Page 18 of Kneel with the King
I pull my hands back, showing him thatI’mthe one who chooses when this ends.
His eyes stay on mine, tracking my movements.
“I’m not playing any game,” I say, even though it sounds like a lie the second it leaves my mouth. “It’s justbusiness,right?” I add, throwing his words from last year back at him.
King leans back in his chair, gaze still pinned to mine. He stretches his arms across the top of the chair like he’s lounging, but it’s too poised to be casual.
“You keep telling yourself that,” he says, voice a shade too smooth in case anyone is listening in. For all they know, we’re casually flirting. “But you keep showing up. You keep… engaging. Letting me pull you closer, one inch at a time. And… doing exactly what I say.”
I laugh, and the sound is dry and sharp. “You think that’s what this is? Me beingpulled?”
He tilts his head, slow and patronizing. “You think it isn’t?”
The air around us thickens. A flush creeps up my neck, and I hate that he sees it. I can feel him registering everything—every breath, every shift in my posture. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t gloat. Just catalogs.
Like he’s studying a new acquisition.
And I know the type. I’ve worked with men like this for decades. IthoughtI was a man like this—smooth, calculated, assessing.
“You’re not in control of this,” I say, but it sounds weak. Defensive. Like I’m trying to convince myself more than him.
King doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. He just exhales slowly, fingers steepling.
“I don’t need to be,” he says. “That’s the difference between us.”
I stare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, lowering his voice again, “some people try to control the room. Othersarethe room. And learning the difference is essential.”
I should leave, but I can’t. It would cause a scene, and right now, I need to act like I’m in love with the man across from me.
I stay there, spine rigid, mouth dry, skin prickling with heat I can’t shake.
Before either of us can say anything, however, dessert arrives.
Of course he ordered the chocolate cake. Dark, layered, dense. Something about it feels like a test.
I glance up just in time to see him take the first bite. His fork slices through the center with clean precision, and his mouth closes around the edge with a kind of calm focus that shouldn’t be doing what it’s doing in my head. Eyes half lidded, hesavorsit. A flick of his pink tongue. A hum that’s barely audible, the sound vibrating down my nerve endings.
Then his tongue flicks out again to catch a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
Jesus.
I shift in my seat.
Is he doing this on purpose? He must know what he looks like when he eats.
Also, is this guy a goddamn monk? Does he do an hour of meditation every morning to stay so calm and collected? What the hell is his deal?
I tear into my crème brûlée angrily, spoon clinking against the ceramic dish.
I don’t look at him again—I don’t trust myself.
Halfway through, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out that stupid folded card—the one the waitress gave us earlier.
The one I slammed face down on the table.
He unfolds it slowly, stares at it for a moment, then slides it into his wallet like it was always there.
