Page 113 of Knight
"You're standing here like this and you're worried about my language?"
"I'm just saying. There are children asleep down the hall."
His grin fades into something deeper. "They're asleep because we made sure of that. Because we did what we needed to do today, and now—" His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, and my back arches off the wall. "Now I get to have this."
His thumbs circle—slow, deliberate, maddening. I watch his face as he touches me, watch the concentration in his expression, the way his eyes track every reaction. When my breath hitches, he does it again.
When I bite my lip, he increases the pressure. He's learning me, reading me, mapping every signal my body gives him like he's studying for a test he intends to pass.
"Romeo." His name comes out breathier than I intended. "Can we—can we move to the bedroom?"
He pulls back slightly, his hands still on me, and meets my eyes. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He steps back, giving me room to move, and I walk past him on unsteady legs. The bedroom swallows us in amber light, and I hear him follow—the soft rustle of his clothes, the pad of his feet on the hardwood.
I stop at the foot of the bed, turning to face him, and he's already pulling his t-shirt over his head. The lamplight catches the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband.
He tosses the shirt somewhere behind him and reaches for his pants, pushing them down with the kind of casual grace that makes my mouth go dry.
He stands in front of me in boxers, and I reach for him. My small hands press against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm.
He lets me touch him—lets my fingers trace the lines of his ribs, the flat plane of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hip bones. When I hook my fingers into his waistband, he catches my wrist.
"Not yet." He guides my hands back to my sides. "Tonight is about you."
"Romeo—"
"I mean it." His voice is firm, but his eyes are soft. "Let me take care of you. Just this once."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that I don't need taking care of, that I've been handling things on my own since I was fifteen, that accepting help feels like swallowing glass.
But the words die in my throat when he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. The lace falls away, and his palms cover my breasts, warm and steady, and my eyes close on a shudder.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. He's watching my face, reading every micro-expression, and when his thumbs brush my nipples again, I can't hold back the sound that escapes me—a soft, breathy moan that seems to hang in the jasmine-scented air between us.
"There," he murmurs. "Right there."
He backs me toward the bed, step by step, his hands never leaving my skin. When my knees hit the mattress, I sit down abruptly, and he follows me down, pressing me into the sheets. The bed is cool against my bare back, a relief against the heat building under my skin.
Romeo settles over me, one knee between my thighs, his hands planted on either side of my head. He looks down at me—really looks—and I feel seen in a way that terrifies me.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and the words don't sound like a line. They sound like fact. Simple, indisputable, spoken like someone stating the sky is blue.
"Romeo—"
"I mean it." He lowers himself until his chest brushes mine, until I can feel his heartbeat against my breasts. His mouth finds my ear. "I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. I'm going to take my time.
I'm going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you shake. And when you come, I want you to say my name." His words send a shiver through me. "You're very bossy tonight."
"Deal with it." His teeth graze my earlobe, and I gasp. "Now tell me what you want."
I don't know how to answer that. Not because I don't know, but because I've never been asked. Not like this. Not by someone who actually cares about the answer.
I've had sex plenty of times—quick, functional encounters that scratched an itch or served a purpose—but no one has everlooked at me the way Romeo is looking at me now and asked what I want.
