American Queen

Ash wipes his hand on his tuxedo jacket and stands up. “Embry, we’ll use the phone by the sofa,” he says, gesturing to the two small sofas next to the television. “If you want to have a seat.”

Embry looks at Ash and then looks to me. I feel the ghost of his hips between my thighs, the slickness of blood on my skin, his blindly passionate kisses that consumed us both with their single-minded want. My body keens for him, just as it’s keening for Ash, aching for one or both of them to the point that I can’t even identify how I actually feel any longer. There’s only the need. The want.

“Embry,” Ash says. “The sofa, please.”

Embry steps over to Ash, studiously keeping his gaze away from me on the floor. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks Ash quietly.

Ash gets closer to him, angling his body so that I can’t see Embry any longer, and leans in to speak in his ear. I can’t hear what he says, but I see Embry’s posture tense up, see his hand flex and clench, as if he’s keeping himself from doing something violent. Except when Ash pulls back, the look on Embry’s face isn’t violence. I don’t know what it is, but it makes me shiver and makes the memory of his body against mine all the stronger.

Without another word, Embry goes to the sofa and sits, his face unreadable, his posture strangely easy. As if he’s done this before.

Has he?

Have they?

Ash watches him, facing away from me with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are relaxed, and his stride is full of unconscious power as he walks to the opposite sofa and sits, crossing his legs. His long, skillful fingers set to work tugging his bow tie free, and as he’s pulling at the fabric, he gives me a dismissive glance. “Crawl to me,” he says.

His voice is offhand, his expression coolly indifferent, but all I feel is swelling desperation. This is something I’ve fantasized about for years, and he knows it, he has that letter memorized. So why dangle this in front of me when I obviously can’t do it? I can’t crawl in front of Embry; the overt submission and humiliation makes the act so undeniably sexual that it feels unfaithful to do it in front of anyone else.

But if Ash is asking me to do it…then does that make it right?

“Crawl, Greer,” Ash says, impatiently this time.

I find my voice. “But Sir, Embry is here—”

“He’s Mr. Vice President to you right now,” Ash interrupts.

“Sir, Mr. Vice President is here,” I correct myself. “He’ll see me.”

“And?”

I don’t know how to answer that. It is its own explanation, there is no and. Embry is here and he’ll see me, and I’ll see him seeing me, and everything we’ve tried to keep suppressed the last week will surface.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.

Ash locks gazes with me. “Because I want to,” he answers simply.

“But—”

“No buts, Greer. Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”

The safe word. He means the safe word.

I search his face and find no trace of irritation or anger, and I know that he’s giving me the option to end things right now, no questions asked, no wounded feelings or resentment. He’s trusting me, I think, trusting me to vocalize my needs. To advocate for my boundaries. And that’s the heart of this, isn’t it? I trust him with control and he trusts me with my voice. I trust him to stop when I ask him to stop, and he trusts me to say stop before I’m hurt. His control means nothing without my consent, and my consent is meaningless if I don’t trust the man I’m giving it to.

So do I trust him?

And do I feel safe?

Yes.

And yes.

I lower my face from Ash’s. “No, Sir, there’s nothing I’d like to say.”

From his couch, Embry exhales, a sound of relief or dread, I don’t know.

“Good,” Ash says. “Then crawl.”

I crawl. Keeping my head down, so I can’t see whether Embry is looking at me or not, and doing my best to keep my breathing even, I make my way over to Ash’s feet on my hands and knees. I should feel demeaned—it’s meant to demean, after all—but knowing that both men are affected by the sight of me slouching across the floor like a cat makes me feel strong. Sensuous. Female. There’s the air on my exposed cunt, the shirt riding up over my ass, the stray tendrils of hair hanging down around my face, and I can’t help it, it all makes me wetter. Hotter. Hungrier.

Ash’s hand comes to rest on my head as I reach him. “Well done,” he says warmly, and I feel a flush of pleasure at his praise. “Up here,” he commands, patting his thigh.

I manage not to look at Embry as I climb onto the couch, but I can hear him behind me, restless shifting and rustling fabric, as if he’s tugging at his bow tie as well.

Ash takes my hips in his hands and sits me down so that I’m straddling his leg, my bare pussy flat against the hard muscles of his thigh, and I let out a low moan the minute my full weight settles on him. The pressure there is like gasoline to an already burning fire, and I have to force myself not to grind down against him.

“I told you I’d take care of your orgasm tonight,” Ash says. “This is me taking care of it.”

“Sir?”

“Ride me, rub against me, whatever you need to do to come. But you have to be quiet, since I’ll be on the phone.”

I can’t help it; I look over my shoulder back to Embry. His eyes are on my ass, where it rests against Ash’s thigh, and when he realizes I’m staring at him, he lifts his eyes and flushes with shame. I flush with shame too; I wanted to catch him watching me. I look back to Ash, who’s watching me closely, those clear green eyes missing nothing. The shame goes deeper than my cheeks, sinking down to my stomach.