The Lion Heart: Rogue Academy, Book Two

by Aarons, Carrie

  Typically, two people in our professions could not just walk around Hyde Park without security, but Kingston seems to have accounted for this. He’s wearing a hat slung low over his eyes and bought me a cute fedora that he handed me in the car. “Wear this.” He’d smiled and helped me fix it low over my hair that I’d brushed out from the shoot. I was still wearing entirely too much makeup and had body glitter on my arms, but at least I’d ditched the giant frock back at the studio.

  “All right, here’s what we’ve got.” Kingston settles onto the blanket he just spread on the grass and begins pulling things from the bag that was previously under lock and key on his shoulder.

  Sinking down, I join him on the soft plaid, thinking about how normal this all feels. I don’t get to do normal very often, and I’m sure Kingston doesn’t either, so it means a lot that he’s trying to create it for us.

  “You did not …” I grin as he hands me the cardboard sandwich box.

  “Oh, I did. I had to see what all the rage was about. So I walked into a Tesco, neat place by the way, and selected the best of the best. I couldn’t decide so I bought every two-pound meal deal sandwich available. The cashier thought I was mental though she recognized me toward the end and I signed an autograph so I think I redeemed myself.”

  “I can’t believe you bought me a Tesco meal deal!” I’m practically giddy.

  Surveying his purchases, I see my favorite, crawfish and mayonnaise. I grab that before he can claim it and add a bag of spicy Thai crisps to my pile. Then I survey the drinks he picked out, and finish my meal deal off with a strawberry lemonade.

  “Well, you’re very decisive.” Kingston laughs, watching me shield all of my picks from him.

  “I’ve seen you eat, I know how quick one has to be when your appetite is involved.”

  Kingston smiles a lopsided smirk that does dangerous things to my heart and gut. “Touché.”

  He grabs two sandwich containers, three bags of crisps, and a large water bottle, then starts tearing into all of it. I lean back on my elbows, slowly eating my sandwich and tilting my head back to let the sun wash down on my face.

  “This is perfect. Thank you, Kingston.” I glance at him, and his cheeks take on the tiniest hint of color.

  I think he might have been watching me. “I wanted to do something nice for you. I … I’m not used to having that urge.”

  “Well, I dare say you’re very good at following through on the instinct.” Lord is he adorable.

  “Did you know that there are paparazzi pictures of us on the Internet? They’re calling us Popston.” He slants a sideways glance at me.

  I can’t help but snort. “It’s not the worst celebrity couple name.”

  Kingston bites into a ham and cheese sandwich. “So, we’re a couple?”

  My hand stops midway to my mouth, and I lock eyes with him. Gulping, I didn’t realize what I said until he posed the question like that.

  “I don’t know, are we?” My heart is beating so hard.

  He sets his sandwich down and picks up one of my hands. His eyes seem to be searching for something in mine.

  “I’ve never been in a relationship or part of a couple. But I want to try it … with you.”

  Kingston doesn’t add anything about if I want that, too. He’s just stating what he wants, no second-guessing, no doubting.

  “Neither have I. So, I guess we’re going to be each other’s firsts.” I blush because my words mean more than just committing to another person in a monogamous relationship, and we both know it.

  Before I can blink, Kingston launches himself at me, tackling me softly and covering my mouth with his. It takes me a minute to stop giggling, the fibers of the blanket tickling my neck while his beard tickles my lips. But when I do, I give in, letting him stoke the fire that begins ravaging my system, the heat of the flames licking up the back of my thighs and spine.

  The pure pleasure of his weight over me, the sun shining down on us, the seclusion of this hidden nook in the park; I could lose myself in Kingston and never want to be found.

  He pulls back slowly, a large, goofy grin on his face and promptly steals my breath.

  Kingston’s tone is husky when he says, “I hope the paparazzi took some good photographs of that. Maybe I’ll make one my new Instagram profile picture.”

  26

  Kingston

  Surprisingly, life and my attitude toward it only turned around when I got demoted and loaned.

  My love for football has returned full force, I’m actually working together with my squad, partying and getting pissed beyond all recognition has lost its shine, and for the first time in maybe ever, the dedication to being the right kind of man is flowing through my veins.

  One of the best things about failing, in most people’s eyes anyway, is that my parents couldn’t care less about me now. In my position, that’s a hundred times better than having them all over my arse to live up to their impossible standards of who I should be. My father hasn’t bothered to talk to me in months, and that’s just splendid. No pressure means I can play the game the way I want, train without someone breathing down my neck, and the three of us don’t have to pretend that we love each other just because we’re a family. If an outsider ever sat down at our rare, uncomfortable suppers, it would be apparent within the first seconds that my mother, father, and I are practically strangers.

  My friends have always been my family, anyhow. Jude, Vance, and I are a band of brothers and counted on each other growing up way more than anyone else in our lives. That’s what happens when a sport is your lifeblood, and your parents ship you off at the age of seven in hopes of glory rather than the desire to raise you on their own. Their disappointment, and subsequent abandonment since I’ve been sent to Narta, should affect me more than it has, and it might be sad I’m not more upset, but I’m simply not.

