Kneel with the King: A Dark Standalone Romance, page 1
Contents
Blurb
Triggers
Author’s Note
Resources
1. King of the Jungle
2. King Knows Best
3. Long Live the King
4. In the Court of Kings
5. The King Always Wins
6. King of All the Lines I Shouldn’t Cross
7. Ice King
8. Playing with the King’s Fire
9. King of Nothing
10. King’s Ransom
11. All the King’s Men
12. King of Spades
13. King’s Ascent
14. At the Feet of the King
15. King Takes All
16. The King’s Move
17. To Break a King
18. The King’s Mirror
19. The King’s Gambit
20. How the King Was Made
21. Checkmate, King
22. The King Who Falls
23. King Uncovered
24. King at Rest
25. How a King is Ruined
26. The King’s Touch
27. Kings and Pawns
28. King of Hearts
29. The King’s Defeat
30. The Misfortune of a King
31. Return of the King
32. Kiss the King
Epilogue: Happily Ever King
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amanda Richardson
Kneel with the King
Amanda Richardson
© Copyright 2025 Richardson House Press LTD
www.authoramandarichardson.com
Copy/line editing: Rumi Khan
Cover Design: The Pretty Little Design Co.
Cover Photography: Wander Aguiar
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Blurb
He wanted revenge… but instead he got my submission.
Asher
Ambrose King is everything I hate–ruthless, smug, and far too good at getting under my skin.
He’s my biggest business rival with a knack for stealing my clients.
When my date doesn’t show up at the couples retreat we’re both at, the asshole convinces me to fake a relationship in order to secure the deal of a lifetime.
I don’t like him. I definitely don’t trust him.
And I absolutely shouldn't enjoy it when he wraps a hand around my throat, tells me to kneel, and calls me sweetheart.
But I do.
God help me–I do.
King
I didn’t come to this couples’ retreat for healing.
I came to ruin Asher Harrison.
Ten years ago, the beautiful yet broken Asher fired me after a drunken, illicit kiss.
But I’ve been watching him for years.
And now? He’s finally mine.
In business and in pleasure.
I want every inch of him unraveling at my feet, needy and begging.
And when he does?
I won’t let him go.
Kneel with the King is a full-length, high-heat standalone romance with enemies-to-lovers tension, fake dating, bi-awakening, power play angst, and a pleasure Dom who doesn’t play fair. Dual POV. It has a HEA. Please check the triggers.
Triggers
This book contains themes that may be problematic for some people.
For a complete list, please visit my website here:
www.authoramandarichardson.com/triggers
Happy reading!
Author’s Note
So… this is probably the least dark book in the series. But my definition of “least dark” still involves a manipulative alphahole, a fake boyfriend scheme gone too far, and two emotionally constipated idiots who think the solution to every problem is more sex.
Please read the trigger warnings. They’re listed for a reason. Just because this book doesn’t have stalking, ex-cons, or doctors behaving badly doesn’t mean it’s free of emotional destruction, power games, and morally questionable decision-making. If you’ve read my books before, you know the term “diet dark romance” applies to most of them.
There’s a LOT of angst. This is a contentious thing to say, but I had to warn you!
Please note that the kink in this book is not a guidebook. Please do your own research before partaking in any kinky activities.
At the end of the day, this book is about two stubborn men who fall in love against their wishes. It’s filthy, it’s emotional, and it’s surprisingly sweet—in between the threats and orgasms, at least.
As always, thank you for reading this book! I hope you’re ready to see Asher suffer (just a little bit). After being a total dick in the last book, he finally gets a big one in return… ;)
Xo, Amanda
Resources
These are just for fun, but if you’re a visual or auditory person, here you go:
Spotify playlist
Pinterest board
For the boys who kissed boys, the girls who kissed girls, the ones who kissed both, and the ones still figuring it out—I hope you know that you’re all worthy of a happy ever after.
King of the Jungle
Asher
Brooklyn
Sorry, babe. Something came up and I can’t make it. Have fun at the retreat! xoxoxo kisses hugs
I stare at the text for a full thirty seconds, waiting for the punchline, but of course there isn’t one. It’s just there, sitting on my screen like an afterthought, like dragging yourself up a mountain only to be told the summit’s closed for weather… sorry, no refunds, good luck on the way back down.
