The King
Page 114
“I do not trust the sensory perceptions of a man who, not five hours ago, thought he was on a boat.”
“Has no one ever told you that you smell like that?”
“Elizabeth mentioned something about it a long time ago. And someone else. Recently.”
“Who?”
“Eleanor.”
Eleanor. The Virgin Queen. It comforted Kingsley to know Eleanor could smell the winter on Søren’s skin. It seemed portentous somehow—Elizabeth, Kingsley, Eleanor—the three who’d loved Søren, the three who’d been or would be his lovers. Maybe Søren was right about this girl. Maybe she was the one they’d dreamed of all those years ago. Kingsley dipped his head and pressed a kiss on to Søren’s right shoulder. He kissed Søren’s shoulder blade, his neck, the back of his neck, tasting the snow on his skin. Kingsley kissed his way down the center of Søren’s back as he trailed his fingers over his rib cage.
“What do you think you are doing?” Søren asked.
“I’m trying to find out what a priest sleeps in,” Kingsley said as he slipped his hand under the sheet.
Søren caught his hand and held it in a vicious, viselike grip.
“This priest sleeps in a bed.”
“You’re going to break my wrist,” Kingsley said, not the least bothered by the prospect. The pain from Søren’s grip sobered him up, cleared his thinking and aroused him.
Søren tightened his grip and Kingsley winced. Nice to know Søren hadn’t been lying—the wolf was still there. Søren wasn’t less dangerous at all. Kingsley just wasn’t afraid anymore.
“Break it,” Kingsley said.
Søren’s grip tightened even more. But only slightly and then he let go.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Kingsley said. “You can break me all you want.”
“I might be tempted to play with you if you had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”
“Self-preservation is for the weak. I loved getting destroyed by you.”
“You remember high school much differently than I do,” Søren said. “I’d killed someone at my last school and was terrified I’d do it again. And then you came along and practically asked me to kill you.”
“I didn’t ask you to kill me,” Kingsley said. “I begged you.”
“And you wonder why I prefer to play with people who have limits.”
“You know you miss me,” Kingsley said, running his hand down Søren’s side from his shoulder blade to his waist. He felt every muscle in Søren’s body tense, and Kingsley lifted his hand.
“Did that hurt?” Kingsley asked, confused by Søren’s sudden recoil.
“No, do it again.”
Warily Kingsley placed his hand flat on Søren’s back again and ran it down his body.
“Again?” Kingsley asked.
“Yes.”
Kingsley knelt at Søren’s side and, with both hands, rubbed his back from neck to hip. Slowly the tension eased. Søren had a beautiful back—long, lean and with broad shoulders etched with taut muscle. With his eyes closed, Kingsley ran his fingers down the line of Søren’s spine. Søren released a sigh of pleasure.
“You like this?” Kingsley asked.
“I do.”
“Why did you never make me give you back rubs?”
“I didn’t know I liked them until now.” Søren stretched out on his stomach and turned his head on the pillow to face Kingsley. “I was always wary of being touched. Which is fine. Apart from handshakes, priests are never touched.”
Kingsley’s heart clenched in sympathy. He forgot sometimes how much damage Søren’s childhood had done to him. One night in their hermitage back at school, Søren had confessed to him everything that had happened between him and his sister when he was eleven and she twelve. No wonder Søren had shied away from being touched when even simple pleasures were tainted with shame.
“But this...this doesn’t bother you?”
“No,” Søren said. “But stay above the waist.”
Kingsley laughed. “Yes, sir.”
With more force now and confidence, Kingsley massaged Søren’s back. It was almost better than sex, knowing he was the first person to ever touch Søren like this. Almost.
“You know,” Kingsley began, “when I went to see your friend Magdalena in Rome, she insisted on telling my fortune.”
“She did that to me, too.”
“You know what she said?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Søren said. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me even if I don’t.”
“She said you and I would be lovers again.”
“Well, fortune-tellers make their living telling us what we want to hear,” Søren said in a pointed tone. “Thus creating the likelihood of the prophecy coming true because of its self-fulfilling nature. We want it be true, so we work to make it happen.”
“Is that so? What did she tell you that you wanted to hear?”
Søren exhaled heavily, and Kingsley felt the breath moving through Søren’s chest and back.
“Among many other things, she told me I would have a son someday. I had to remind Magdalena that the vow of celibacy made this an unlikely occurrence.”
