The King
Page 82
Søren laughed softly. Kingsley loved making Søren laugh. Kingsley theorized the whole course of human evolution had led to Søren, and when he laughed, the world knew it had done a good job with its work.
“Turn over,” Søren ordered, and Kingsley obeyed instantly. Now Søren teased the front of his body, his stomach and chest. With his fingertips, Søren lightly scored Kingsley’s ribs, counting them up the left side and down the right. By the time he counted to twenty-four, Kingsley was fully erect.
“You like this, too?” Søren asked as he pushed Kingsley’s shirt up to his armpits. Kingsley did him one better and pulled it all the way off.
“Every second of it. Do you?”
Søren paused. A sign he was thinking deeply, weighing his words.
“It’s interesting, seeing how you respond to different types of touch.”
“Can I touch you, too?” Kingsley asked. “Please?”
“If you insist. Although I won’t enjoy it, so I don’t know why you’d bother.”
Kingsley heard amusement in Søren’s voice. He loved detailing Kingsley’s many inadequacies for him—Kingsley was a waste of Søren’s time. He was too French, not Catholic, too sex-obsessed, not studious enough, not nearly obedient enough, and, of course, beneath Søren in every way—physically, morally and ontologically. Considering Søren said these sort of cruel nothings to him while they were alone together, kissing, touching, fucking, Kingsley questioned if Søren actually meant them. In fact, sometimes Kingsley got the distinct feeling Søren liked him. He had paid to bring Marie-Laure all the way to America to visit him at school. If that wasn’t love—or at least affection—what was it?
“You might not enjoy it,” Kingsley said. “But I will.”
Kingsley sat next to Søren, facing him. Søren turned his head and looked at Kingsley without speaking. No doubt Søren expected Kingsley to touch him in some intimate part of his body. And Kingsley did.
He reached up and touched Søren’s face. In shock or surprise, Søren pulled back an inch. Kingsley waited, reached out again and pressed his fingertips to Søren’s cheek.
“You’re too pale,” Kingsley said. “Every time I touch you I think your skin will be cold like stone.”
“It isn’t easy to get a tan in Maine,” Søren said. “Any other complaints about my appearance?”
“Your eyelashes are too dark.” Kingsley ran the pad of his thumb over the tips of Søren’s eyelashes. “Makes it hard for me to concentrate when I’m around you.”
“I don’t accept my eyelashes as an excuse for your bad behavior.”
“Then you’ll have to keep punishing me for it, then.”
“I intend to.”
Kingsley leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Søren’s shoulders and kissed him. Søren returned the kiss with surprising tenderness and gentleness. Usually Søren’s kisses were of the bruising variety, which Kingsley loved. But he loved this, too; Søren’s hands on his naked back, their lips touching, their tongues mingling... And then, because the kiss was too perfect, Kingsley ruined it by laughing.
Søren pulled back and glared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Kingsley said. “I never thought...”
“Never thought what?” Søren demanded.
“Never thought I’d make out with you in the backseat of a car. Can we go to a drive-in movie tonight, too?”
Søren glared at him.
“Put your shirt on.”
“Don’t stop. We were almost to second base,” Kingsley said, stilling laughing. He didn’t even stop laughing when Søren pushed him on to the floor of the car.
“We have to stop,” Søren said, all amusement gone from his eyes. “We’re here.”
Kingsley scrambled on to the seat and pulled his T-shirt and jacket back on. He ran his hand through his hair and straightened his clothes.
“What are you going to do?” Kingsley noticed the tight set to Søren’s mouth, the hard line of his jaw.
“Pray that God gives me the words,” he said. “I hope she’s here.”
“Didn’t Elizabeth say the new wife should be home?”
“I didn’t mean the new wife. I meant my sister—the baby. Claire.”
“You said she was three, oui? She’s not a baby, she’s a preschooler.”
“When did you become an expert on childhood development?”
“I didn’t, but even I know the difference between a baby and a preschooler.” Kingsley scoffed, and Søren narrowed his eyes at him. Maybe he would get a beating today after all.
“How did your sister find out about the new wife?”
“Her mother hired someone to watch my father’s activities. Elizabeth keeps me informed. We knew he’d gotten remarried. We didn’t know until recently he’d had another child.”
“Why would he keep that a secret?”
“Because he knows Elizabeth and I would do something like this.”
The car turned a corner on to a long, tree-lined stretch of road, and a grand English manor came into view.
