Page 46 of Knight
The Word That Seals It
I stand up.
The chair scrapes against the linoleum and the sound is too loud in the quiet of this apartment where my brother sleeps ten feet away with a dollar-store rocket throwing blue light acrosshis ceiling and my sister is curled behind a closed door dreaming of things that make her scream.
I step toward Romeo.
Close. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his skin, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls like something inside it is fighting to get out. His shirt is wrinkled from the drive and he smells like cedar and cold air and the faint bite of whiskey that tells me he poured a glass before he came here and didn't drink it.
I look up at him. His green eyes are wet and burning and he is watching me with the raw desperation of a man who got the answer he wanted and still doesn't believe it.
"Yes," I say again. I let the word sit between us. Let it breathe. Let him feel the weight of what I'm giving him because it is the heaviest thing I own and I will not hand it over cheap. "But you look at me when we do this. You do not treat this like a transaction. You look at me and you mean something when you say the words."
His breath catches. A sharp intake that I feel against my lips because that's how close we are — inches, fractions, the distance between a decision and its consequences.
His hand comes up. Trembling. The steadiness from the car, from the call with his brother, from the drive across the city — gone. His fingers touch my cheek and slide along the curve of my face until his palm cups my skin and the warmth of it sends a shock straight down my spine.
"I mean something," he says.
His voice breaks on the last word. Cracks open like the marble Knight on his desk — a fracture through the center of something that was trying so hard to stay whole. He didn't plan to say it like that. I can see it in the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his lips part after the words leave, the way his whole body goes still with the shock of his own honesty.
He didn't plan to mean it.
But he does.
I grab the front of his shirt with both hands and pull him down to me.
His body yields to my grip like he's been waiting for this exact moment, like every step he took from his car to my door was leading here. He bends toward me, and his hands come up—not to push me away but to brace against the counter on either side of my hips, caging me in without touching. His forearms are warm and solid beside me, the fine dark hair on them brushing against the bare skin above my waist where my t-shirt has ridden up.
"Nova—" he starts again, and this time my name sounds different in his mouth. Not pulled out like a splinter. Offered like a prayer. I don't let him finish. I pull harder, and his forehead drops against mine.
"You need me," I say. The words come out low and rough, scraped from somewhere deep in my chest. "You came to my kitchen at midnight and you're telling me about legal precedents and marriage licenses, but what you're really saying is that you need me."
I release his shirt with one hand and slide my fingers into his wrecked hair, gripping the dark waves. His lips are parted, and his chest is heaving, and he looks nothing like the charming man who walked into The River Club and made me an offer I shouldn't have accepted.
I crash my mouth against his. The kiss is not gentle. It's not the careful, exploratory press of lips that usually begins our encounters—those times when he's charming and I'm guarded and we both pretend this is just physical. This is something else entirely. This is my teeth catching his bottom lip and tugging. This is his sharp inhale of surprise that dissolves into a groan that vibrates through both of us. This is my tongue sweepinginto his mouth and tasting him—whiskey and desperation and something sweeter underneath that I've never let myself notice before.
His hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into the denim hard enough that I'll probably find bruises tomorrow. He pulls me against him, and I feel the hard length of his body pressed against mine—his chest solid against my breasts, his hips flush with my hips, his thighs bracketing mine. The counter edge digs into my lower back, and I don't care. The pain is grounding. It reminds me this is real, this is happening, this man who says he needs me is kissing me back like I'm air and he's been drowning.
He takes control of the kiss—his tongue sliding against mine, his head tilting to change the angle, his teeth scraping across my lower lip in a way that sends sparks shooting down my spine. One of his hands leaves my waist and slides up my back, pressing between my shoulder blades, holding me against him like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, the word half-swallowed by our kiss. "Nova—"
"Don't talk." I bite his lip again, harder this time, and his hips jerk against mine in response. The hard ridge of his cock presses against my belly through his pants, and I feel a pulse of heat between my own thighs—my body responding to his with an urgency that matches the frantic rhythm of his heart under my palm. "You've been talking for ten minutes. Just—shut up and kiss me."
He laughs, and this time it's not broken. It's surprised and relieved and so fucking genuine that I feel it echo through my own chest. Then his mouth is on mine again, and his hands are sliding down to grip my ass, lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. The edge of the counter bites into the backs of my knees. Romeo steps between my spread legs, and his hipspress forward, grinding his cock against the seam of my jeans. The friction sends a jolt of pleasure through my core, and I gasp into his mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs, his lips trailing across my jaw to my neck. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin below my ear, and I shiver. "Let me hear you."
"You're not in charge here," I manage, but my voice comes out breathless and unconvincing. My hands are in his hair again, tugging his head back so I can return the favor—biting along the column of his throat, tasting the salt of his sweat, feeling his pulse race under my tongue.
"Never said I was." His hands slide under my t-shirt, palms hot against my bare skin, and I arch into his touch. His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the ridges of my ribs, the band of my bra. He's not rushing—he's mapping me, learning me, even though he's touched me before. This feels different. This feels like claiming. "You pulled me to you, remember? You're the one who—"
I silence him with another kiss, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. His hips buck against mine, and I feel the wet heat building between my thighs, my pussy aching for contact that my jeans are denying me.
His hands keep moving under my shirt, pushing the fabric up, and I raise my arms so he can pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin for barely a second before his mouth is on me—kissing across my collarbone, down the swell of my breast above my bra, his tongue tracing the edge of the lace. I lean back on my hands, the counter hard beneath my palms, and watch him worship my body with a reverence that makes my throat tight.
He reaches behind me with one hand and unclasps my bra with a flick of his wrist—practiced, smooth, and I'd make a joke about it if I could think clearly enough to form words. The fabricfalls away, and his eyes darken as he takes me in. My nipples are already hard, peaked in the cool air and aching for his touch.
