The King: The Original Sinners Book 6 (7 page)

“I don’t care who she plays with. I want to know why she’s lying on my couch in a stupor claiming you gave her the best pain of her life?”

“The best? I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, but I’m pleased she enjoyed herself.” Søren smiled as he dug through the suitcase of kink toys Kingsley kept under every bed in the house. “I certainly enjoyed her.”

“So all that about not breaking your vows was,
quoi
?”

“There was no sex, and I didn’t marry her. Nor did I take money from her or refuse to obey a direct order from the pope.”

“What about—” Kingsley made a specific hand gesture.

“Well,” Søren said. “I did do that, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But we Jesuits aren’t nearly so hard-line or heavy-handed as the Curia when it comes to masturbation. My God, there are at least three puns in that last sentence. Entirely unintentional.”

“Stop joking. This is serious.”

“It’s not serious. Calm down, Kingsley.”

“I’m perfectly calm.”

“You’re speaking in tongues, Kingsley. I heard French and English, and some Spanish mixed in, and you’re speaking them all at the same time.”

“You’re a priest. A Jesuit priest. And I left the house for one hour and come back, and I’ve got a girl with afterglow on my couch eating strawberries claiming my ex-lover who is now a Catholic priest gave her the best pain of her life. I can’t ever leave my house again.”

“You know from personal experience it’s in the world’s best interest I beat someone on a regular basis. I spoke to my confessor, and he gave me leave to deal with this side of myself as long as I don’t break any vows. So there.”

“So there? No, not there. We’re not there yet. You—” Kingsley pointed at Søren. “You’re in a good mood all the time. And you talk. And you’re...
nice
. Well, nicer.” The word
nice
hurt coming out. “You’ve changed.”

“Kingsley—”

“It’s the girl, isn’t it? The Virgin Queen. I should have known.”

Søren eyed him with suspicion. “Kingsley, are you—”

“Give me a second.” Kingsley paced the room. His mind reeled. What had happened under his own roof? He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out tobacco and rolling papers.

“What are you doing?”

“I need a cigarette to calm my nerves. They’re frazzled.”

“You’re not a dowager duchess. You shouldn’t have frazzled nerves at twenty-eight,” Søren said. “And you shouldn’t be smoking, either.”

“My house, my rules. It’s a smoking house. Everyone has to smoke in my house. I won’t quit smoking, and if you stay here you have to start.” Kingsley quickly rolled a cigarette and licked the rolling paper to seal it.

“Then I’ll go back to the rectory.”

Kingsley flicked his lighter, lit his cigarette, took a long drag and glared at Søren.

“How do you give someone the best pain of their life without touching them?”

Kingsley raised the cigarette to his lips again.

He heard a snapping sound, and the cigarette no longer had a flame.

For a long time he looked at his cigarette before slowly turning his head toward Søren who held a bullwhip in his hand. Casually Søren coiled it.

Cigarette lit.

Bullwhip snap.

Cigarette not lit anymore.

He held the stub in his hand split in two.

“Any other questions?” Søren asked with an arrogant lift of his eyebrow.

Kingsley pointed at the whip, pointed at his hand, pointed at Søren...

“Can you teach me to do that?”

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

Søren threw the whip down on the bed and came around to Kingsley. He raised his hands to Kingsley’s face and lifted his eyelids.

“What are your questions?” Kingsley asked, trying to blink.

“Why do you smell like a brothel? Why do you have a gun in your pants? And most importantly, what drugs are you on right now?”

9

WHEN IN DOUBT,
Kingsley fucked.

And ever since Søren had caught him taking drugs, he’d been drowning in self-doubt. Now he was drowning in Blaise’s body, a vastly superior body to drown in. She’d made the mistake of looking much too attractive today when she stopped by his office to say good morning. But she hadn’t complained when he’d slipped his hand under her skirt, and she certainly wasn’t complaining now that he had her straddling him in his large leather desk chair.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Blaise said as she unbuttoned his collar. She dipped her head and kissed his lips, his neck.