“That’s it?” Kingsley asked.
Søren stared blankly out the window before inclining his head.
“Turn over,” Søren ordered, and Kingsley obeyed instantly. Now Søren teased the front of his body, his stomach and chest. With his fingertips, Søren lightly scored Kingsley’s ribs, counting them up the left side and down the right. By the time he counted to twenty-four, Kingsley was fully erect.
“You like this, too?” Søren asked as he pushed Kingsley’s shirt up to his armpits. Kingsley did him one better and pulled it all the way off.
“Every second of it. Do you?”
Søren paused. A sign he was thinking deeply, weighing his words.
“It’s interesting, seeing how you respond to different types of touch.”
“Can I touch you, too?” Kingsley asked. “Please?”
“If you insist. Although I won’t enjoy it, so I don’t know why you’d bother.”
Kingsley heard amusement in Søren’s voice. He loved detailing Kingsley’s many inadequacies for him—Kingsley was a waste of Søren’s time. He was too French, not Catholic, too sex-obsessed, not studious enough, not nearly obedient enough, and, of course, beneath Søren in every way—physically, morally and ontologically. Considering Søren said these sort of cruel nothings to him while they were alone together, kissing, touching, fucking, Kingsley questioned if Søren actually meant them. In fact, sometimes Kingsley got the distinct feeling Søren liked him. He had paid to bring Marie-Laure all the way to America to visit him at school. If that wasn’t love—or at least affection—what was it?
“You might not enjoy it,” Kingsley said. “But I will.”
Kingsley sat next to Søren, facing him. Søren turned his head and looked at Kingsley without speaking. No doubt Søren expected Kingsley to touch him in some intimate part of his body. And Kingsley did.
He reached up and touched Søren’s face. In shock or surprise, Søren pulled back an inch. Kingsley waited, reached out again and pressed his fingertips to Søren’s cheek.
“You’re too pale,” Kingsley said. “Every time I touch you I think your skin will be cold like stone.”
“It isn’t easy to get a tan in Maine,” Søren said. “Any other complaints about my appearance?”
“Your eyelashes are too dark.” Kingsley ran the pad of his thumb over the tips of Søren’s eyelashes. “Makes it hard for me to concentrate when I’m around you.”
“I don’t accept my eyelashes as an excuse for your bad behavior.”
“Then you’ll have to keep punishing me for it, then.”
“I intend to.”
Kingsley leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Søren’s shoulders and kissed him. Søren returned the kiss with surprising tenderness and gentleness. Usually Søren’s kisses were of the bruising variety, which Kingsley loved. But he loved this, too; Søren’s hands on his naked back, their lips touching, their tongues mingling... And then, because the kiss was too perfect, Kingsley ruined it by laughing.
Søren pulled back and glared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Kingsley said. “I never thought...”
“Never thought what?” Søren demanded.
“Never thought I’d make out with you in the backseat of a car. Can we go to a drive-in movie tonight, too?”
Søren glared at him.
“Put your shirt on.”
“Don’t stop. We were almost to second base,” Kingsley said, stilling laughing. He didn’t even stop laughing when Søren pushed him on to the floor of the car.
“We have to stop,” Søren said, all amusement gone from his eyes. “We’re here.”
Kingsley scrambled on to the seat and pulled his T-shirt and jacket back on. He ran his hand through his hair and straightened his clothes.
“What are you going to do?” Kingsley noticed the tight set to Søren’s mouth, the hard line of his jaw.
“Pray that God gives me the words,” he said. “I hope she’s here.”
“Didn’t Elizabeth say the new wife should be home?”
“I didn’t mean the new wife. I meant my sister—the baby. Claire.”
“You said she was three, oui? She’s not a baby, she’s a preschooler.”
“When did you become an expert on childhood development?”
“I didn’t, but even I know the difference between a baby and a preschooler.” Kingsley scoffed, and Søren narrowed his eyes at him. Maybe he would get a beating today after all.
“How did your sister find out about the new wife?”
“Her mother hired someone to watch my father’s activities. Elizabeth keeps me informed. We knew he’d gotten remarried. We didn’t know until recently he’d had another child.”
“Why would he keep that a secret?”
“Because he knows Elizabeth and I would do something like this.”
The car turned a corner on to a long, tree-lined stretch of road, and a grand English manor came into view.
“That’s it?” Kingsley asked.
Søren stared blankly out the window before inclining his head.
