The Prince
Page 62
Kingsley relaxed as Søren commanded, letting his body go limp against the stone. Søren slipped a hand between his legs and pushed a finger inside him. Kingsley arched hard and grasped at Søren’s shoulder.
Søren took Kingsley’s hand and pushed his arm back towards the ground.
“Don’t fight me.”
Kingsley shook his head. He didn’t want to fight Søren, only touch him. But Søren seemed intent on doing all the touching tonight. He remained fully clothed—pants on, shirt on—while Kingsley lay naked underneath him. Søren brought his mouth to Kingsley’s and kissed him with brutal force. Biting, tugging, skin-breaking…Kingsley had never kissed a girl with half the passion with which Søren kissed him. The finger inside him found a spot Kingsley didn’t know he had, and when Søren pushed into it, Kingsley cried out from the sheer shock of pleasure.
But the pleasure was short-lived. Søren pulled out of Kingsley and left him on the ground as he stood up and walked to the edge of the forest. He picked up the bag Kingsley had brought, but also pulled a whip-thin branch from a tree.
“Hands and knees,” Søren said as he dropped the bag back onto the ground and stood at Kingsley’s side.
“What?”
Søren put his foot on Kingsley’s chest and pushed him hard, rolling him onto his stomach.
“Hands…and…knees,” he repeated, and Kingsley dragged himself painfully up as ordered.
Søren brought the branch down onto his back. Once. A second time. A third. After five Kingsley stopped counting. After five minutes, Kingsley stopped breathing.
He collapsed onto his chest and was only vaguely aware of Søren tossing the branch aside, and then the zipper to the bag opening and something cold and wet filling him. But when Søren started to push inside him, Kingsley came back to himself.
“Yes…” He exhaled the word as Søren went deep into him. It hurt. No denying it hurt. But it healed him, too. The welts on him, the cuts and bruises, had been the price he’d paid for such a prize as this moment.
Kingsley dug the heels of his hands into the stone to steady himself as Søren drove into him over and over again. He pushed back when Søren pushed forward. In that moment of total penetration, Kingsley ceased to be a person, a human being, and became nothing but property, chattel, an object to be owned and used for the pleasure of another. That other was Søren, whom Kingsley loved. To be owned by him was an honor higher than any he could imagine. Had the world offered him castles and thrones, the chance to reign as a prince or a king, and all the riches that he could imagine, in exchange for giving this up, Kingsley would have said no, and he would have not regretted his choice. Not then. Not ever.
Kingsley’s body started to open up for Søren. The pain lessened. The pleasure increased, while Søren moved in him with methodical thrusts and in utter silence. Kingsley ached for something, anything from him—a touch, a word, some kind of comfort or reassurance. But he also relished that Søren deemed him unworthy of all the niceties of sex among the civilized.
Søren dug his hand into the back of Kingsley’s hair to hold him still as he pushed into him even harder. More than uncivilized, this was savagery, and Kingsley loved every primal second of it.
He wanted to say something to Søren, wanted to tell him how he felt about what was happening to him, but he didn’t know the words—not in French, not in English, not in any of the languages Søren knew but Kingsley didn’t. He had to tell him something. What he felt…he felt used, owned, like property, like a slave, treasured, wanted, needed, like an object of infinite value so coveted Søren had lowered himself to theft to make Kingsley his own. Underneath Søren, Kingsley came more alive than he ever felt on top of any girl. He loved his girls, had loved them all. But this was more than love. He couldn’t think of the word for it—not l’amour, not la passion... la vie. It was the closest word to what he felt that he could find.
La vie.
Life.
Søren’s fingers moved from Kingsley’s hair, over his shoulders, down his back, until they held Kingsley by the hollow of his hips. He needed to come, had to come, but somehow instinctively knew he shouldn’t. Not yet. Not until given permission. Søren didn’t even touch him or stroke him, and yet Kingsley felt he could explode at any moment. Breathing deeply to contain his need, he stared at the ground, the stone almost black in the night. Kingsley wasn’t sure what time it was, but he hoped dawn approached. He wanted to greet the morning with Søren. This morning and every morning after.
But the stars stayed in the sky and the sun lurked beneath the horizon. It seemed an hour passed, though the more rational part of Kingsley’s brain knew it only felt that long. The pain stopped time in a way more powerful than even boredom could. Ecstasy passed in seconds. Agony lasted forever. And on the cold rocky cliff, with Søren bruising him with every touch, Kingsley had both.
“Please…” The word came out of Kingsley before he even thought it. He said it again. And one more time.
“Tell me,” Søren ordered, pushing him flat on his stomach. Kingsley turned his head to cushion his face from the rock. But Søren stopped him with a touch. Crooking his arm, he rested it on the ground. Gratefully, Kingsley lay his cheek against Søren’s forearm. The gesture, so simple but so protective, nearly undid him. He would have cried from the joy of it had he not already been crying from the pain.
