The Knight (Endgame #2)(42)

Of course I can’t bear to look at him now—can’t look at his body, can’t even meet his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

“God, you have no idea what you do to me.” He takes my hand, guiding it over his briefs.

Hot. Hard. Throbbing. “Oh,” comes out as a squeak.

His voice roughens. “Stroke it.”

I run my fingers lightly over his length, feeling him through the fabric. A damp spot stains the tip, and I press my forefinger there, making him grunt. A small smile touches my lips. He’s right that there’s power here, power in making him shift on the bed, his body so strong, made vulnerable by my touch.

“You like this,” I say softly, shyly.

His voice leaves no doubt. “I crave it.”

My gaze trails back over his body, snagging on the nightstand.

And there’s the pawn piece, the dark trophy that I had feared. My breath catches. I look away, not wanting him to see my pain. This is the bed where he took my virginity. These are the sheets that had been stained with my blood—bleached white now.

“Hey.” He grasps my chin and turns me to face him. “Talk to me.”

“The pawn.”

He follows my gaze, understanding hitting his light brown eyes. “I won’t hurt you again. The first time—”

“It wasn’t painful like that.” I close my eyes tight. “Well, it was, but that’s not what hurt the most. It was how you pushed me away after, like that’s all I’m good for.”

His eyes go dark, more bronze now. “You think I only want you for sex?”

“You paid for me, Gabriel. That’s not something a man does if he wants a relationship.”

“I don’t want a relationship,” he says roughly. “I want to own you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Your family has dark secrets. Well, this is mine. That my father owned women—not just because it made him money. Not just so he could fuck them. He bought and sold them because that’s what he wanted to do, that was the only thing that got him off.”

My chest constricts. “And that’s what you want to do—sell me?”

“Never.” A cold laugh. “I’m too fucking possessive for that. No one else gets to touch you.”

“What if you get tired of me?”

“I tried, little virgin. I sent you away. I tried to forget you, but I get hard just looking at a chess piece. I can’t seem to let you go.” A rough sound. “A lifetime of discipline and now I’m a fucking addict.”

I bite my lip. “What if I get tired of you?”

He growls, flipping me over in a whirl of male strength. I’m face-first against the bed, his body framing mine. He nuzzles the base of my neck, a primal show of possession. “Mine,” he whispers.

I fought that word before. I resented it even as I hated it.

Now my secret muscles clench in tacit acquiescence.

His knee nudges my legs apart. He pushes my hair aside, fingers clenching in the strands. A hot press of his mouth against my back, following down my spine until I’m spread apart and wanting.

Blunt fingers force their way inside me, finding me wet. He groans in approval. “Fuck yes.”

Even his fingers feel thick in the small space, my skin struggling to adjust around him. His cock is even bigger. He twists his fingers, seeking a spot, finding it—and I arch against the bed, wordless sounds begging for release.

When he took my virginity, I faced him. It had seemed like a powerless position, the depth and speed of the thrusts completely his to command. Submission in the most base animal language. But I realize now the range of motion that I had to touch him, to wrap my legs around him, to press my breasts against his chest. Now I’m entirely motionless, his hand in my hair holding me above, his weight holding me down from behind. I can’t touch him.

“Please,” I whisper. “I need… I need…”

He gives me a little shake with a fistful of my hair. “You take what I give you.”

I groan my dissent, without even leverage to push back against him. His cock burns a slick trail across my butt as he presses a kiss to my cheek. Only a second later do I realize that kiss was a warning, maybe even an apology. The wide head of his cock nudges against my folds. Without a word he thrusts inside me, ripping past clenched muscles, forcing me open. A pained cry is muffled by the sheets. My body reacts instinctively, inching up the bed in a frantic bid to escape. It only succeeds in tightening the pull on my scalp.

A calloused hand angles my hips, and then he plunges again, thudding against a point inside me. My mouth opens on a silent scream. His entire body covers mine, chest against my back, hips covering mine, arm stretching out along mine and grasping my wrist. My hands clench and open, desperate for some mooring. There’s nothing but his body in a sea of wild sensation, every rock of his body bursting stars behind my eyelids. Orgasm crashes through me, violent and stormy, never-ending as I contract and pulse and quiver around him.

It’s too much, this relentless throb inside me, this powerful bass he makes with my body. I can’t breathe, can’t speak. This is what he meant when he said he owns me—the complete capture of my body, the takeover of my mind. I’m drowning in Gabriel Miller, the scent and sound of him. The feel of him inside me.