Page 43 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
“For that alone I would have ruined him, but I wanted you. He should have known I’d have you no matter what. Whether he agreed or not. Whether you wanted me or not.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
His lips twist in cold amusement. “I didn’t count on how well you could play the game.”
“I lost everything.”
“It wasn’t a fair trade,” he admits softly. “My black heart for everything you hold dear. Your only solace is that I’m ruined even worse. An empty shell.”
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
“Do you remember when I told you to kneel?”
My heart thuds. “I can’t forget.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I wanted the diary.” Except that’s not the whole truth. And doesn’t he deserve that? I wanted him broken, bleeding, and he’s doing that. This proud man admitting defeat. “And because I wanted you.”
His eyes burn like the sun, painful and bright. “Do you know what it did to me? God, I was so ready to take you. I would have taken you and taken you. Never giving anything back. Understand? I never thought for one second that you’d give yourself to me willingly.”
“You never came to me.”
“I never believed I could have you without buying you,” he says, his voice flat.
There’s nothing in his tone to reveal emotion, no hint of weakness. How long did it take him to perfect that facade? How much power does it require to maintain those walls? I know the truth about him—about Gabriel’s father and his moonshine. His whorehouse. What did Gabriel Miller see that made him think he wasn’t worthy of love?
“Kneel,” I say softly.
He stills. “Repeat that.”
It’s a dangerous game, making a lion bow in front of you. One I’m willing to play if it means winning. It’s not only my safety that’s at stake, but my heart. Not as black as Gabriel’s, but more fragile. “Kneel.”
In the heartbeats that follow, he could storm from the room. He could push me down on the floor and have his way with me. There are a million outcomes besides what he does. One knee on the floor. Then the other. With his height and breadth, he still comes to my chest.
This is the part where he tucked my head against his thigh, where he absolved me in a wordless balm. Where I could feel his arousal, already hard and throbbing.
His hands go to my jeans, careful and sure.
It’s like a fever, an intense burn that makes my skin warm and pink, that makes me shudder. His fingers are blunt as they stroke down my stomach, into the slick crest between my legs.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
And then he fuses his lips to my clit, making me buck in surprise. I knew what he wanted from me, but the slide of his tongue is still a shock. I cry out, and he groans his approval.
He pulls back to meet my eyes. “That’s right. Let them hear you. They’ll never get to taste you like this. Never get to feel your clit against their lips, will they?”
“Oh God,” I gasp. “No, no.”
Male satisfaction makes his eyes glow. “This pretty little cunt has always been mine. Say it.”
Those words. My cheeks flush. “This pretty—”
Two fingers nudge at my opening, pressing inside with a possessive force. My flesh molds around him, clenching and clenching, trying to pull him deeper. “Finish.”
“This pretty little—”
He leans forward to work a slow lick from his fingers to my clit, the extended contact a blissful agony. My hips rock against him, begging, desperate.
I know what he wants. “This pretty little cunt has always…”
When he sucks my clit, I lose all sense of time and space. I’m floating in a sea of sunlight and pleasure, only his mouth and his fingers and the rough sound of his encouragement.
He holds me on the brink until tears leak down my cheeks. It hurts, and I whimper. He’s merciless, teasing me with gentle licks and twists of his fingers.
“Always yours,” I manage to gasp. “I’ve always been yours.”
His fingers curl inside me, and I rise up on my toes. The pleasure radiates from my core, blooming over my breasts, my lips, all the way down to my toes. My mouth opens on a silent cry. His teeth graze my clit, and then I scream. They all hear me—those men downstairs. The dangerous ones, the powerful ones. They know who owns me now. And I know too.Chapter Twenty-FiveAfter the orgasm hits, my legs crumple beneath me. Gabriel catches me in his lap, cradling me as pleasure renders me helpless. The tidal wave of pleasure recedes, but the water remains, lapping at my skin in remembered relief.
Gabriel doesn’t hold anything back, murmuring soft words while he strokes my hair. This is a side of him I haven’t seen before, but one I always knew existed—the natural counterpoint to his strictly enforced stoicism. He was so careful never to be kind, so deliberate in his remoteness. And God maybe that was for the best, because his tenderness hits me harder than the orgasm. A few seconds and I’m already addicted. You were always mine.