“Has no one ever told you that you smell like that?”
“Elizabeth mentioned something about it a long time ago. And someone else. Recently.”
“Who?”
“Eleanor.”
Eleanor. The Virgin Queen. It comforted Kingsley to know Eleanor could smell the winter on Søren’s skin. It seemed portentous somehow—Elizabeth, Kingsley, Eleanor—the three who’d loved Søren, the three who’d been or would be his lovers. Maybe Søren was right about this girl. Maybe she was the one they’d dreamed of all those years ago. Kingsley dipped his head and pressed a kiss on to Søren’s right shoulder. He kissed Søren’s shoulder blade, his neck, the back of his neck, tasting the snow on his skin. Kingsley kissed his way down the center of Søren’s back as he trailed his fingers over his rib cage.
“What do you think you are doing?” Søren asked.
“I’m trying to find out what a priest sleeps in,” Kingsley said as he slipped his hand under the sheet.
Søren caught his hand and held it in a vicious, viselike grip.
“This priest sleeps in a bed.”
“You’re going to break my wrist,” Kingsley said, not the least bothered by the prospect. The pain from Søren’s grip sobered him up, cleared his thinking and aroused him.
Søren tightened his grip and Kingsley winced. Nice to know Søren hadn’t been lying—the wolf was still there. Søren wasn’t less dangerous at all. Kingsley just wasn’t afraid anymore.
“Break it,” Kingsley said.
Søren’s grip tightened even more. But only slightly and then he let go.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Kingsley said. “You can break me all you want.”
“I might be tempted to play with you if you had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”
“Self-preservation is for the weak. I loved getting destroyed by you.”
“You remember high school much differently than I do,” Søren said. “I’d killed someone at my last school and was terrified I’d do it again. And then you came along and practically asked me to kill you.”
“I didn’t ask you to kill me,” Kingsley said. “I begged you.”
“And you wonder why I prefer to play with people who have limits.”
“You know you miss me,” Kingsley said, running his hand down Søren’s side from his shoulder blade to his waist. He felt every muscle in Søren’s body tense, and Kingsley lifted his hand.
“Did that hurt?” Kingsley asked, confused by Søren’s sudden recoil.
“No, do it again.”
Warily Kingsley placed his hand flat on Søren’s back again and ran it down his body.
“Again?” Kingsley asked.
“Yes.”
Kingsley knelt at Søren’s side and, with both hands, rubbed his back from neck to hip. Slowly the tension eased. Søren had a beautiful back—long, lean and with broad shoulders etched with taut muscle. With his eyes closed, Kingsley ran his fingers down the line of Søren’s spine. Søren released a sigh of pleasure.
“You like this?” Kingsley asked.
“I do.”
“Why did you never make me give you back rubs?”
“I didn’t know I liked them until now.” Søren stretched out on his stomach and turned his head on the pillow to face Kingsley. “I was always wary of being touched. Which is fine. Apart from handshakes, priests are never touched.”
Kingsley’s heart clenched in sympathy. He forgot sometimes how much damage Søren’s childhood had done to him. One night in their hermitage back at school, Søren had confessed to him everything that had happened between him and his sister when he was eleven and she twelve. No wonder Søren had shied away from being touched when even simple pleasures were tainted with shame.
“But this...this doesn’t bother you?”
“No,” Søren said. “But stay above the waist.”
Kingsley laughed. “Yes, sir.”
With more force now and confidence, Kingsley massaged Søren’s back. It was almost better than sex, knowing he was the first person to ever touch Søren like this. Almost.
“You know,” Kingsley began, “when I went to see your friend Magdalena in Rome, she insisted on telling my fortune.”
“She did that to me, too.”
“You know what she said?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Søren said. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me even if I don’t.”
“She said you and I would be lovers again.”
“Well, fortune-tellers make their living telling us what we want to hear,” Søren said in a pointed tone. “Thus creating the likelihood of the prophecy coming true because of its self-fulfilling nature. We want it be true, so we work to make it happen.”
“Is that so? What did she tell you that you wanted to hear?”
Søren exhaled heavily, and Kingsley felt the breath moving through Søren’s chest and back.
“Among many other things, she told me I would have a son someday. I had to remind Magdalena that the vow of celibacy made this an unlikely occurrence.”
