But Asher takes hold of my waist and pulls me against him, and his hand slips right up my rib cage to stroke a thumb right over my breast. It’s quick and hot and that tiny movement pulls a sound right from my throat. My legs shift in the warm water, and suddenly my clothes feel like too much.
“Don’t worry,” Asher says to him, and now his tone is low and taunting, reminding me of their moment in the hallway. “We are not competing, remember?”
Water splashes. Ky makes an aggrieved sound. “Oh, fuck you, Asher,” he says. And that’s all I hear, because the king’s warmth is suddenly at my back, his hands are on my hips, and his mouth, hot and sweet, closes on my neck.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Princess
It’s so warm with both of them pressing into me in the heated water of the pool. Ky holds me from behind, one arm around my waist, another stroking my breast. He must have stripped his jacket and tunic before splashing into the water, because his arm is bare, and the heat of his skin pulses against my back. He’s tucked me against him so tightly that I can feel the length of him, hard and erect, through my layers of skirts. Every time his finger strokes over my nipple, it pulls at something deep inside, like a chord only I can hear.
I can feel Asher, too, the hard press of him against my thigh. His kisses have slowed, his tongue exploring my mouth, and it’s like he’s somehow timed it with the rhythm of Ky’s finger stroking my breast. At some point he pulled his own tunic over his head, and my fingers keep brushing his bare skin. I shift against them both, craving more,wantingmore, worried that this will stop before I’m ready—and terrified that it will keep going. My legs part, almost of their own accord.
The king tugs at the lacing of my dress just as his teeth tug at my ear, and I make a small sound.
“Yes?” he says, the word gentle, careful. He pulls at the lacing again, and his question is clear.
“Yes,” I say, and my answer is practically a gasp. “Please.”
He tugs harder, and the ribbon comes loose. His fingers encircle the bare skin of my breast just as Asher pushes my heavy skirts aside. Asher strokes his hand up the length of my calf, then my thigh, his fingers so smooth under the water. My clothes feel like they’re strangling me, and I’m suddenly panting, intoxicated from the feel of them both. I feel as though my heart might stop—or possibly take flight.
“Jory,” says Asher, and I open my eyes.
The sky is full of stars behind him. He traces a thumb over my lower lip, his gaze searching mine. “Too much?”
The instant he says it, Ky goes still. Asher’s eyes shift, and they must exchange a glance over my head, because the king’s hands move, then let go of me altogether.
“Not too much,” I whisper. But maybe I’m lying. All of my inexperience seems to have caught up with me at once, leaving me tongue-tied.
Asher studies me again, and then he kisses me on the forehead. Simple and chaste.
I want to grab him. “Don’t you dare leave.”
He laughs a little, under his breath. “I’m not leaving you, Jor.” His eyes flick up again. “I’ll entertain your king while you determine what you want.”
Then without hesitation, he tackles Ky, full strength. They go skidding backward in the water, causing ripples and waves to go over the side and sizzle where water meets the rocks. At first, it’s so surprising that it makes me giggle—because it’sclearthat Ky didn’t expect it, and I wonder if this is like that moment in the hallway. Asher pressed the king into the wall in a way that seemed like a battle and a seduction until I couldn’t tell how much of their reaction was hostility—and how much was intrigue.
But just now, they tussle and roll in the water for longer than I expect, grappling and splashing and pinning each other with enough force that I start to think they’re really fighting.
“Hey,” I say. “Asher. Ky.Gentlemen.”
I try to crawl through the water toward them, but now the dress reallyisa problem. The corset is already half-unlaced, so I shed it with the overskirts until I’m left in my muslin shift. But just as I draw close, they somehow wrestle themselves upright. They’re both on their knees, breathing hard, every muscle taut. Water glistens on their skin, sparkling in the firelight. They’re face-to-face, very close, and this time, the king has bested Asher. Ky has his arms pinned behind his back, and I see the strain in his grip.
For a moment, I think belligerent animosity is going to break us apart again. Asher’s jaw is clenched, his chest rising and falling swiftly. But as I look at them, I realize there’s no lingering aggression in the air. No hostility. Asher isn’t trying to escape. Ky isn’t struggling to pin him.
This isn’t restraint. This isn’t confinement.
This...this isholding.
Eventually, the king speaks, and his voice is very low, very quiet. “You don’t have to pick a fight every time. You don’t.”
Asher’s body gives a little jerk, and he takes a sharp breath. I expect the king to let him go, but he doesn’t. He simply waits, and I watch Asher’s breathing slow, every muscle relaxing, one by one.
And then he puts his forehead down against Ky’s shoulder.
You don’t have to pick a fight.
But much like the king and his own inner struggles, I wonder if that’s the only way this feels safe for Asher. Like he doesn’t trust himself to be vulnerable, so someone else has to win it.
