The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(18)

dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands

had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be

a deck of cards so much in his life.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” S?ren dealt the cards. “King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without

looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the

dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt

and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.

He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down

to his lap.

“You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how

busy I am?”

“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she

glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes

“—card game?”

Kingsley pointed at S?ren.

“Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest

friend…” He paused and looked at S?ren when he realized

he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone S?ren’s name.

Out in the world S?ren had gone by the name his father had

given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus

Stearns, SJ, according to church records. S?ren was the name

his mother had given him, and few called him that. “Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked. S?ren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.

“S?ren. Kingsley and I went to school together.” “I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave S?ren her brightest smile

and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever

seen. So unfair. Why did S?ren always turn every head in

the room? Kingsley looked at S?ren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve

T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but S?ren. In

them, S?ren looked like something out of a fever dream. He

couldn’t blame Blaise for looking at S?ren the way she did. But he did wonder why S?ren looked at her the same way. “Blaise, might I inquire what you’re doing interrupting this

incredibly important card game of mine?”

“Against my better judgment, I answered the phone and

took a message for you. But don’t get any ideas that I’m your

new secretary, although you need to get a new secretary—” “I will, chouchou. I promise.”

“You said that last week.”

“I got a new secretary last week.”

“Where is she?”

“She quit.”

“Did you f*ck her?”

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

Blaise turned her attention back to S?ren.

“Can you please tell your oldest and dearest friend to stop

seducing his secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on him when

they catch him f*cking someone else?”

“Kingsley,” S?ren said, shuff ling the cards again. “Stop seducing your secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on you.” “Thank you.” Blaise gave S?ren a smile.

“My pleasure,” S?ren said. Kingsley mentally slapped them

both.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like playing secretary,” Kingsley said.

“That’s different.” Blaise shook her head. “If I’m pretending to be your secretary so you’ll f*ck me on your desk—that’s

one thing. But I don’t actually want to be your secretary.” “Just give me the message,” Kingsley said, running his hand

up her thigh and caressing the bare skin above her f lesh-tone

stockings.

Blaise reached into her nearly translucent pale pink blouse

and produced a folded note from inside her lace-trimmed bra. Kingsley unfolded the note, still warm from her body, and

read.

Tonight at nine. —Phoebe

Kingsley tensed when he read the words and brief ly considered lying his way out of the situation. But no…Phoebe

was not the sort of woman one said no to.

“I have to go,” Kingsley said to Blaise and S?ren. “I won’t

be gone long—an hour or so. You’ll keep my guest company,

won’t you?” he asked Blaise.

“Happily.” Her thousand-watt smile brightened a few more

watts. With her on his lap, he could feel the heat emanating

from between her legs.

“Good. You two have so much in common, so much to

talk about. Blaise, tell S?ren what you do.”

“I run a nonprofit,” she said, leaning forward on the table

and resting her chin on her hand. The move allowed everyone in the room to get a much clearer view of her soft, ample

cleavage.

“A nonprofit?” S?ren continued shuff ling the cards while

never once looking away from Blaise.

“Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh,

and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.” “It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s

sexual freedom, especially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s