  But the most significant part of my one-eighty? Well, that’s not a hard answer.

  Poppy.

  Who knew I had it in me? I’m someone’s boyfriend. I am one half of a couple. There is a woman who can stand me long enough and thinks I’m charming rather than a smarmy sleaze bag, to let me care for her.

  Of course, the other unfortunate part of falling for someone at the moment my life took a turn out of the regular is that I’m constantly away from her. Not that the distance is a horrid thing, it’s forcing me to slow things down and really understand Poppy. We communicate so much that it’s making me feel as if I know her and see her more than I do. I suppose this is the good stuff, the meat and potatoes of a relationship that people always claim makes it stronger.

  “Hi,” Poppy says into the phone, and I can tell she’s on speaker.

  “Hey, you.” I smile to myself and feel like a total twit.

  But, if I have to be a twit, at least I get to fancy Poppy while I do it.

  “How was the film session?” she asks, and I can tell she’s distracted.

  I shrug as if she can see me. “It was okay, we went over some footwork that all the defensive players have to work on, and then sized up the opposing team for next week. My neck is sore from the morning training session though.”

  “If I were there, I’d rub it for you.” Her smooth voice caresses my ear and I’m instantly sporting a hard-on.

  The other unfortunate thing about being far from Poppy most days of the week? We can’t take our relationship to the next physical level. Having a glimpse into the underlying trauma left from her abuse, it’s obvious we need to take things slowly. When we are together, the snogging is heavy and desperate, and I can breathe a little easier knowing she’s comfortable and seems to welcome it.

  “What are you doing right now?” I lean back on my pillows.

  Wow, if that’s not the line of lines. If Poppy were any wiser to the inner workings of a man’s brain, she would know that I’m trying to initiate some mobile sexual activity.

  My search history is a bunch of open windows about sexual abuse victims and how to respect the
ir boundaries. One of the websites I got sucked into suggested having an open dialogue about sex, whether it was written, spoken, or communicated in person. Sometimes, it’s easier for someone who has been through that kind of trauma to talk about physical contact before engaging in it. And the best thing my naughty but cautious brain could think of was helping her touch herself, with my voice detailing the very pleasurable things I’d do to her body when she was ready.

  So, yes, I was trying to have phone sex with her and toss one off while she did … but it was still mostly for her benefit.

  “Trying to unclog the drain in my kitchen sink. It’s all plugged up. I think the ginger from my sushi lunch is what’s mucked it up.” She sounds far off, and I can just imagine the independent woman she is refusing to call for help.

  She’s probably up to her elbows in the kitchen sink with some sort of tool trying to fix it herself. The image makes me smile, something I do a lot when I think of Poppy.

  “Well, there is something else that needs unclogging, and I think you could help me with it.” Blimey, that’s cheesy.

  Her end of the phone is silent for a beat. When Poppy does speak, her voice is a mix of amusement and confusion. “Are you trying to seduce me over the phone?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Now, go into your bedroom, shut off the lights, light a candle and lie on the bed.” My instructions are gentle, but I hope she doesn’t give me pushback.

  “Kingston, don’t be cheeky.”

  Of course, she can’t just do as she’s told. “Poppy, I want to unwind with you, and this … it could be a good step for us. Me here and you there.”

  I hope she understands what I’m trying to say, that I’m only trying to be delicate with her boundaries and making her more comfortable with me.

  A sigh comes through the receiver, but I hear her moving. After a few seconds, her voice comes in clearer, meaning she’s taken me off speaker phone. “Okay, I’m lying down on the bed.”

  My cock grows impossibly harder at the thought of her body sprawled on the sheets. “Good. Now, what are you wearing?”

  I slip my hand inside the waistband of my shorts, past my boxers, until I grip my length in my fist.

  “A black tank top and soft gray shorts,” Poppy answers, and I can tell her breathing has changed.

  “Do you have a bra on? What kind of panties?” My voice is husky as I stroke slowly, imagining her on the bed.

  “No bra. Light pink lace boy shorts,” she whispers, and I’m flooded with lust.

  I can’t help but stroke myself, even though I know I should slow it down. “I want you to touch yourself for me, love.”

  “Where?” she asks, but I hear the rustle of sheets and know she’s squirming already.

  “Spread your legs. Inch your hand past the waistband of your shorts, into your panties, and coat a finger in your wetness.”

  Bloody hell, I was going to make myself come before I even talked her through an orgasm.

  “Oh my,” she breathes, and I can just picture her eyes shuttering closed.

  “How does that feel? I can imagine you making yourself feel good, using that finger to trace up and down your seam.”

  “Kingston … yes …”

  She’s fully into this, and my balls draw up, tensing with anticipation as I continue to jerk my shaft. The blood vessels in my cock expand, rigid and screaming with the need to release. It was rather easy to accomplish this, convincing her to go along with my lust-filled plans. I know in this moment that she needed this, needed the physical release that I could give her in the only way she could tolerate it right now.

  “You’re so bloody sexy. I’m jacking myself to the thought of you. I fantasize about your hair splayed across your pillows, your top riding up past your navel, the shape of your breasts jiggling in your top as you pleasure yourself. Those fingers just playing with your beautiful pussy; God, I can’t wait to taste it.”