“I have you on top of me. Of course I’m in a good mood.” He skimmed his fingers down her throat and into the V of her blouse.

“If you were inside me, you’d be in an even better mood.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kingsley asked. He slid his hands under her skirt and massaged her soft thighs.

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Blaise bit his earlobe and whispered.
“S’il vous plait, monsieur.”

“Since you ask so nicely...”

Blaise laughed as Kingsley stood up without warning and sat her down hard on the edge of his desk. He hiked her skirt up to her hips, and Blaise tensed.

“Something wrong,
chouchou
?” he asked.

“I love this skirt. Just don’t tear it. Please?”

“If I did, I would replace it for you.”

“It belonged to Bette Davis.”

“You and your outfits...”

Kingsley dragged her off the desk and turned her back to him. Carefully, so as not to tear the vintage fabric, he pulled the tiny zipper down and slid the skirt down her legs. She stepped out of it, and he laid it over the back of his chair.

“Are you wearing anything else that belongs to a dead actress?”

“Everything else on me or in me is fair game.”

“Good.” Kingsley tore her panties off but left her still wearing her stockings and garters. Then he spanked her hard on her bare bottom, hard enough she yelped. He did love that sound. He swatted her again even harder this time, then snapped her garter against the back of her thigh. Her skin pinked beautifully. But he preferred red, so he spanked her again.

“You’re evil,” Blaise said as she hung her head and panted in pain. “How do you make a spanking hurt that much?”

“Practice,” Kingsley said, and swatted her again. “You know you love it.”

“I hate it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kingsley pressed her legs apart and pushed a finger inside her. “This doesn’t feel like hate to me.”

She was wet inside, very wet, and hot.

“My pussy loves you. Every other part of me hates you right now.”

“Every other part?” He brought his arm around her waist and found her swollen clitoris. He kneaded it gently.

“Okay...maybe not every other part,” Blaise said breathlessly, her lips parting. She braced herself against his desk while he touched her, one hand inside, one outside. He pushed a third finger into her vagina and opened her up for him. Blaise let out a groan of pleasure that was likely heard by everyone in the entire house. Good. He hadn’t bothered to lock his office door. Blaise’s inability to stay quiet during sex worked better than any tie on a doorknob.

“Where’s my camera when I need it?” Kingsley asked as he pushed deeper into her body until her inner muscles flinched around him. “You make quite a picture right now.”

“How’s this for a pose?” Blaise parted her legs even more, giving him a better look at all her assets.

“Très jolie,”
he said with appreciation. “But this would make a better picture.”

“What would?”

Kingsley picked her up and sat her on top of his desk. He stripped her of her blouse and bra and pushed her thighs open. She had nothing on now but her stockings, her garters and a pair of high heels. Kingsley admired her body so open and ready for him.

“Parfait.”

Kingsley unzipped his pants and stroked himself to his full hardness. He let the wet tip of his cock rub against Blaise’s clitoris. She moaned and lifted her hips.

“You’re going to make me beg for it, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Don’t I always?”

“Always,” she said. “Please, fuck me.”

“Not good enough.”

Blaise sighed heavily. “Please, monsieur, fuck me. You’re the most beautiful man in New York City and maybe the entire tri-state area.”

“That’s a new one.”

“I love your hair, how soft it is, and your dark eyes. And you have the sexiest hands on any man ever.”

“Hands?”

“I like hands,” Blaise said. “It’s a girl thing.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Um...I love your accent, and your cock is magnificent, and if you don’t put it in me soon I will cry and it’ll ruin my makeup and it’ll be all your fault, so please fuck me now, right now, this second, or I swear to God I will forget I’m the submissive in this relationship.”

