The King

Except it wasn’t. Because Søren had promised never to leave him again. And he had.

Promises, promises.

Kingsley took another swig from the bottle of bourbon, coughed a little, and laid back on the chaise longue. He crossed his feet at the ankles and watched the light from the swimming pool dance across the ceiling. He had no idea why he still had the pool down here. No one ever swam in it. He kept the doors locked to prevent any of his inebriated houseguests from turning up facedown in it by accident. A bad sign when the only person who got anything out of the swimming pool was the pool boy. And even he wasn’t attractive enough for Kingsley to bother seducing.

But tonight he wanted to lie by the water while he drank. It was peaceful here. The pool wasn’t large or deep—ten by twenty feet across and four feet to the bottom. The floor was Mediterranean tile, and red, yellow and gold murals of northern Italy covered the walls. The paintings reminded him of a little village in the south of France he and his family had gone to every August when he was a child. A village right on the Mediterranean. Beautiful place, restful. Water, hills, vineyards. A vintner’s wife had seduced him there when he was twenty-two and hiding out while he recovered from his first gunshot wound. He had nothing but fond memories of the place. Being near water soothed his soul. If he had a soul. Did he have one? Didn’t matter if he did or not. He and God weren’t on speaking terms right now. And that was fine. Kingsley didn’t mind. What did he and God have to talk about anyway? The only thing he wanted to ask God was why He’d called Søren to the priesthood. Could God have played a sicker joke on him?

“Knock, knock?”

Kingsley sighed. Blaise’s gentle voice came from the door. He waved his arm tiredly at her, beckoning her in.

“He’s not here,” Kingsley said.

“I wasn’t looking for him, I promise,” Blaise said.

“Are you swimming?”

“And mess up my hair?” She tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. “No, I’m checking on you.”

Blaise crawled up on the chaise longue next to him. Kingsley looked her up and down as she settled in next to him.

“You’ve outdone yourself with this ensemble,” he said. “You look like... What’s her name? That pretty blonde actress. The dead one with the hair. River? Ocean? Pool?”

“Veronica Lake. And that’s what I was going for. See?” She held up her leg to display her seamed stockings that disappeared under her pencil skirt. She had her hair coiffed in a forties peekaboo style.

“Why do you dress like this?” he asked. Every day she wore some new vintage outfit that put one in mind of old Hollywood.

“The world is sadly lacking in glamour. I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. And not all of us are as naturally gorgeous and eye-catching as you are, King,” she said, tapping the end of his nose. “Some of us have to work for it.”

“You like the attention. You’re the girl in the room who dresses like she forgot what decade she’s in.”

“I’m trying to forget what decade I’m in. The nineties need to shape up fast. You know what people are wearing now? On purpose? Flannel. I saw it on MTV.”

“I shudder.”

“Me, too. Awful. There is nothing glamorous about flannel.”

“You don’t dress like this to be glamorous. You dress to be remembered.”

“So? What’s wrong with being memorable? Even if someone forgets my name, they still remember the girl in the seamed stockings.”

“Nothing’s wrong with being memorable. Except when someone’s trying to forget you.”

Blaise sighed and laid her head on his chest.

“I knew you were in a funk,” she said. “You always get like this when you drink.”

“I drink all the time.”

“You’re in a funk all the time. I thought it would get better when your friend turned up. Where is Søren anyway?”

“I pissed him off. He left.”

“Well, un-piss him off. I like him.”

“The last thing we need is a priest hanging around this house.”

Blaise’s mouth fell open.

“He’s really a priest? That wasn’t a joke?”

“I wish.”

Blaise laughed so hard the chaise longue shook.

“I can’t believe I did kink with a priest. I can’t wait to tell—”

Faster than either of them expected, Kingsley rolled up, grabbed Blaise and put her flat on her back underneath him. He grasped both her wrists and slammed them down by her head.

“King—”

“Shut up. I mean it.” He tightened his grip on her to the point of pain and stayed there. “Not a word to anyone that you did anything with a priest. Do you understand me?”

Blaise looked up at him in fear—real fear.

“Fuck, fine. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’ve never seen me this serious before, have you?”

Blaise shook her head. “No.”

“There’s a reason for that. You will tell no one.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I swear.”

Kingsley held her down another few seconds, long enough to make her nervous and long enough to get him aroused.

“Good girl.” He bent his head and kissed her before letting her go.

He rolled on to his back again, crossed his legs at his ankles again, watched the light dance again.