I don’t move. The driver’s already pulled away from the luxury resort, and the frozen gravel crunches under my boots as I stand here with a duffel bag and a suitcase, a pair of sunglasses I now regret on the bridge of my nose. I can’t see shit without my prescription lenses and I can’t think.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Brooklyn was supposed to come. All she had to do was smile, nod, be charming, laugh at the right things, and make it look like I’m supposed to be here. She was supposed to make it look like I belong at a couples-only retreat for the most successful business titans in the country, hosted by a man I’ve been trying to get in front of for three goddamn months. I just needed to be perceived as stable, settled, successful. That’s all.
But now I’m alone.
And alone doesn’t get me past the check-in table, which I walk up to a minute later.
The woman behind it is glowing. Not metaphorically—actually glowing. Like she’s been bathed in turmeric and inner peace and probably a little too much of that shimmery stuff women like to wear. Her hair is silver-blonde, and her white tunic is ironed and professional, and she gives me an overly compassionate smile as her eyes flick over my shoulder, searching for my partner for the week.
“Welcome to Altura Retreat. Name?”
“Asher Harrison,” I tell her, looking around for any familiar faces.
“Thank you. How was your journey?” she asks, tapping a tablet with perfectly manicured nails.
I shrug. Long. Tedious. And possibly all for nothing.
“Fine.”
“Wonderful. We have you registered for a suite in the Sekhmet Pathway, correct?”
I nod, dazed. “Yeah. Yes. I had a—I was supposed to meet my—” I pause, swallow the word girlfriend like it’s going to burn on the way down. “Is it possible to participate as a solo person? My partner got held up.”
She tilts her head. “Unfortunately, this particular retreat is exclusively for couples only.”
I open my mouth, ready to spin something. She had a delayed flight, a missed connection, a mysterious stomach bug… something. I’ll make it sound plausible. I have to be here this week.
But then a voice cuts clean through the afternoon.
“He’s with me.”
It’s low—calm. Polished, somehow.
I blink and turn around, and when I see his face, recognition lands like a slap.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Mr. King—no first name that I know of. Everyone just calls him ‘King’—like he came prepackaged with a crown. The name alone is so arrogant it makes my teeth ache.
He’s a wunderkind. A boardroom shark in designer boots, tattoos, and a reputation that precedes him.
I’ve never worked with him directly, but I do know he’s young. Not even thirty and already untouchable. He doesn’t need decades of experience under his belt, because he has a presence that wows everyone he meets.
Unfortunately, I’ve been on the receiving end of his ruthlessness. He poached one of my legacy clients a year ago—sank an entire department I’d built from the ground up just to rebuild it under his name, at his firm.
Fucking asshole.
“We’re checking in together,” King says to the receptionist.
He’s tall and composed. Straight spine, black coat over his arm, carrying a simple, black leather duffle bag. His shirtsleeves are rolled and there’s an antique watch glinting on his wrist—subtle, but expensive.
I’ve actually never met him in person. I’d only had the pleasure of seeing his headshot everywhere—including the Forbes Most Powerful Under 30 list.
And, of course, we’d argued on the phone a fair amount.
Those dark eyes find mine, and something about his presence makes me want to avert my gaze. There’s something in his stare, like déjà vu, but with sharper edges that pull at my gut.
The feeling slips away before I can place it.
He’s broader than I realized. Wide-shouldered, cut in a way that says power more than vanity. The kind of build you earn, not just maintain. His shirt fits close enough to suggest he doesn’t need to prove anything.
His skin is warm-toned, sun-brushed. His hair, dark with a few lighter strands like he spends more time outside than his job should allow, is pushed back but already starting to fall forward. It’s styled but not polished, just like the rest of him. Sharp jaw, a day or two of scruff, and—
Piercings. A few in one ear, subtle but definite. One at the cartilage, one lower down. And a thin, silver nose ring. Stylish, tasteful. A quiet rebellion tucked into an otherwise corporate uniform. I clock them and feel my mouth tighten.
Piercings. Of course. Kids these days.
Except he’s not a kid—not really.
There’s a stillness to him that makes me think there’s a lot more under the suit he keeps hidden—perhaps a dark secret or two. Something coiled and powerful. Like if he stood, he’d take up more space than the room allows.
I make sure my face doesn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a breath. But inside, everything spikes—blood pressure, temperature, heart rate.
I don’t know why he’s here, or why he’s not partnered up already.
And he’s saying I’m with him—like we somehow coordinated this.
The receptionist’s smile tightens just slightly. Not suspicious, but assessing, like she’s flipping through a mental checklist and we’re not ticking all the boxes.
She glances between us. “Just to confirm, you’re registering as a couple? We do ask all guests to sign the joint agreement—shared suite, shared schedule, full emotional transparency. Certain aspects of the retreat are very intimate. You understand, I’m sure.”
I open my mouth, ready to buy me some time to figure out what the fuck is going on.
