The Knight (Endgame #2)(25)

“Please,” I whisper.

Instead of touching me, he gives me one final word. “Mine.”

It should be a shock of cold water. He doesn’t have any right to me. One month. My body. That small strip of skin that he took between my legs. That’s all he gets. He doesn’t own me.

Except my thighs clench in helpless response, a betrayal to every fierce instinct.

“Gabriel,” I whisper.

He pulls the covers over me, tucking them around my body. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’m too…” The flush threatens to scorch my skin, burning a path from my breasts to my neck to my cheeks. “I’m too turned on.”

Any other time his expression would be priceless. This man who faces million-dollar business deals with cool efficiency, who ruthlessly destroys those who cheat him, looks worried. “You’re what?”

I wriggle against the cool sheets, seeking respite and finding none. “I’m so warm. Down there. I need you to help me.”

“Christ,” he breathes.

There’s awe in his eyes. And anger too. He’s a contradiction wrapped up in one hard-packed masculine package, layers of secrets and armor. What would it be like to reach the center of him? What would I find?

“Please,” I beg, reaching for his hand, moving it to the place between my legs over the covers.

“It’s the pot,” he says, almost to himself. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

Except I do want him. I know it’s wrong to want a man who ruined my family, wrong to desire a man who purchased my body. He humiliates me just to prove a point. How can that be sexy? Except he does so with such skill that I can’t help but respond, such power that my body falls under his thrall in some evolutionary equation.

He’s right about one thing—my father did fail me. And Gabriel would defend his domain with a ferocity I find seductive, the sweet ache of a barbed-wire embrace.

My body presses against him, my clit throbbing with the blunt pressure of his hand. Too light. Too indistinct. I could press a pillow between my legs after he leaves, but I don’t want that. Coarse fabric and a cold room. “I want you.”

He thrums with tension, held frozen by invisible chains. “You’re under the influence.”

I always want him. In my dreams, in the dark. A secret desire I’m afraid to admit to myself. Maybe the pot loosened my control, but the feelings were always there. “It hurts.”

Finally he snaps from his self-imposed restraint. “Show me.”

My cheeks are burning with shame, but not enough to stop me from pushing down the blanket. My legs are bare, only the thin fabric of my panties to shield me.

His eyes blaze. “All the way, little virgin. Let me see that pretty cunt.”

Shaking hands push down my panties. I press my legs together, but he shakes his head slowly. Every part of me, exposed. His. I belong to him, and that knowledge gives me the strength to spread my knees.

A shudder runs through his large frame. “God, Avery. That pussy. So pink. So fucking wet. It haunts me, the memory of you. I think I’d spend every second inside you if you were with me.”

“You said you were done with me.”

“Never. I’d never let you out of bed.”

In my high state that strikes me as funny and I giggle. “Even to shower?”

“I’d shower with you. Press you up against the glass, run my hands over your skin with soap, push my cock into your heat. Hear your cries echo on the tile.”

My breath catches. “Do it.”

“In this place? No, I want you in my bathroom. In my bed.”

Anger rises up in me, that he’s toying with me. That he would send me away only to lure me back. The auction for my virginity may have been dirty, but at least it was honest.

“Tell me the real reason you sent me away. Not so I would run.”

He smiles slightly, looking sinister. “You think I don’t enjoy the chase?”

“You do, but that’s not why you sent me away.”

His hand trails down my arm, light and teasing. “Touch yourself, little virgin. Touch yourself, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

I shudder at the tickle of his touch, the temptation of denial. Then I smooth my hand across my tummy and down, down, down. Where I’m already wet and hot. Ready for him.

“Tell me,” I whisper.

His eyes are trained on mine. “Your clit.”

I touch the small bundle of nerves, and pleasure courses through me. “God.”

Without looking down, his eyes darken with satisfaction. Whatever he sees, it’s in my eyes. “You won’t remember this. Not anything that I say.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” he says softly. “It matters that you broke down my defenses when no one else could. When I swore that I’d never let anyone close to me. Especially you.”

The final words strike against my clit, rougher than my fingertip. My hips push into my hand, desperate even while my mind struggles to make sense of him. “Why me?”

He leans close. “Faster, beautiful. Harder. The way I touch you.”

My hand moves without conscious thought, obeying him without question. I rub in harsh circles, building the pleasure higher, fighting an ache I can’t contain.