The Knight (Endgame #2)(28)
His words spark a flame inside me, and it’s with humiliating arousal that I slip him into my mouth. Salt smooths over my tongue, the taste of his weakness. He may not care about me, but he wasn’t lying about the sex. He needs it as badly as I need answers.
He clasps his hands behind my head, murmuring, “Open for me. Open. Just a little bit. I need to use you like this. I need to—fuck, Avery.”
I relax my jaw and let his cock slide deeper, the ridge slick over my tongue, the head thick in my throat. My body jerks once, resisting, but he holds me still—taking my air—until I relax. Not exactly trusting. Accepting what he does to me. That’s the only kind of prayer I know.
His hips move against me, faster now, finding his rhythm, thrusting into my mouth the same way he would between my legs. His groans are an uneven symphony, cataloging his descent.
And that same animal instinct that made me run recognizes his power. His strength. I’m subservient to him in every way, desperate for his protection, submitting to his desires. My body readies itself to ease his way—saliva coating his shaft, arousal damp between my legs.
His smooth movements grow erratic, rough thrusts startling in the dark. I choke on the length of him, but he doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t give me room to breathe. I have to suck in air through my nose, panicked for a moment, eyes wide open.
When he comes, it’s not deep in my throat. It’s with the head of his cock against my tongue, pooling salt where I’ll taste it most, slick and warm. My swallow makes it disappear, but the flavor of him lingers even when he pulls away.
In the aftermath I pant, my forehead pressed to his leg, his trembling hand in my hair.
“I should hate you.” My voice is hoarse, still raw from his cock.
His leg presses between mine. “It’s all right, little virgin. You do.”
“Then why does it feel like this?”
“Because you need to come. Like this. No one can see you.”
My breath catches, because the top of his foot nudges between my legs. It’s horrifying to think of coming like this, rutting against him on the floor, the taste of his come in my mouth—but now that the idea has bloomed, I can’t think of anything else. My hips move on their own, rocking against him, every glance of my panties against the Italian leather of his shoes a sweet relief.
No one can see you. He sees me, every terrifying desire, every secret fear.
His hand fists in my hair, pulling me against him with the same rhythm he fucked my mouth. My body conforms to him naturally, accepting the heat and muscle of his leg in place of a real embrace, welcoming the crude stroke of his shoe in place of a caress.
“That’s right,” he says, voice tight. “Oh fuck, you’re perfect.”
Something moves by my face, and I realize it’s his fist. He’s stroking himself, groaning as if in pain so soon after coming, unable to help himself.
It’s the spray of hot come across my cheek that triggers my own climax. I bear down on his leg, moaning with the weight of my own debasement. Pleasure sparks everywhere that he touches me—between my legs, knee pressed between my breasts, the tip of his cock sliding against my cheek. I’m made of some other material, inhuman, alight by the things that should disgust me. This man, his treatment of me. The unbearable beauty of surrender.
I’m floating in some otherworldly space. Reality can’t intrude in these four walls. It can’t penetrate this strange light. Distantly I hear the rustle and zip as he straightens his clothes.
Something small and white floats down in front of me.
Then he’s gone from the room. I don’t hear his footsteps, but I feel his presence disappear. The force of him, gone. I’m alone here. Again.
Slowly, carefully, as if recovering from a great blow, I wipe my cheek. His come is sticky and cooling against my fingers. A handkerchief. That’s what he dropped at my knees. I look at the fine fabric, probably imported Italian silk. Monogrammed with the letter M with intricate scrollwork. I use it to wipe him from my skin before tossing the fabric in a small wastebasket in the hall. Discarding it like trash, the same way he left me.
As I descend the steps, I can see that the pawn isn’t on the bottom step anymore.
Instead there’s something rectangular. A book. Small. Leather-bound. My heart beats faster. I stumble the last steps until I can pick up my mother’s diary. I hold it close to my chest, throat tight. I don’t know how he got it back, whether he kept it all along or bought it from the auction winner. He teases me and toys with me, he demeans me and degrades me, but all I feel right now is gratitude. If he hadn’t guaranteed the money in the escrow account, I wouldn’t have been able to attend the auction. If he hadn’t sent the limo early so I would have time in the house, I would never have found the diary. And if he hadn’t caught me in his web, I wouldn’t have the answers inside.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning I visit my father, and the nurse gives me a genuine smile. “He’s been awake on and off. I imagine you’ll be able to talk to him today.”
My heart thuds in anticipation. He used to be my rock, my sole family member after the loss of my mother years ago. And he never remarried—never wanted to, that was how much he loved her. So it was just the two of us, playing chess or hosting society events in the ballroom. Now here we are—me living out of a cheap motel, him bedridden on the charity of his sworn enemy.