Page 112 of Knight
Romeo's hand closes around my wrist.
Not tight. Not demanding. Just present.
His thumb presses into the thin scar on my left wrist, and I freeze. He's not doing it on purpose—he doesn't even realize,probably, that his thumb has found the old kitchen scar—but the contact sends a current through me. I look up at him. He shakes his head. Once. Slow.
"Leave it," he says. His voice is low, rough at the edges, stripped of the smooth polish he uses on the rest of the world. "Don't cover up. Not tonight."
I could argue. I could point out that I'm cold, or that the nightgown is comfortable, or that standing in my underwear in the bathroom while he looks at me like that makes me feel exposed in ways I'm still learning to tolerate.
But I don't. Because his hand is still on my wrist, and his eyes are asking for something, and I've spent too long calculating the cost of giving. Tonight, I don't run the math. I let the nightgown hang on its hook. I let him look.
And he does look. His gaze travels over me slowly—not the slick, appreciative sweep he uses in public, the one that's designed to flatter and disarm.
This is different. This is inventory. This is a man cataloging every inch of skin like he's afraid he'll forget, like he needs to memorize the exact shade of my brown skin against the black lace, the curve of my waist, the faint marks on my hips where the jeans pressed too tight.
His hand releases my wrist and slides up my arm, trailing heat, until his fingers brush my collarbone. He traces it left to right, then back again, like he's drawing a map.
"You're staring," I say.
"I know." He doesn't look away. "I'm allowed."
"You're allowed? Is that a royal decree?"
His mouth curves. Not a smirk—something softer, something almost surprised, like he still can't believe I'm here. Like he still can't believe he's allowed to look and touch and have this.
"Yeah," he says. "Royal decree. From me. Right now. You have to stand there and let me look at you."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Nova." The way he says my name—low, reverent, like a prayer he doesn't deserve to speak—stops my breath. His hand moves from my collarbone to my neck, his fingers curving around the side, his thumb resting against my jaw. "Please."
The word undoes me.
Romeo doesn't say please.
He cajoles and charms and manipulates situations until the answer becomes inevitable, but he doesn't ask. Not like this. Not with his voice stripped bare and his eyes holding mine and his thumb tracing the line of my jaw like he's learning the shape of me.
I swallow. His thumb follows the movement. "Okay," I whisper.
He steps closer, and I step back until my shoulders hit the bathroom wall. The tile is cool against my skin, a contrast to the heat radiating off his body as he crowds into my space.
His t-shirt brushes my bare stomach, and I feel the fabric like a brand. His hands slide down my arms, lifting them, pressing my palms flat against the wall on either side of my head. He holds them there—loosely, I could break free if I wanted—and leans in. His mouth finds my neck again, but this time it's not soft. This time his teeth graze my pulse point, and my breath catches.
"Romeo—"
"Shh." His lips move against my skin, the word a vibration. "Let me."
I don't argue. His mouth trails down my neck, open and wet, tasting me. His tongue traces my collarbone, then lower, following the edge of my bra.
His hands release my wrists and slide down my sides, his palms hot and sure against my ribs. I keep my hands on the wall because he put them there, and something about holding that position—giving him that small obedience—makes heat pool low in my belly. My fingers curl against the tile.
His thumbs hook into the straps of my bra, sliding them down my shoulders with agonizing slowness. The lace catches on my nipples before falling away, and I hear his sharp intake of breath as he looks at me. Really looks.
The bathroom light is unforgiving—I can see every flaw, every stretch mark, every place where my body falls short of the polished perfection he's used to. But Romeo doesn't seem to see any of that. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice is wrecked.
"Fuck, Nova."
"Language," I murmur, and he laughs—a real laugh, startled out of him, and I feel the sound in my chest.