But then King moves.
Without even looking at me, he steps closer and slips his arm around my shoulders, like he’s done it before.
Like it’s nothing.
I go rigid. Every muscle tightens instinctively, a full-body flinch I hope the receptionist doesn’t clock.
“Of course we’re a couple,” he says smoothly, all warmth and civility, like he’s being asked to confirm a dinner reservation. “Just had a little travel chaos and I wasn’t sure I’d make it in time. You know how it is.”
He gives her the kind of smile people bend around, and even I have to admit, the man has a shit ton of charisma.
She melts on cue. “Of course,” she chirps, already typing again. “Happens all the time. Welcome to Altura Retreat. You’ll both be in suite eleven. Key cards are inside your welcome packet. Before you go, we’ll just need both of you to sign the waiver and consent form.”
Waiver? Why the hell do I need a waiver?
I don’t move. My brain is trying to catch up to itself. There’s a buzzing in my skull like I’m about to be electrocuted.
King looks at me then, like he’s waiting for me to out us.
But if I have to spend a week sharing a room with this jerk, then so be it. I need to get to know Walter Davenport, and hopefully bring him on as a client. It’s the work of my entire lifetime, all culminating in this one, exclusive retreat where I’ll have access to the one man who could make or break the next decade of my career.
The only way that’s happening is if I play nice, keep my mouth shut, and survive this goddamn retreat.
So, I guess we’re doing this.
The woman hands us both matching welcome envelopes with the room keys inside.
We make our way to our shared suite. The door clicks softly behind us as we step out of the building and into the snow, King’s arm still around my shoulders.
The moment we’re far enough away from anyone to see us, I twist slightly, just enough to shrug him off. His arm falls away like it was never there, but the weight of it lingers, pressed into the space between my neck and spine like a hot brand.
I don’t say anything. Not here. Not yet.
But my thoughts are sharp and loud and already racing ahead.
“Trent says hi, by the way,” King says, his tone eerily casual.
That’s the moment it lands, and the moment I realize just what the fuck I’m doing. Hearing him say Trent’s name is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and I’m suddenly filled with the resentment and anger that’s been festering for over a year.
Trent Marchand—my client, my anchor, the account I built from the ground up, including a fifteen-person team, the one I moved to New York for. The last time I saw King’s name in my inbox was the morning after Trent’s “surprise” announcement that he was moving all assets to a new firm.
I knew immediately that someone had poached him, because King had been poaching smaller clients from my roster all last year.
I’d given him an earful over the phone that day, and even back then, he was calm and collected. So annoyingly mature about the whole thing, citing, “It’s just business.”
I clench my jaw so hard it clicks.
Whatever this is? It’s not random. King is here, doing this for some reason I have yet to ascertain.
And I’m not letting him win.
Not this time.
Not again.
King Knows Best
Asher
We’re silent as we walk the snowy path toward the cabins, the soft falling of snow the only sound. The afternoon sun is hidden behind the gray clouds, and despite the fact that we have a few more hours of sunlight, it feels like dusk already.
I hate it. I hate this. I’ve never been one to relax while on holiday, but a working holiday? I’d much rather just be at my desk where I have everything all set up for maximum efficiency. And I already know this week is going to test my limits… in more ways than one.
Especially now that King is here.
I didn’t expect to see him—didn’t know he’d even be on the guest list. And I definitely didn’t think I’d be sharing a damn suite with the man who’s made it his mission to upend everything I’ve built. And yet… here we are.
The weight of my duffel bag is already digging into my shoulder, and in my other hand is a terrifyingly thick welcome packet titled Wellness & Surrender: Reclaiming Your Presence. Just reading it makes my stomach turn.
King walks beside me like we’re on some kind of joint mission. Relaxed, hands in his pockets, like this is any other offsite. Not a total PR-disaster-in-the-making with fake dating, shared accommodations, and a history between us that feels more like a pressure cooker than anything else.
“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter, keeping my voice low, even though we’re alone.
He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t hear you object.”
“I was caught off guard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For salvaging your access to the most exclusive couples retreat in the country.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Right. Because you’re so altruistic.”
He gives a small shrug. “Let’s just say it was mutually beneficial.”
“Sure. Because nothing screams credibility like being fake-partnered with a guy who stole one of my biggest clients.”
King’s expression doesn’t shift, but I catch the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.
“I didn’t steal Trent,” he says evenly. “He left.”
I glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Right. On his own. Total coincidence he ended up on your roster two weeks later.”
He stops walking for half a beat. “And? Do you want me to say I regret it?”