  Poppy lets out a desperate mewl on the other end, and I know she’s getting close to climaxing. I’m right there with her, my short leash unusual save for the lack of sex in the past few months. Or the fact that I’m having phone sex with the most gorgeous creature my eyes have ever beheld.

  “My cock is so hard for you, I’m stroking it faster now just thinking about how beautiful you’re going to look when you come. Do you want to come for me, love?”

  Her breathing is a rhythmic thrumming in my ear, one that matches my own heartbeat. “Yes, I want to come. For you, Kingston, for you …”

  “Rub your clit, love. Faster. Think of me touching you, pulling your body to the brink of release.” I’m caught in it now, the tingle of my impending climax hurdling down my spine and into my balls.

  “Yes, yes … oh my …” Poppy lets out a harsh cry, and I know she’s coming.

  The last image I see in my brain before it goes hazy with pleasure is one of her arched back on the bed, her lips forming an O as the orgasm wracks her body.

  Every muscle in my body tenses as cum shoots from my tip, coating my hand and boxers. The sheer force of pleasure makes me grind my teeth together, a hoarse, almost silent groan leaving my lips.

  It takes a few seconds for my vision to come back into focus, for the warm lull of pleasure to lift from my body.

  “Wow,” Poppy says, and I realize her voice is so far away because I dropped the phone into the sofa cushions.

  Picking it up, a cheeky grin spreads across my face. “Well, now, wasn’t that better than unclogging the sink?”

  A giggle in my ear. “Normally, I would make some remark about how you’re an arrogant scoundrel. But, I’m too content and knackered to be that quick-witted, so I’ll just agree. Yes, that was loads better than unclogging the sink.”

  27

  Poppy

  As if Kingston worked some kind of magic, the intimacy we shared over the phone has unlocked something inside of me.

  Not only did I give my trust over to a man, allowing him to affect my body and its reactions, but he held that responsibility so sacredly that I feel a shift. My heart is lighter. For five years, I’ve felt a kind of pressure bearing down on the organ. But the way Kingston has delicately helped me through my fears and has a desire to see me comfortable in this relationship …

  It makes me want to afford him the same trust.

  I wasn’t planning on telling him the story of what happened to me when I was fifteen, but then I saw him get out of the elevator mere minutes ago, and I just knew. I took one look at him, this incredible man with a heart of gold that he hid under pranks and sarcasm, and I knew that I was about to confess everything.

  The trip back to London is supposed to be a happy one. We’re celebrating the victory of Nartanica making it into the fourth tier championship, all thanks to Kingston. If they win the match, it could mean very good things for the future of his football career. According to him, the manager at RFC has been keeping tabs on his progress and is cautiously impressed with the hard work he’s putting in.

  But as we enter my flat and Kingston shrugs his duffle bag off to head straight for me, I hold a hand up.

  “I need to … I want to tell you.” It’s so sudden that my voice feels foreign to my own ears.

  At first, he doesn’t understand. “Tell me what, babe?”

  “I want to tell you. I couldn’t before, but … I trust you, Kingston.” I raise my eyebrows, trying to subtly suggest that this is a big moment between us.

  His features mold into shock, but he schools them, trying for attentive and compassionate. “If you are ready, then I am here to listen.”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t ask me if I’m sure. Kingston just allows me to make the decision, and doesn’t persuade me one way or the other.

  “Let’s sit.” My hands fidget, and immediately I begin to regret the idea.

  What if I misspoke, or acted too soon? He will look at me differently after this. What if he doubts it happened, or if he questions why I never told the authorities?
/>   But now he’s looking at me, eyes trained on mine and one hand holding onto my fingers for moral support.

  So I jump, falling into the story the only way I know how and steeling myself for the emotional torment I know will come.

  “When I was fifteen, I was asked to shoot a campaign for a very high-profile brand. It was the first time I really thought I was making it in this business, especially because they’d signed a world-renowned photographer. Nicolai DeCallen.”

  I have to stop because just saying his name makes me want to hyperventilate.

  “When I arrived, everyone was so welcoming. Especially him, praising my work and telling me how wonderful it was to work with me. We got right to business; hair, makeup, clothes, the works. And then the shoot got underway, and it was incredible. So innovative, and the shots were just beautiful. Nicolai called a midday break, and most of the staff went out to get lunch, but he said he wanted to talk through the shoot more with me, so I joined him in the makeshift office he had in the studio. He gave me a glass of wine, told me it would help me relax … move the process along. I was fifteen and still very new in the industry, that Feraldo campaign was the biggest thing to ever happen to me in my life. I’d done small shoots, group magazine stuff, and some editorial work. But this? It was a major fashion house asking me to be their feature model. Of course, I wanted to act like I was an experienced professional, and like I drank wine all the time. In reality, that was the first glass of red I’d ever sipped.”

  I shudder just thinking about it, and how I’ve never been able to stomach a cabernet or merlot since.

  My eyes are averted, looking at a spot on the floor, because I know if I look at Kingston, I’ll break down. I have to get through this, recite it in machine-like fashion, or I’ll never be able to tell the entire story.