I should have looked away. Instead, I watched the way his fingers tightened, the way he bit his lower lip, firelight catching on his sweat-dampened brow. The silence was heavy but not empty; it pulsed with want, loneliness, gratitude, and shame in equal measure.
“Does this disgust you?” he asked, a challenge and a plea mingled in his voice.
“No,” I said, the word catching somewhere deep in my throat. “It doesn’t.”
I leaned back in my chair, matching his posture, pulse thrumming in my throat. The King's eyes tracked every movement, dark and hungry as I let my hand drift to my lap—fingers brushing over the bulge straining against the fabric of my suit pants. I was already half hard, arousal stoked by the sight of him—by the intimacy of being allowed to watch.
He saw, and a slow, wrecked smile curved his mouth. “You don't need to be alone in it,” he said, voice no longer gentle but edged with need.
My breath came harsh, shoulders tense as I undid the top button of my waistband, just enough for my hand to press down, palm cupping the rigid line of my cock. Even through layers of fabric, the sensation was electric—heightened by the King's gaze, the flicker of firelight, the forbidden danger of the act.
He mirrored me, one hand stroking himself under the silk, movements measured but desperate, breath hitching with each pass. Theair in the room was thick—every sound amplified: the rasp of my zipper, the catch in his throat, the fire crackling low and hungry.
“You like to watch?” he asked, voice trembling with hope and humiliation.
I nodded, unable to hide how much I did, hips shifting as I began to stroke myself in earnest—slow, relentless pressure that made my whole body ache.
His eyes went hazy, pupils blown wide, watching every motion. “God, Viktor—don’t stop.”
Neither of us did. We just sat there, knees almost touching, hands working ourselves through layers of clothes, separated by inches and a lifetime of restraint. Every pass of my palm sent sparks up my spine, the friction almost unbearable, pleasure sharpened by the King’s hungry, grateful stare.
A moan tore out of him, muffled and needy. My own breath caught, low and guttural, hips shifting with the pressure building under my hand. The silence was thick enough to drown in.
Without warning, the king slid from his chair to the rug, silk pajamas bunching at his knees. Candlelight pooled across his shoulders, casting shadows as he prowled toward me. His gaze never left mine, jaw tight, every line of his face naked with want. One palm braced on my knee, fingers digging into the wool of my trousers, claiming a handful of me like a man denied for years.
Starting at my polished shoe, he dragged his nose up the leather, then over the sharp line of my ankle. The heat of his breath burned through fabric, every inch of his slow ascent a demand, a prayer. His hands parted my knees, rough with urgency, forcing my thighs wide. My cock strained beneath the zipper, swelling against the taut wool.
He inhaled deeply at my thigh, greedy for scent, tongue flicking out to taste the crease where suit met skin. “You smell like sin and steel,” he rasped, voice shaking. “Let me have it. Let me have you.”
Fingers traced the length of my zipper, deliberate, teasing. No patience left now—he wanted, needed, and so did I. My own hand stilled, bracing on the armrest, letting him take control.
Mouth pressed to my inner thigh, teeth grazing through the suit. A shiver ripped through me, hips canting forward, the last of my restraint slipping. I reached down, cradling his jaw, thumb dragging across his lips.
He sucked my thumb into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed, lips hot and wet. “Don’t stop me. Not tonight.” The words spilled out half-broken, pleading, full of old grief and new hunger.
I groaned, low and raw, pulling his head closer, grinding my cock against the seam of my pants for relief. His hands found my belt, working it open with desperate fingers, knuckles brushing over the ache beneath.
Mouth trailed up, leaving a streak of heat from knee to groin. “God, Viktor. I need you to fall apart for me.”
Teeth scraped my hipbone, the sting delicious. His tongue traced the sensitive line just above my waistband, the silk of his pajamas cool where they brushed my calves. I let my head fall back, eyes shut, surrendering to his mouth, his touch, the hot slick slide of his breath over my cock—still trapped, still aching.
“Say you want this. Say it,” he demanded, voice breaking.
“You have no idea,” I gritted out, grinding into his palm, letting him feel how hard I’d gotten from nothing but his gaze and his mouth. The king’s lips crashed into mine, hungry, reckless, his body pressed between my knees. The kiss was pure ruin, all teeth and tongue and helpless need. His hand plunged between us, grasping me through my open pants, thumb stroking over the leaking head, and I gasped into his mouth, biting down to muffle the sound.
His fingers tightened around my cock, squeezing, milking another ragged groan from my chest. My head spun with the taste of him, the heady bite of his tongue tangled with mine. Desperate for more, I tangled my fingers in his hair, dragging him closer, devouring the heat and need he poured into the kiss. Every inch of restraint inside me slipped, every wall I’d built crumbling under the king’s relentless hunger.
Breathless, he broke away, lips shining, jaw working like he was fighting for control. Instead of returning to my mouth, he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the hollow of my throat, tonguecircling the spot where my pulse thundered. His teeth grazed the tendon, a threat and a promise, before he dragged his mouth lower—tracing a slow, worshipful line down the column of my neck, the line of my collarbone, the hollow between the buttons of my shirt.
Palms braced on my thighs, he knelt between my knees, sinking further, folding himself at my feet. I watched, dizzy with power and hunger, as he pressed his face into my lap, inhaling the scent, groaning as he mouthed the bulge beneath my open trousers. His tongue traced the damp spot in my briefs, collecting the salt and heat, making my hips jerk up in search of friction.
He murmured something half-prayer, half-blasphemy, nuzzling the soft skin just above my waistband. I shuddered, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping the armrest so hard my knuckles ached. My thighs trembled under his touch—hard muscle made weak by the sheer worship in every movement.
He drew back then, eyes glazed with lust and something dangerously close to adoration. Reaching for my ankles, he untied my shoes with shaking hands, slow and reverent, as if unwrapping a relic. He pulled each shoe free, careful, precise, letting the weight of the act settle between us. My socked feet hit the floor, cold and sensitive, nerves blazing from the lack of barrier.
Socks followed, peeled down and off, tossed aside like holy things discarded at an altar. The air stung against my bare feet, the vulnerability of it all sending a pulse of arousal through my gut.
“You deserve to be worshipped,” he whispered, voice rough. His breath hit my toes, warm and humid, before he pressed a kiss to the arch of my foot, then the ball, then each toe in turn. Lips parted, tongue sliding out, he sucked my big toe between his lips, eyes flicking up, locking with mine as he worked his mouth around it—sucking, tonguing, lavishing filth and devotion in equal measure.
