A King Awakened Read online

  A KING

  AWAKENED

  By Deidre Knight

  Copyright © 2018 Cooper Davis

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Excerpt from A Gentleman Revealed

  Chapter One

  King Arend Tollemach was a man besotted, and a man on the brink of utter damnation.

  The cause of said peril—one undeniably beautiful male—lay nestled beside him, bare and sensually sated. Thus, Arend did what most men were wont to do when poised on the brink of romance-borne hellfire. He lost himself in appreciation of his new lover, quite possibly the most beautiful man created by God.

  Julian’s exposed body was sublimely formed; masculine, with broad shoulders that tapered to a taut waist and narrow hips. His back was lean, elegantly formed with muscle and sinew. The thing practically begged for caressing, and who was Arend not to indulge? He stroked a lazy, sun-dappled pattern on his new lover’s backbone, trailing down toward the indentation just above the man’s alluring arse.

  When Arend reached the place where said arse parted, he lingered. In reaction, those buttocks tautened, and Julian gazed up at him through hooded lashes. “You seek a reprise of last evening, my king?” The voice purred much like the man’s body, his essence. “I can only assume that I more than pleased His Highness?” Then, added more coyly, “Both times.”

  And whip-fast, unexpectedly, Arend was livid. Shaking. Perhaps it was the honorifics that did the deed. Perhaps it was the realization that he—the king of the realm—was utterly helpless in this man’s arms. This bed slave’s arms.

  Had he not been trembling so desperately inside, he would have laughed at the irony. He was awakened, alive, and all too aware that their relationship was doomed—utterly doomed—because of his own Lords’ Council.

  “Sire?” Julian inquired quietly, golden brows quirking inward. Arend didn’t reply but stared straight at a distant point across the gaudy room. “You were indeed pleased, I pray, sire?”

  Sire. King. His Fucking Majesty.

  Arend cleared his throat, needing to conceal how he’d begun to quiver. “Yes, quite serviceable,” he allowed tightly. When Jules glanced at him, a mixture of hurt and confusion in his eyes, Arend hurriedly added an Agadirian endearment of gratitude. “Adrieltar,” he said.

  In reaction, Julian beamed as if Arend had bestowed the highest of compliments and sweetest of nothings. Perhaps adrieltar held some additional connotation, one with which Arend was unfamiliar.

  Julian slowly rolled onto his side, facing Arend. “Tell me more, sire.” The words purred out of his concubine. “More about last night and how I serviced His Majesty to utter satisfaction and pleasure.”

  Plaisurrrrre.

  Bloody Agadirian accent. Practically an intoxicant, useful for ensorcelling widowed and downright desperately aroused kings.

  “Last night was . . . satisfactory indeed, Julian.” He kept his tone perfunctory and regally approving. Inside, however, Arend Tollemach was shattering like finest crystal flung at a stone hearth. “That is to say that, uh, that I’m grateful for your . . . your well-executed ministrations.”

  “Ministrations?” Velvet lashes lowered—first. Then, Julian’s golden-green eyes widened, fixing upon Arend. It was much like being roused from a deep slumber by a dinner gong. Accused, seen through, shattered some more. Arend’s entire body reacted. Became enflamed with lust, hardened to hammer-readiness. His groin began to ache, the counterpane lifting in betrayal across his lap.

  Julian’s feline eyes narrowed on him, all-too-knowing. You shall never fool me.

  He should flee this madness at once. Leap from the bed; ring the bell for his valet. Send Julian scurrying down the private corridor that discreetly linked this bed chamber with Julian’s own.

  What Arend did, however, was tenderly caress his lover’s cheek. “Oh, yes, last night was something indeed, my Julian.” So much for resolve, so much for emotional distancing. “You are something indeed. Quite something.” He brushed a long tendril of blond from the man’s cheek, stubbled with morning beard.

  “Ah, something? Romantic vagaries.” Julian laughed perceptively. The bastard.

  Arend would never be the same. Never sit square upon his throne in the same fashion, either. Everything was forever altered. Julian seemed to read his mind, lips pulling into a triumphant smile, the dainty mole on his upper lip thoroughly tantalizing.

  Arend stared at the damned thing and fought the urge to lean down and run his tongue over it. “Julian, I did warn you,” he said, “that I’d never pen you sonnets in swoony crimson.”

  “We do not necessarily need words. Not now, when we can express ourselves freely with our bodies.” Jules caressed his palm over Arend’s heart. “With our touches and most intimate communication.” He sighed dreamily, pillowing his head on one arm. “This is what I am thinking.”

  Thees is what I am theenkeeng. That Agadirian accent was like an actual lick along Arend’s cock. From root to the very tip, he hardened, recalling that tongue on his manhood. Warm, rough heat, slick, teasing. Honey pouring on his slit . . . Pressure and heat and tension that built.

  A tight sensation stretched through Arend’s bollocks, dragging a groan from his throat. His cock kicked beneath the counterpane, desperate for attention. Jules moved feline-close, his hips rolling and seeking out Arend’s own.

