Page 18 of Owned By Knuckles
But I'm not scared of him. Haven't been since he knelt in front of me in the casino and asked if I was okay with that beautiful rough voice.
What I am is exhausted. And confused. And so tired of feeling sorry for myself. I sink onto the edge of the bed and let myself cry. Really cry, not the silent tears I've been holding back all night but full, ugly sobs that shake my whole body.
I cry for the two years I wasted with Derek. For the woman I used to be before he systematically destroyed her. For my family who chose his comfort over my safety. For the wedding that should have been happy but was actually an escape plan.
I cry until I can't anymore, until I'm empty and wrung out and my face hurts from the bruise on my jaw.
Then I wipe my eyes and force myself to stand up. To go into the bathroom and wash my face again. To look at myself in the mirror and acknowledge the truth:
I'm free.
Hurt and lost and completely fucking terrified, but free.
And then I notice something else in the mirror. Something I've been trying not to acknowledge since Knuckles carried me through the casino.
My nipples are hard. Visible through the robe.
My face flushes as I realize I've been turned on for the better part of an hour. Since he picked me up, maybe. Since I felt how strong he was, how easily he handled my weight, how his arms felt solid and safe around me.
Since I saw the way he looked at me when the dress unzipped and gaped open. That flash of heat in his blue eyes before he controlled it, stepped back, pretended he hadn't seen anything.
But he had. I know he had.
And God help me, I liked it.
I liked being looked at like I was desirable instead of tolerable. Like my body was something to want instead of something to criticize. Like I was a woman instead of a problem to be managed.
The guilt hits immediately.
What the fuck is wrong with me? The man just spent his entire evening helping me, protecting me, asking for nothing in return, and I'm standing here thinking about him like that?
I left my wedding four hours ago. Four. Hours.
I should be traumatized. Should be crying. Should be doing literally anything except getting wet over a biker I just met.
But my body apparently didn't get the memo because my panties, the new ones from the package Ghost brought, are already damp. I can feel the ache between my legs that I haven't felt in... God, I don't even know how long.
Derek stopped making me feel anything except fear about six months into our relationship.
But Knuckles... He makes me feel things.
I want to know what those strong arms can do. Want to know if his hands are as gentle everywhere as they were on my feet. Want to know if he'd touch me like I matter, like my pleasure is important, like I'm allowed to want things.
Derek never cared if I came. Said women who needed that much attention were high-maintenance. Said I should be grateful he wanted me at all.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the throb of arousal that's completely inappropriate given the circumstances. This is insane. I'm insane. The man helped me, and here I am thinking about what his scarred knuckles would feel like between my legs, what his mouth would taste like, whether he'd be as controlled in bed as he is everywhere else or if he'd let go completely.
The guilt intensifies, but so does the desire.
I spent two years not being allowed to want anything. Two years being told my desires were wrong, inconvenient, too much. Two years making myself smaller and quieter and more grateful for scraps of affection that came with conditions and bruises.
And now I'm standing here, finally free, and my body is screaming at me that it wants this man. This stranger who showed me more kindness in three hours than Derek showed me in three years.
But wanting him and acting on it are two different things.
He's helping me because he's a good person. Because he knows what it's like to need help and not have it. Not because he wants to fuck me.
Even if he did look at me like that when the dress came off.
