back into the city.
Maybe it’s instinct that takes me to the Jamestech building.
It’s only a little after six. He’s probably still in there.
And I don’t care if it’s stupid or that we’re pretending we don’t have feelings for each other. I need him.
That’s why, a few minutes later, I find myself standing in the doorway to his office. Thankfully, he is still here, sitting behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes glued to his monitor. Uncharacteristically for me, I knock.
I’m sure he smiles when he sees me, but if I’m right, he quickly hides it. “Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
He pushes back his chair and rests his hands behind his head. “You don’t usually ask.”
I walk inside and, out of habit, close the door behind me. Not because I expect anything from him. Avoiding my usual seat opposite him, I wander over to the coffee machine and run my fingertips over the handle of a mug.
“How was today?” His deep voice washes over me, comforting and familiar.
Tears well in my eyes. “Fucking awful.”
“I’m sorry. Funerals suck. You okay?”
I stare at the wall, not wanting to admit that I’m not. Not wanting to look in his eyes and let him unravel me.
When I don’t answer, he pushes his chair back and his footsteps grow closer until I can feel him standing behind me. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
He skims his fingertips over the back of my neck, and fuck, it feels so good.
Pleasure skitters down my spine. I turn around and come face-to-face with his intensely dark eyes and the face that haunts my every waking thought, not to mention my dreams. “I just wanted to …” I swallow, the rest of the words refusing to form.
He takes a step closer. “What do you want, King?” His voice is husky, his warm breath dancing over my skin. He slides his hands inside my jacket to grip my waist.
“This,” I whisper.
He dusts his lips over mine, taunting me with the faintest hint of a kiss.
“I want to feel connected to someone.” My voice cracks.
And so does he. He seals his lips over mine and slips his tongue inside my willing mouth.
I moan at the contact and he swallows the sound, greedily exploring with his tongue.
I fist a hand in his thick, dark hair, unable to stop myself from wanting control.
I tilt his head and tongue-fuck him back, flicking my tongue in the dark recesses of his mouth as I devour him. He feels like everything I need.
“You taste like cheap brandy,” he murmurs.
I kiss him again. “You taste like mine.”
“Fuck, King,” he groans, and I love the way he says my name. All need and hunger. I unzip his pants and wrap my hand around the base of his shaft.
He does the same to me as I push him back against the wall.
Our mouths explore each other, throat and jawline, ears and forehead.
We kiss and bite and suck while we work each other over, jerking each other off to the same punishing pace.
When I’m close to the edge, I capture his lips with mine once more, kissing him so deeply that I feel like I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen.
I break the kiss and suck in a ragged breath. “Come with me, baby boy.”
He curses in Spanish as hot ribbons of cum spurt over my hand. He grips me tighter, giving me a final tug that has me coming right along with him.
I press my forehead to his and we catch our breath.
“Was that enough of a connection for you, Hotshot?” he says, laughing.
“I’d have preferred to come in your ass, but yeah, it was enough, baby.”
“You drive me crazy, mi rey,” he whispers.
That’s what he used to call me, a lifetime ago. My king. And despite what we just did and how far down his throat my tongue was, that was the connection I’ve truly longed for.
Before it can take root, he breaks it, pulling away and zipping up his pants. “I’ll go get some paper towels.”
As he disappears into the bathroom, I tell myself not to take it personally.
It’s his instinct to protect himself where I’m concerned, and I can’t blame him.
I lied to Mason eighteen years ago when I told him that I never loved him.
I loved him more than anyone or anything in this whole goddamn world.
The truth is I still do.