Kingsley penetrated her with one hard stroke. Blaise’s head fell back, and she lifted her hips off the desk taking him all the way into her. With a jerk of his hips he pulled out and slammed into her again. He grasped her breasts in his hands and squeezed them, lightly pinching her nipples as she writhed beneath him. She was burning up on the inside and wet enough he could hear it as he moved in her. He watched himself fucking her. With the pad of his thumb he rubbed her where their bodies joined. Blaise stiffened with pleasure and grasped the edge of his desk to steady herself. Her skin flushed red, and her nipples hardened. Inside her and all around him she pulsed with her building climax.

He was nothing now but a body. Nothing now but sex. He didn’t think, didn’t remember, didn’t need, didn’t doubt himself because he didn’t exist—not when he was fucking. He’d fuck constantly if he could. Anything to keep the
memoire
at bay. Anything to keep the world at bay.

With a quick yank of his hands, Kingsley dragged Blaise closer to the edge of the desk. He pushed her thighs back, wider and closer to her chest. When she was as open for him as she could be and he as deep inside her as possible, he ordered her to come for him. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed them to the point of pain the way he liked, and she came hard, her shoulders rising off the desk, her hips moving wildly against him, her voice nothing but a series of sharp desperate breaths. When she was done, Kingsley wrapped his arms around her, pulled up and pressed her chest against his. She kissed him and he kissed back, a desperate hungry kiss between lovers who knew exactly what the other one wanted. He fucked her as he kissed her, fucked her without mercy, and she took every thrust like his good girl should. He had to come, but he didn’t want to, not yet. He wanted to stay inside her hot wet hole all day and all night and until he’d died fucking her, and then he’d never have to think or remember or feel anything but the welcoming inside of a woman’s body again.

So much pressure...he could barely breathe... His thighs were shaking from the endless thrusting, his cock so sensitive it ached... In his ear Blaise whispered erotic encouragements.
Come inside me, my King...I want it dripping down my thighs all day...as hard as you want...as hard as you can...

As hard as he could was hard enough that his eyes watered from the force of his own orgasm. He came with a rush, with a fierce deep spasm, and a rush of hot fluid inside her. In the back of his mind somewhere he heard Blaise crying out in what sounded like pain.

Far too quickly he came down from the high of his climax. He rested his head on Blaise’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him and laughed.

“You’re laughing at me?” Kingsley asked, slowly disentangling himself from her arms.

“I am. Look.” She raised her shoulder to show the bite mark on it. “You vampire.”

“I don’t remember doing that. My sincerest apologies.” He kissed the wound. He’d broken the skin but only a little.

“Don’t apologize. I love it when you give me presents.”

He pulled out of her and collapsed into his office chair.

“Your turn to handle cleanup.” He waved his hand at her, shooing her off his desk. She hopped off and pulled a box of tissues out of his desk.

“It’s always my turn to handle cleanup.”

“You’re so good at it.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” She knelt in front of him and used her tongue to gently lick him. It hurt. It always hurt to be touched after an orgasm. Pleasure and pain all in one act. He wasn’t satisfied until he’d had both.

When Blaise finished, she cleaned herself off with the tissues in his desk, got dressed and kissed him goodbye.

“That was fun. Want to go for round two tonight?” she asked.

“Please.”

“You’ll be sober?”

“No promises.”

Blaise rolled her eyes, kissed him again and left him alone in his office. Kingsley finished straightening his clothes and pulling himself back together. And then it happened the way it always happened. Thoughts. Memories. Things he wanted to forget but couldn’t all came rushing back into his mind. Life would be so much better if he could keep the blood in his cock and out of his brain all the time.

Kingsley unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk—the large one made to hold files—and took inventory of its contents. Eleven bottles of bourbon, two grams of cocaine, one ounce of marijuana, two bottles of pure codeine, ninety pills— one-hundred milligrams each—and one bottle of ketamine, because sometimes only a tranquilizer made for horses and the magical Wonderland it sent him falling into would do.

He reached for a bottle of the codeine, but his office door opened. Kingsley slammed the drawer shut and sat back in his chair.

