The Prince

Then the time came. Søren lay on his back, propped up against a mountain of pillows. He pulled Eleanor—naked but for a pair of white high heels—back against his chest.

And as Søren held her in his arms, Kingsley had f**ked her. Never before or since had he f**ked a woman so hard or so thoroughly. She’d moaned in her pleasure, winced in her pain and closed her eyes in her ecstasy. And when her eyes shut, Kingsley looked at Søren, who looked back at him. And Kingsley knew it would happen that night.

They exhausted Eleanor after an hour and let her rest.

Wine…Søren had said he wanted wine.

No…Kingsley furrowed his brow. The fog of memory cleared. Kingsley had suggested the wine. Søren had agreed to it readily. He’d kissed his Eleanor and tucked her into bed. Side by side they’d left the bedroom.

They never got the wine.

Once out in the hallway, Kingsley felt a hand on the back of his neck, fingers pressing into his skin. He remembered that hand, those fingers...

Søren brought his mouth to Kingsley’s ear. “Stop me right now,” he’d ordered, and Kingsley had suppressed his smile.

“Stop what…sir?”

“This.”

And Kingsley suddenly found himself pushed against the door of one of the many guest rooms, Søren’s chest pressed to his back.

“I’ll hurt you if you don’t stop me.” Søren dug his hand into Kingsley’s long hair, twisted it and bared the side of Kingsley’s neck. When Søren’s lips touched the throbbing vein under his ear, Kingsley knew nothing he said or did would stop either of them now.

Kingsley opened the door to the guest bedroom.

Søren closed it behind them.

“Bed,” Søren had ordered, and Kingsley obeyed without question. He’d always obeyed Søren without question, and always would—in the bedroom if nowhere else.

Kingsley had learned early on about Søren’s…tastes. It didn’t take long to learn that the young man he’d fallen in love with at school had been broken. But broken in such a way that when he’d healed, he’d become stronger than before the break. Because of that brokenness, only inflicting pain could arouse him. Physical pain preferably, but brutal humiliation would also do. So when Søren wrenched Kingsley’s arm behind his back, Kingsley knew not to suppress his gasp of pain. Those sounds—the gasps and whimpers, the sobs and tears—they were what Søren lived for. Kingsley had accepted it as a young man, understood it instinctively. It wasn’t until he began to play the game himself that he understood the erotic power of inflicting pain on a lover and watching him or her accept it, revel in it, even love it.

A part of him had wanted the old affection, at least for this act. And if not affection, then at least some measure of mercy. But Søren was in no mood for mercy that night, and Kingsley hadn’t had to fake his initial cry of agony at the first penetration. He’d had to bite down on the sheets to stifle his own scream. Søren had nearly wrenched Kingsley’s shoulder from its socket from the sheer force of his thrusts. And after, there’d been blood, and Kingsley had savored the sight of it.

Proof. He held out his fingers toward Søren.

“You can’t deny this, mon ami. Can you?” He brandished his bloodstained hand. “You still want me.”

Søren had been standing by the door then, waiting for Kingsley to finish dressing, to pull himself back together.

“I never denied that I wanted you. I only denied taking you.”

“Pourquoi?” Kingsley demanded. “Why? You take her every way you can, every chance you have. Why her and not me?”

Søren hadn’t replied, and for that Kingsley had been forever grateful. He knew the answer, but to hear it would have broken the one last unbroken part of his spirit.

They’d returned to Kingsley’s bedroom, and Søren hadn’t turned on the lights. If he had, Eleanor would have seen the bleeding bite marks on Kingsley’s chest, the bruises on his hips, the welt on his lower back. Kingsley had sunk into Eleanor’s body and relished the ease of it, of f**king a woman so supple and so willing. But not submissive. Kingsley had seen something in Eleanor that night—a spark of violence in her eyes, a flash of rebellion and defiance. Søren thought he’d found the perfect match in her, the perfect submissive. Perhaps she was as perfect as he; surely she was as beautiful. But no submissive. Not at all. Kingsley knew a switch when he saw one. After all, he looked at one every day in the mirror.

Again and again, that night they’d taken Eleanor, until she could barely stay awake. And even then it didn’t matter. Kingsley had slid onto her unconscious body, pushed inside her and slowly thrust. She’d woken up for a moment, softly laughed and lapsed back into sleep. And Kingsley still f**ked her. Anything to prove to Søren that while he’d been hurt by their interlude, he hadn’t been harmed.

And in the hour before dawn, while Eleanor slept, Kingsley knelt on his hands and knees at the side of the bed. With his mouth, Kingsley showed Søren his gratitude that the priest had shared his most precious possession with him that night. Kingsley swallowed and relished the se**n in his stomach. What he’d had with Søren had died once, and for one night been resurrected. The evening would not have been complete without a final communion.

Eight years later he discovered that Nora had seen it all. And eight years later it had been her he’d knelt in front of. If he couldn’t have the master he wanted, he could at least serve the master’s slave.