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