“Have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?” Kingsley asked, trying not to rip Søren’s shirt in his rush to unbutton it. He needed Søren’s skin on his skin right now.

“No,” Søren said. “But ask me that question again in an hour.”

Before Kingsley could respond to that, Søren grabbed his wrists, pinned them over Kingsley’s head and kissed him again—deeper, slower, but no less punitive. Kingsley groaned, and Søren slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet,” Søren said into Kingsley’s ear. “We aren’t alone, and I’ll gag you until you choke if I have to. Understand?”

Kingsley nodded against Søren’s hand. A curtain and partition separated them from the driver. He couldn’t see them, but if they were loud enough, he could hear them. He’d disobeyed Søren’s orders to stay in the car, he’d yelled at him and talked back. He was going to get it this time.

Good.

Søren kissed him again. Kingsley kept his sounds of pleasure to a minimum even when Søren reached between their bodies, unzipped Kingsley’s pants, and stroked him hard. Every muscle in Kingsley’s stomach tightened. He sucked in his breath sharply from the shock of pleasure. It took every bit of self-control not to moan audibly.

“You like this?” Søren asked.

“God, yes, so much,” Kingsley said, lifting his hips against Søren’s hand. He spoke in French and English. He was about to lose control of more than his language skills if Søren didn’t stop touching him like that.

“I think you like it too much.” Søren rose up on his knees and looked down at Kingsley.

“I don’t. I really don’t. I like it exactly as much as you want me to.”

“You’re pathetic when you’re turned on.”

“I am so pathetic right now.”

“Kneel on the floor,” Søren ordered and Kingsley obeyed. He faced away from Søren and rested his arms on the bench seat opposite Søren. It was good to be here, good to be on his knees for Søren. It had been too long since Søren had hurt him. When he thought about it, it made no sense to him that he felt the free-est and the strongest when on his knees and being hurt. But it didn’t matter what he thought or how much sense it made. They didn’t have to justify what they did to anyone but themselves. They lost sleep over what they did, but not to their consciences.

When they lost sleep it was only because they found something better to do.

Kingsley heard movement behind him—the sound of leather and metal. Søren had removed his belt and Kingsley braced himself for a hit. But instead Søren wrapped it around Kingsley’s neck. He froze as the belt pressed against his throat. Carefully, as if the belt were a leash, Søren pulled Kingsley to him until he sat up, ramrod straight, his bare back against Søren’s knees.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you for a long time,” Søren said, bending to whisper the words in Kingsley’s ear. “If only to shut you up.”

And he pulled the belt tighter. Kingsley inhaled sharply but couldn’t breathe out, not yet.

“You like this?” Søren’s hands wound around the leather strap. Kingsley would have said yes if he could have. “Prove it.”

With shaking hands, Kingsley stroked himself while Søren watched from above and behind him. He couldn’t remember a time it felt this good to touch himself. His head swam. He felt light and euphoric. His cock was brutally hard and intensely sensitive. Even with the belt around his neck he still managed a voiceless moan.

As he grew closer to coming and closer to unconsciousness, he had a flash of perfect clarity. Here he was in a Rolls Royce about to have an orgasm while the man he loved with all his heart and all his soul and all his body held Kingsley’s very life in his hands. And it was as it should be, Søren holding the power of life and death. Kingsley’s parents had named him after kings, but it was Søren who should rule the entire world. Søren was Kingsley’s king. Søren needed a kingdom of his own. Kingsley could give it to him, build it for him. A world of danger, of secrets, of sex, of pain. He didn’t know how or when, but he would do it someday, give Søren a kingdom of his own.

“Come,” Søren ordered into Kingsley’s ear. Kingsley released hard, so hard he saw light and stars and the sun at night, and if he didn’t stop coming he would die of the never-ending bliss of it all.

Kingsley slumped forward on the seat. He rested on the edge of consciousness, falling back and forth between the darkness and the light. And in that twilight world between life and death, he sensed Søren’s arms coming around him, Søren’s mouth caressing his shoulder, Søren’s hands easing his pants down to his knees...and then he felt cold wet fingers on him and in him. Then Søren was filling him, holding Kingsley’s slack body back against his chest and moving in and out of him endlessly. And there were words then, beautiful words, but all in Danish, and Kingsley had no idea what Søren said to him, only that he needed to hear it.

Søren came inside him, his hands over Kingsley’s hands, their fingers locked together as tightly as their bodies. Kingsley went limp in Søren’s arms, and they stayed there on the floor of the Rolls Royce together until they both remembered how to breathe again.

When it was all over and he was weak, drained and too tired to move, Søren helped him dress. Kingsley must have pleased him, for Søren allowed him the rare privilege of curling up at his feet and resting his head in his lap for the remainder of their trip back to school. Søren’s hands shook for thirty minutes afterward. When Kingsley asked him why, Søren answered, “I didn’t know if I would stop in time.”