  “Don’t,” he barked, pushing Julian off him. “Don’t . . . not this morning.”

  Dear God, he was lost, so lost. And profoundly stupid: he was the one who’d awoken Julian by fondling the fellow’s arse.

  Jules soundly ignored his growling and found his cockstand beneath the counterpane. “Recalling our happy union?” he murmured in aristocratic Agadirian. “All the evidence I need of my master’s satisfaction. And, likewise, the only reminder I need of this”—Julian slowly caressed Arend’s erection—“between my thighs last night.”

  “Blast you,” Arend said through gritted teeth as Julian spread the linen over his prominent erection.

  Julian laughed low, making a tsk-tsk sound. “Some parts of a man won’t ever lie.”

  “Julian,” he warned, right as Jules’s fingertips stroked his engorged tip through the counterpane.

  Wasn’t it bad enough that Arend’s soul had been rent open last night, his heart cleaved wide?

  Apparently not.

  Julian’s fingert
ips remained moored over Arend’s cock, heating him through that thin veil of fabric.

  Arend wanted to cry out, to shove the man away, and—yes—to raise upward into that devilish caress. To find a rhythm, to push Julian upon his back . . . to be pushed upon his own. A thousand sensations and desires spun through him like a maritime storm, wrecking and lashing at him.

  “Julian,” he begged hoarsely. “Julian, please.”

  But Julian gave no quarter. “Must I be your tutor even in this, my king?”

  “This?” Arend gasped, voice breaking over the word.

  Julian sighed and pinned him with his radiant gaze, all amusement gone. “Please tell me what last night meant to you. In truth, not more equivocation.”

  Arend sat up in bed, thrusting the hand off his groin. “Julian, remember you’re in my bed for but one purpose: the royal favors you’re required to bestow upon me. Legal transaction, binding on both parties.” He looked his lover in the eye. “You do recall the nature of our contract?”

  Julian had the gall to laugh at him. The man stared up at Arend and laughed, the sound like tinkling chimes. “Yes, I’m your hired attendant. Your bed servant. I shan’t forget that detail, not when you so frequently remind me. Yet, sire? Your body and eyes speak very differently.”

  Julian’s laughter grew, rumbling from within his chest. Why wasn’t the man falling into place, withdrawing into submission like a proper subject?

  “Julian, you should—”

  “No, my king, you should.”

  Arend gawked in disbelief. “Do not be insolent! Do not mistake the intimacies we shared as license to—”

  His tirade was cut short when Julian placed fingertips to his lips and softly said, “You should stop prattling on. Stop making such desperate—and obvious—statements about what I don’t mean to you. Really, it’s quite adorable, these attempts. But a gracious waste of time when we might well be tupping. And when I could render those abundant favors you paid for, no?”

  That authority in his lover’s voice sent a thrill straight through Arend’s body, into his cock. His prick strained and wept and kicked upward as if begging to be noticed.

  Very gently, Julian palmed Arend’s length. “Ah, yes, darling mine. Yes.”

  Arend thrust upward into that welcoming caress. His hips cantilevered off the bed, and he whimpered out his need. He didn’t bloody well care about regal comportment, not any more. He was too undone by it all, the intricate components of this strange morning-after. A new world where a bed slave held all the power, with the king placed in chains.

  Arend slid his hands along the headboard, gripping it until his knuckles blanched. Panting, he’d have sworn he was in restraints, bound to that bed as Jules swept over and atop him.

  Julian weighted him down into that mattress, planting palms on both sides of Arend’s face—pinning him against the headboard. “You’re quite beautiful, my king. Even when ardently denying what I mean to you.” Julian brushed feather-light kisses against his temple. “I understand you.”

  Arend stared back at Julian, their faces so close it was almost difficult to focus. “You . . . you mean something.” He swallowed. “To me.”

  Julian sank down excitedly upon Arend’s lap, bringing their faces close together. “Please, my lord, tell me more. What do I mean to you? For I know precisely what you mean to me.” The words came out in an exuberant rush, and all the warning bells in Arend’s head were not enough to reinstate his aloof cautiousness.

  “And . . . and what is that?” Arend’s throat tightened around the words.

  Julian cupped Arend’s face in both palms, tilting it upward and kissed him. He began slowly, savoring as he explored the corners of his lips, but then grew more aggressive. Jules thrust his tongue inside Arend’s mouth, nearly leaving him breathless.

  Arend palmed Julian’s flanks, urging his thighs farther apart. He was just beginning to rock slightly upward, when Jules forced him into sudden submission. “Not yet.” Jules cradled Arend’s face within his palms. “First, I must explain what you mean to me. You did, after all, ask.”

  Arend swallowed hard, torn between desire and a tight sensation in his chest. Both were far too dangerous. “I should never have asked. I know the rules.”

  “You made the rules. Ours is to be strictly a contractual transaction, no emotional involvement. But perhaps you now wish to break these rules of yours?” Julian smiled at him, slowly and dearly. “Perhaps,” he said, “you’ve already done so.”