Søren took Kingsley’s hand and pushed his arm back towards the ground.
“Don’t fight me.”
Kingsley shook his head. He didn’t want to fight Søren, only touch him. But Søren seemed intent on doing all the touching tonight. He remained fully clothed—pants on, shirt on—while Kingsley lay naked underneath him. Søren brought his mouth to Kingsley’s and kissed him with brutal force. Biting, tugging, skin-breaking…Kingsley had never kissed a girl with half the passion with which Søren kissed him. The finger inside him found a spot Kingsley didn’t know he had, and when Søren pushed into it, Kingsley cried out from the sheer shock of pleasure.
But the pleasure was short-lived. Søren pulled out of Kingsley and left him on the ground as he stood up and walked to the edge of the forest. He picked up the bag Kingsley had brought, but also pulled a whip-thin branch from a tree.
“Hands and knees,” Søren said as he dropped the bag back onto the ground and stood at Kingsley’s side.
“What?”
Søren put his foot on Kingsley’s chest and pushed him hard, rolling him onto his stomach.
“Hands…and…knees,” he repeated, and Kingsley dragged himself painfully up as ordered.
Søren brought the branch down onto his back. Once. A second time. A third. After five Kingsley stopped counting. After five minutes, Kingsley stopped breathing.
He collapsed onto his chest and was only vaguely aware of Søren tossing the branch aside, and then the zipper to the bag opening and something cold and wet filling him. But when Søren started to push inside him, Kingsley came back to himself.
“Yes…” He exhaled the word as Søren went deep into him. It hurt. No denying it hurt. But it healed him, too. The welts on him, the cuts and bruises, had been the price he’d paid for such a prize as this moment.
Kingsley dug the heels of his hands into the stone to steady himself as Søren drove into him over and over again. He pushed back when Søren pushed forward. In that moment of total penetration, Kingsley ceased to be a person, a human being, and became nothing but property, chattel, an object to be owned and used for the pleasure of another. That other was Søren, whom Kingsley loved. To be owned by him was an honor higher than any he could imagine. Had the world offered him castles and thrones, the chance to reign as a prince or a king, and all the riches that he could imagine, in exchange for giving this up, Kingsley would have said no, and he would have not regretted his choice. Not then. Not ever.
Kingsley’s body started to open up for Søren. The pain lessened. The pleasure increased, while Søren moved in him with methodical thrusts and in utter silence. Kingsley ached for something, anything from him—a touch, a word, some kind of comfort or reassurance. But he also relished that Søren deemed him unworthy of all the niceties of sex among the civilized.
Søren dug his hand into the back of Kingsley’s hair to hold him still as he pushed into him even harder. More than uncivilized, this was savagery, and Kingsley loved every primal second of it.
He wanted to say something to Søren, wanted to tell him how he felt about what was happening to him, but he didn’t know the words—not in French, not in English, not in any of the languages Søren knew but Kingsley didn’t. He had to tell him something. What he felt…he felt used, owned, like property, like a slave, treasured, wanted, needed, like an object of infinite value so coveted Søren had lowered himself to theft to make Kingsley his own. Underneath Søren, Kingsley came more alive than he ever felt on top of any girl. He loved his girls, had loved them all. But this was more than love. He couldn’t think of the word for it—not l’amour, not la passion... la vie. It was the closest word to what he felt that he could find.
La vie.
Life.
Søren’s fingers moved from Kingsley’s hair, over his shoulders, down his back, until they held Kingsley by the hollow of his hips. He needed to come, had to come, but somehow instinctively knew he shouldn’t. Not yet. Not until given permission. Søren didn’t even touch him or stroke him, and yet Kingsley felt he could explode at any moment. Breathing deeply to contain his need, he stared at the ground, the stone almost black in the night. Kingsley wasn’t sure what time it was, but he hoped dawn approached. He wanted to greet the morning with Søren. This morning and every morning after.
But the stars stayed in the sky and the sun lurked beneath the horizon. It seemed an hour passed, though the more rational part of Kingsley’s brain knew it only felt that long. The pain stopped time in a way more powerful than even boredom could. Ecstasy passed in seconds. Agony lasted forever. And on the cold rocky cliff, with Søren bruising him with every touch, Kingsley had both.
“Please…” The word came out of Kingsley before he even thought it. He said it again. And one more time.
“Tell me,” Søren ordered, pushing him flat on his stomach. Kingsley turned his head to cushion his face from the rock. But Søren stopped him with a touch. Crooking his arm, he rested it on the ground. Gratefully, Kingsley lay his cheek against Søren’s forearm. The gesture, so simple but so protective, nearly undid him. He would have cried from the joy of it had he not already been crying from the pain.
