The King

“Seduce her? I haven’t even seen her for a full month.”

Kingsley cocked an eyebrow at Søren.

“She quit church?”

Søren cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“She’s grounded.”

Kingsley dropped his head on to the table.

“Why didn’t I defect to Russia when I had the chance?” Kingsley sighed.

“Are you going to make a decision about your cards, or are we going to be here all night?”

“We’re going to be here all night.” Kingsley sat up again. Søren shook his head in disgust. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one with a girlfriend young enough to be grounded.”

Exhaling with exasperation, Søren swept up his cards and Kingsley’s. With his agile pianist’s fingers, he shuffled the cards one-handed. Kingsley watched the display of casual grace and dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be a deck of cards so much in his life.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Søren dealt the cards.

“King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.

He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down to his lap.

“You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how busy I am?”

“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes “—card game?”

Kingsley pointed at Søren.

“Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest friend...” He paused and looked at Søren when he realized he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone Søren’s name. Out in the world Søren had gone by the name his father had given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus Stearns, SJ, according to church records. Søren was the name his mother had given him, and few called him that.

“Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked.

Søren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.

“Søren. Kingsley and I went to school together.”

“I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave Søren her brightest smile and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever seen. So unfair. Why did Søren always turn every head in the room? Kingsley looked at Søren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but Søren. In them, Søren looked like something out of a fever dream. He couldn’t blame Blaise for looking at Søren the way she did.

But he did wonder why Søren looked at her the same way.

“Blaise, might I inquire what you’re doing interrupting this incredibly important card game of mine?”

“Against my better judgment, I answered the phone and took a message for you. But don’t get any ideas that I’m your new secretary, although you need to get a new secretary—”

“I will, chouchou. I promise.”

“You said that last week.”

“I got a new secretary last week.”

“Where is she?”

“She quit.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

Blaise turned her attention back to Søren.

“Can you please tell your oldest and dearest friend to stop seducing his secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on him when they catch him fucking someone else?”

“Kingsley,” Søren said, shuffling the cards again. “Stop seducing your secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on you.”

“Thank you.” Blaise gave Søren a smile.

“My pleasure,” Søren said. Kingsley mentally slapped them both.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like playing secretary,” Kingsley said.

“That’s different.” Blaise shook her head. “If I’m pretending to be your secretary so you’ll fuck me on your desk—that’s one thing. But I don’t actually want to be your secretary.”

“Just give me the message,” Kingsley said, running his hand up her thigh and caressing the bare skin above her flesh-tone stockings.

Blaise reached into her nearly translucent pale pink blouse and produced a folded note from inside her lace-trimmed bra.

Kingsley unfolded the note, still warm from her body, and read.

Tonight at nine. —Phoebe

Kingsley tensed when he read the words and briefly considered lying his way out of the situation. But no...Phoebe was not the sort of woman one said no to.

“I have to go,” Kingsley said to Blaise and Søren. “I won’t be gone long—an hour or so. You’ll keep my guest company, won’t you?” he asked Blaise.

“Happily.” Her thousand-watt smile brightened a few more watts. With her on his lap, he could feel the heat emanating from between her legs.

“Good. You two have so much in common, so much to talk about. Blaise, tell Søren what you do.”

“I run a nonprofit,” she said, leaning forward on the table and resting her chin on her hand. The move allowed everyone in the room to get a much clearer view of her soft, ample cleavage.

“A nonprofit?” Søren continued shuffling the cards while never once looking away from Blaise.

“Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh, and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.”

“It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s sexual freedom, especially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s not feminist to enjoy being flogged. I say it’s not feminist to tell a woman what she can and can’t do. But enough about me. What do you do?”