  Arend didn’t answer for a long time. Moments spun out, hammering more slowly than the pendulum of the ancient wall clock.

  Until last night, no man had ever spread for Arend. Even though the only thing he’d ever wanted, since coming of age, was to indulge his preference for other gentlemen. Julian had given him that. He’d shown Arend what could be, redefining every moment that had ever come before—and after.

  But it had to end here. Arend was king, bound by duty and family name, currently threatened by enemies who wished him deposed. Julian needed to accept those facts now, before either of them became more carried away. Before they got hurt.

  Arend cleared his throat. “Julian, I appreciated your attentions yestereve. Perhaps I shall require them again soon, perhaps not. Time shall reveal such things.”

  Julian’s face drained of all color and he slowly slid off Arend’s lap. “I am pleased that you were pleased, sire.”

  But the words, for all their dutiful reserve, were spoken in Julian’s true, up-lilting voice. Ordinarily he pitched his words more deeply, because Arend had stupidly claimed he couldn’t abide even a hint of effeminacy in his concubine. He’d been lying about that, too, for nothing aroused him more than Julian’s sometimes delicately-pitched voice. The contradiction of it, when juxtaposed with his lover’s brawny, broad-shouldered build.

  Julian swung his legs off the side of the bed, putting his back to Arend. “I shall await the king’s pleasure, and service him upon command.” The words came out even more delicate-soft. He cleared his throat. “I believe we should arise and ready ourselves for the house guests,” he said, as if measuring out each deeply pitched syllable. “I wish to reflect well upon His Majesty and am meant to be a friend of yours from Agadir.”

  “Acquaintance,” Arend corrected sharply, hating himself for it. “You’re meant to be a foreigner I barely know, save his interests in my stable and the royal horseflesh.”

  “Yes, the flesh of a horse. Only that.”

  Arend’s secretary and foster brother, Alistair Finley, had concocted that ruse to explain Julian’s presence, both at this house party and lately at the palace. They were going to pass Julian off as a horse fancier, visiting the provinces to study the royal stables. None must suspect Julian’s true role: the first royal concubine to grace the palace’s gilded halls in over sixty years. Not with Arend’s reign presently under threat by his own Lords’ Council.

  Julian sighed exaggeratedly, extricating himself from the linens. Arend hated the distress he could see on his lover’s face—and hear in his tortured sighing. He caught Julian’s wrist, holding fast like a manacle. Julian tensed, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yes, Your Majesty?” His concubine’s eyes were bright, his normal smiles all gone.

  Arend needed to speak words of assurance, tenderness. But he must be cautious, too, as he didn’t wish to create false expectations in Julian. But he hadn’t the foggiest how to speak so artificially. Not to Julian. Not after last night. Not with his heart so full and his courage so shattered. He’d rarely been this terrified in all his life. Falling, tumbling, hurdling so fast into . . . trouble.

  Into love. You could love him.

  You’re already halfway there.

  “Stop,” he barked.

  Jolting, Julian asked, “What did I do?” And then he jolted again, apparently realizing he’d spoken too effeminately. “What did I do?” Jules repeated, the words were huskier, deeper. Masculine to the extreme.

  What a ridiculous farce.
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  “Don’t change your voice anymore,” Arend snapped. “Never again. Just stop.”

  Stop making me fall in love, stop endangering my sanity, my heart. Stop threatening all the ramparts I’ve protected since my youth.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Julian agreed in quiet confusion. But his voice remained more deeply pitched.

  Arend released Julian and punched a pillow atop his lap. After considering how he might address his valet or footmen, he issued an iron-voiced, “You did well.”

  “I did well,” Julian repeated, a furrow pleating between his golden-dark eyebrows. But he settled back onto the mattress.

  “Last night, I mean,” Arend added, stupidly. “You executed your duties with vigor, enthusiasm, and appropriate attention.”

  “So you have said.” Julian planted his back against the headboard.

  “I thought to reiterate the point.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jules told him quietly, inclining his head. “I’m pleased my service met contractual expectations. And as our concubinage is now consummated, I trust you’ll inform my temple . . . that you’ve lain with me? That our bond is now cemented.”

  “Cemented?” Arend repeated. All this talk of consummation and cementing of their concubinage . . . unmanned him somehow. “I tupped you, Julian. I didn’t take you to the bridal bower.” There. Emotional reserve, Arend’s only hope of salvation.

  Julian eyed him oddly. “It is important,” he said, “that my temple learn of our full consummation. Only you can attest to that fact, my lord. That in every legal way I’m now yours, and the arrangement cannot be undone.”

  He’s tied tight as a corset lace to your bed and palace. That’s how Alistair had put it, whilst chastising Arend about the concubinage. This is a codified arrangement you’ve struck.

  But that had been before the Lords’ Council delivered their edict, insisting that Arend claim a new wife lest he be sacked off his throne. And before he’d begun to lose some vital portion of his heart to the lovely man beside him.