“Do you never knock?” Kingsley asked.

“The moaning and groaning had stopped, and the walls have stopped rattling,” Søren said. “I assumed the coast was clear.”

“Clear for what? What are you doing here?”

“Fulfilling my end of the deal, like I said I would.”

“Are you here to yell at me again?” Kingsley asked as Søren walked in.

“I didn’t yell,” Søren said, taking a seat opposite Kingsley’s desk. “At no point did I raise my voice at you.”

“It felt like yelling.”

“Even the lightest touch can hurt an open wound. You can’t blame me for being worried about you.”

“Stop worrying. You aren’t my father.”

“I should hope not,” Søren said, furrowing his brow. “If so, my infant self has some explaining to do.”

“You aren’t my priest, either,” Kingsley said, although Søren didn’t look like a priest today. He wore his usual off-duty uniform of a long-sleeved black T-shirt and black pants.

“Why, Kingsley, aren’t we looking very defensive today.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. You asked me to teach you the whip trick. Here I am.”

“I asked you to teach me a whip trick?”

“I can’t say I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

“I remember.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes at him. Now that Søren had reminded him about it, he remembered.

“I can go if you’ve changed your mind,” Søren said, standing up.

“No. Sit. Don’t go.”

Søren looked at him and sat back down.

“I don’t do coke very often,” Kingsley said. “I was having a bad night. That’s all.”

“How many bad nights do you have?”

“One or two. Not many,” Kingsley said.

“I know I gave you the money with no strings attached. But I never suspected you’d use it for drugs.”

“You want the money back?”

“No. I want you to take better care of yourself. That’s all.”

“Take better care of myself? An interesting statement coming from the man who used to beat me black-and-blue on a regular basis. I see you’ve found some new whipping boys.”

“Whipping girls.”

“Only girls these days?” Kingsley asked.

“Only women. I’m less likely to go too far.”

“I loved it when you went too far.”

“And now,” Søren said with a smile, “you know why I don’t play with you.”

Kingsley lowered his head and rested his chin on his crossed arms.

“Kingsley?”

“What happened to you? You’re different,” Kingsley said.

“You want to know the truth?”

“I asked.”

“Her name is Magdalena.”

“Secret girlfriend?”

“She’s the madam of a Roman brothel. She and her employees cater to a very specific clientele.”

“Masochists?”

“Mostly.”

“That’s where you’ve been going to...” Kingsley waved his hand.

“It is.”

“Normal men join a gym to work off their extra energy,” Kingsley said. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m not normal men. And don’t pretend you are, either.”

Kingsley rolled his eyes, waved his hand again. “So she’s your friend and...?”

“My first two years of seminary were difficult. I’m not sure I would have made it without Magdalena. I owe her, but she refused to accept any form of remuneration from me.”

“I’ve known a lot of prostitutes. Never heard of one refusing money from a john. Of course, it’s you, and I’d pay you money for another—”

“Kingsley, she and I never slept together. We were friends. I learned from her.”

“You learned how to knock a cigarette out of someone’s mouth with a whip?”

“One of the first skills she taught me, yes,” Søren said.

Now Kingsley knew what Søren’s “other hobbies” were. He’d learned the art and science of sadism over the past decade. Sounded far more useful to Kingsley than a degree in theology.

“I traveled a great deal while in school,” Søren continued, “but when I was in Rome, not a week passed that I didn’t find myself at her home.”

“She let you hurt her?”

“She did,” Søren said. “Although she herself is a sadist. And a very good one.”

“How good?”

Søren looked away and smiled at something before looking back at Kingsley.

“She was very mean to me,” Søren said.

Kingsley pointed at him. “Good. Someone needs to be. Is the reason for all this...” He waved his hand again.

“This what?”

“Good behavior?”

“I just told you I went to a brothel every week in seminary to learn sadism from a madam. You have an interesting definition of good behavior.”