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Yet, there’s no one I trust more. “Say something.” Another blink. “Something.” A startled laugh escapes me before I can catch it. Sometimes I think Knox was born centuries too late. With his huge, powerful, warrior’s body, razor-sharp intensity, and laconic manner, he could’ve been a Spartan. Which is why, when he reveals his dry humor, it always catches me off guard and gives me an inexplicable little thrill of delight.
“What do you want?” he growls. I blink, my voice trapped inside my throat. So much. Your mouth. Your hands. Your body. Your fire. Your rawness. You. “For your tattoo,” he clarifies.
I lock my fingers together behind his back. Hold harder. Squeeze tighter. “You won’t ask for this,” I whisper. “But please take it, Knox. For me. If you’ll only accept it for my sake, then…please.” Emotional blackmail. Dirty and not fair. I don’t care. My conscience has no place here. Seconds, minutes, hours pass. And I still cling to him. Willing him to take the comfort I’m offering…the comfort I need, too. Finally, just when I’m about to admit he’s not going to concede, his arms close around me. Some of that awful tension melts from his muscles.
Nah, that didn’t accurately describe what’d happened that night. She’d grabbed every sense, every heartbeat, every organ, every brain cell that made existing possible by the throat and forced them to function just for her.
Peering at me with a scalpel-like perception that has me fighting not to gather up my shit and break the door down trying to get out. I’m used to MMA fans recognizing me, ogling me, mentally weighing me. In the gym, in the ring, during an interview, and now, from a tattoo chair—they don’t bother me. I’ve become accustomed to it. But sitting here, one-on-one in a small apartment with only feet of space between us, I feel exposed in a way standing in an Octagon with just a pair of shorts on and cameras and thousands of eyes focused on me never has.
her hair falls forward, partially concealing her face from me. My fingers tighten around my beer bottle, holding on. Either that or I’ll push them through those brown-almost-black strands, fist them, and drag her head back so she can’t hide from me. Which is completely hypocritical since all I’ve done from the moment we met is hide.
Vulnerable is not a word in my vocabulary—except when it comes to her.
“Tell me, Eden.” When her lashes lift but she hesitates, I urge, “Be brave.” Yeah, I’m a hypocrite, since I’ve been a coward around this woman from day one. Moment one.
My heart pounds at the tenderness, the affection in the light touches. Stop this shit, part of me barks. Hot, frenzied, filthy. That’s what I need, because I can’t afford to trick myself into believing she could care for me
My eyelids receive the same gentle, but sensual, treatment. So does the small bump along the bridge of my nose. I hold my breath—literally hold my goddamn breath like some smitten teenager—when those lips hover above mine. And when that first sweet rub of her mouth to mine comes, a shudder ripples through my body, like a fucking earthquake,
Knox Gordon is not only capable of emotion, he is a seething cauldron of it, just with a tightly screwed top. And I’m his Achilles heel. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.
And I get that, but I still had to take a chance because,” she pauses, drags in an audible breath, “because you’re worth that chance. You’re so worth it.”