Blaise sat up and looked down at him.

“You scared the shit out of me.” She put her hand over her heart.

“Good.”

“For someone who says he doesn’t like Søren, you’re awfully protective of him.”

“Love him or hate, he’s one of us. We take care of our own.”

“I can’t get him in trouble, you know. I only know his first name.”

“Actually, you don’t.” Kingsley laughed to himself. Søren had introduced himself as “Søren” to Blaise, not Marcus Stearns. There was no “Søren” on anyone’s records anywhere. If she tried to find a Catholic priest in the United States named Søren, she’d be searching forever. So that’s why Søren told her his real name? That fucking brilliant blond monster. Now it all made sense.

“He told me his name, remember?” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to put me in the mood, but not enough to ruin it. Now I’m going to get very drunk so you should go unless you want to make yourself useful.”

“Maybe I want to make myself useful,” she said, lifting up his shirt. She pressed her lips into his stomach, and the soft curling tips of her hair tickled his skin. Yes. This. Right now he needed this. Distraction. Desire. Anything to keep from remembering. “I like it when you scare me like that.”

“And that,” he said, caressing her cheek, “is why you are my chouchou.”

She kissed lower, deeper, and with one hand she unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t hard yet, but if she kept doing what she was doing, he would be any second now. She took him in her hand and massaged him lightly. When he stiffened, she bent her head and licked the tip. For a few minutes it was all she did, kissing, licking, teasing, focusing all her attention on that one part of him. Blood rushed through him, and he grew hard in her hand. He sighed softly as she stroked him before bringing her mouth down on to him.

Perfect... Her mouth was so wet and warm. She rubbed him with her talented tongue and sucked hard. The pressure built in him, and he lifted his hips into her mouth, small undulations that set every nerve inside him alight. He wove his fingers into her hair, seeking connection with the woman who did this erotic kindness to him.

She paused and used her hand on him, rubbing the shaft from base to tip, squeezing and stoking him to greater pleasure.

“I love your cock,” she whispered before lapping at the wet tip. “I love how big it is. I love how it tastes.”

“You’re too kind. Keep it up, chouchou, and I’ll give you the honor of swallowing.”

Blaise grinned seductively at him. “You keep it up, and I’ll keep it up.” She gave him a dirty wink before resuming her task. She sucked even harder now, deeper, and he grew painfully hard. She swirled her tongue around him, up and down, over and over. With her gentle fingertips she eased his foreskin back and lapped at the tip so skillfully his back arched in the shock of pleasure.

A deep muscle tightened in his lower stomach. He felt blood pooling, pressure building. His heart raced, and his fingers dug into the fabric of the chaise lounge. For a few more seconds he held off, trying to prolong the release, wanting to put off as long as possible the return to bitter reality. Blaise sucked him, stroked him, coaxed him, pulled him to the depths of her throat. He hovered at the edge of orgasm, breathing through his nose as Blaise continued to work on him, taking ownership of him with her mouth. She took him deep and massaged his testicles with her tongue. She pulled back to the tip again, and Kingsley came hard into her mouth, spasm after spasm of pleasure washing over him as he spurted his semen into her welcoming throat.

Like the good girl she was, Blaise swallowed every drop of him before releasing him from her mouth. She kissed her way up to his lips, and he tasted himself on her tongue.

“Are you in a good mood now?” she asked, wiping her mouth with one of the towels stacked next to them.

“Better,” Kingsley said. “For now.”

Blaise groaned in frustration.

“You are the king of top drop.”

“You’re making up words again.”

“Top drop. It’s that funk dominants fall into after the scene’s over. You brood.”

“Brooding is my version of afterglow.”

“Call the priest. You’re in a better mood when he’s around. He doesn’t brood like you do.”

“He invented brooding. He holds the patent on brooding. He gets royalties whenever anyone broods. You just haven’t seen him do it yet.”

“Call him,” Blaise said, poking him in the chest.

“I don’t want to. I don’t like him anymore.”

Blaise exhaled and shook her head in abject disgust.

“You lying French asshole. You called him your ‘oldest and dearest friend’ right in front of me. I was there.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Then what is he?” Blaise asked, annoyed. He did love to ruffle her glamorous feathers.

“My dead sister’s widowed husband.”

Blaise’s eyes widened hugely.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I don’t anymore. Told you, she’s dead. He was married to her for a few weeks before she flung herself off a cliff, and her body broke into two pieces. Sheered her face off, too.”

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