The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(85)

The driver held the door open for S?ren, but Kingsley entered the opposite side. He sat there on the leather bench seat vibrating with nervous excitement. S?ren, as usual, was the picture of genteel sophistication. Through the window that separated the backseats from the driver, S?ren calmly gave the driver his instructions. S?ren was three weeks away from turning eighteen, and the driver must have been fifty, but he bowed and scraped to S?ren as if he were royalty.

The driver closed the window. S?ren closed the curtain. And now, here, at last, they were alone in a Rolls Royce. Kingsley hadn’t remembered dying, but somehow he’d found his way into heaven. And heaven had a hand-stitched gray leather interior.

“Don’t even think about it,” S?ren said as Kingsley pulled his coat and gloves off.

“I’m always thinking about it,” Kingsley said. “I brought the lube.”

“Kingsley, it’s not even five in the morning yet.”

“You beat me this early before.”

“I was attempting to wake you up.”

“With your alarm cock?”

“Go back to sleep.” S?ren unbuttoned his coat and removed it. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

“In a Rolls Royce? This is nice. You can pay for this?”

“My sister Elizabeth arranged this trip. She’d go herself, but I’d prefer our father blame me for this than her. For her sake, I hope he doesn’t find out at all.”

“What are you doing?” Kingsley asked as S?ren reached into his distressed leather messenger bag. He pulled out a file folder and a red pen.

“Grading papers.”

“Then I’m definitely sleeping.” He couldn’t think of anything more boring than watching S?ren grade Spanish homework for the next five hours. Still, he’d do it if he thought he could get some sex out of the deal. Unfortunately, beating and f*cking Kingsley didn’t seem to be on S?ren’s agenda today.

Kingsley stretched out his legs and balled up his jacket like a pillow. But before he could find a sleeping spot, S?ren grabbed him by his shirt collar.

He froze, his body going stiff—every part of it.

“Not there,” S?ren said. He dragged Kingsley across the seat and across his lap. “Sleep here. I need a desk.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” S?ren said, his tone dry and light, which was far more unnerving than if he sounded threatening. Kingsley groaned and turned on to his stomach, giving S?ren his back to use a desk. He stuffed his jacket under his head and tried to get comfortable.

The low purr of the car’s engine and the early hour eventually lulled him into a deep and restful sleep even if he did have to contend with S?ren’s thighs against his ribcage and the scratch of the pen against his back. If he could admit it to himself, he liked playing S?ren’s desk for him. S?ren always used him in bed. Being used out of bed was a pleasant change of pace.

When he woke up, the sun had risen, and pale winter sunlight filled the car through the tinted windows.

“Are we there yet?” Kingsley asked. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he sensed several hours had passed.

“Almost,” S?ren said. And that’s when Kingsley realized S?ren’s hand lay on his back under his shirt. Sometime while he’d slept, S?ren had finished his work, but instead of waking Kingsley up and ordering him to move, he’d let him sleep. And now Kingsley felt fingertips on the small of his back. He didn’t move, didn’t want to move. He feared if he moved, S?ren would stop touching him like that. S?ren could be gentle and had been gentle with him, but only after the beating and the f*cking. No beating or f*cking this morning, and yet S?ren lightly caressed Kingsley’s back under his shirt, following the line of his spine all the way to his neck and back down again. He traced the edge of Kingsley’s rib cage, the sides of his stomach, the sensitive skin between his shoulder blades.

“What are you doing?” Kingsley asked.

“Touching your back.”

“Why?” he asked. Pourquoi?

“Because I can. I can do anything I want to you. Isn’t that right?”

“Anything,” Kingsley said, releasing a deep sigh of pleasure. “Can I ask a stupid question?”

“You just did.”

Kingsley laughed, and he heard S?ren sigh in mock disgust.

“Ask your question.”

“Do you like my body?” Kingsley blushed before, during and after asking it.

“Not at the moment.”

“You don’t?” Kingsley was crushed.

“Not nearly enough bruises on it for my liking.” Kingsley grinned at the answer. “You can make any improvements to my body you want. Welts…bruises…cuts… burns…”

“You’re trying to tempt me.”

“Always. Is it working?”

“It might be,” S?ren said, running one fingertip down the center of Kingsley’s back again. He shivered at the touch. “You enjoy that?” he asked. He sounded almost surprised.

“Oui, beaucoup.” Kingsley slid into French. “I like pleasure almost as much as pain.”

“Do you wish I felt the same?” S?ren asked.

“Pas du tout. I can find any girl to give me pleasure. Who will give me pain if you won’t?”