The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(8)

The boy cried out, his hands scratching against the hardwood f loor.

“Take it,” Kingsley said. “Take it all. Don’t fight it.”

“I won’t.” The boy shook his head. “I want it.”

Kingsley pushed in again. The boy was tight as a fist around him, and it took all of his hard-won self-control to keep from spilling into him right now. He’d only been with women lately. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to f*ck a young man, especially one so rare and lovely as this long-limbed youth with the perfect pale blond hair and the heart both afraid and fearless.

Closing his eyes, Kingsley rose up and bore down. The boy gasped beneath him.

“Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Kingsley asked.

“Please, let me touch you.”

Kingsley unbuttoned his shirt while still deep inside the boy. He pulled out, let the boy roll on to his back. He grabbed the boy’s hands, pressing them to his chest.

“You have scars,” he said, running his hands over Kingsley’s bare torso.

“I am nothing but scars.”

The blond pushed his palms against Kingsley’s stomach and traced the muscles there.

“Your body’s amazing,” the boy said as he pushed Kingsley’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. “I can’t stop…”

His hands roamed all over Kingsley’s exposed skin—his shoulders, his biceps, his scarred chest and taut stomach. But when the blond tried to touch his hair, Kingsley seized both wrists and slammed them into the f loor.

Kingsley thrust deep and kept thrusting. Enough niceties. He should never have let the boy touch him like that. But it had been so long since he’d f*cked someone without tying them up first, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched during sex.

Pressure built inside Kingsley’s stomach and hips. He pushed repeatedly into the boy who raised his knees to his chest to take even more of him. Fucking turned into mindless rutting as Kingsley slammed into him with quick hard thrusts. No matter how much he gave, the boy only begged for more. When Kingsley couldn’t hold off a second longer, he pulled out, shoved the boy on to his stomach and came all over his red-welted back.

Finally the room was still, and Kingsley was still and the blond boy on the f loor was still. Kingsley wiped the semen off the blond’s abraded skin.

Underneath him the boy shivered and shuddered. The salt into the wounds must have hurt more than anything else had.

“You did well,” Kingsley said, and heard another voice saying those same words to him once.

Kingsley stood up, cleaned himself off and straightened his clothes. As if every movement caused him agony, the boy slowly sat up. He looked down at his body, at his welts, before looking up at Kingsley again. His lips were parted, his eyes wide. He crossed his arms over his stomach and pulled his legs to his chest.

“There’s a shower through that door.” Kingsley picked up the boy’s shirt and gave it to him. “You can get cleaned up. You can stay here tonight if you want. Those welts will turn into bruises. Keep your clothes on until they’re gone.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you stay? For a little while? We don’t… We can talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Kingsley said.

The boy scrambled to his feet and pulled his jeans on. He sat on the bed and spent longer than necessary buttoning his shirt. Kingsley finished pulling himself together. He’d shower back at the town house. Nothing worth bothering with right now. All he wanted to do was drink himself into a stupor and sleep until he woke up dead. As usual.

“You’re young,” Kingsley said. “You’ll heal fast.” He wasn’t speaking about the welts.

He gave the boy one more smile before turning his back and heading to the door.

“My name’s Justin,” the blond called out after him.

Kingsley turned around and looked at him. A square of light from the window lay across the boy’s face like a white mask.

“I’ve only been with a guy once. It wasn’t like this. I didn’t even come. If my parents knew I was gay, they’d kick me out. I just… I wanted you to know those three things.”

“Anything else?” Kingsley asked, keeping his face composed, his voice devoid of emotion.

“You’re beautiful,” Justin said. “I feel stupid for saying that to another guy, but I can’t find another word. And what you did to me was everything I’ve always wanted. So…thank you.”

“You’re thanking me?”

“They teach us manners in Texas.”

Kingsley could taste the boy on his lips. Walk away. He knew he should walk away.

He pulled out his wallet and, from it, took a slim silver card with black ink.

“My name is Kingsley Edge. Not entirely, but it’s what I answer to. I’m French. That’s the accent you hear. And if your family kicks you out—and you’re right, they might—come back to this city and find me. I can help you. I’m not saying I will help you. But I can if I’m in the mood.”

Justin took the card and held it in his fist.

“Why did you pick me tonight? Only gay guy in the club?”

“There were three if I counted correctly.”