Page 51 of Kneel with the King
“You want to check my knots, or do you trust me not to fall?” he asks.
I roll my eyes as a reply, but I watch as he discards his jacket on top of mine and threads his legs through the loops. Tightening the straps himself, his fingers work with surgical calm, muscles flexing under his thin long-sleeve shirt. My mouthis dry. He pulls the waist belt snug, then looks over his shoulder at me.
“How’s this?”
I shrug. If he falls to his death, so be it.Then again, I might actually be a little sad if something happened to him.
“Looks good to me.”
“You should check it,” Jacques suggests from a few feet away. There’s a mischievous glint in his brown eyes, and I grind my jaw as I walk closer to King.
I don’t speak. I crouch, eyes on the knot at his waist. His hips. The material of his pants. Anything but the large bulge looming in front of my face.
My fingers move with a little more pressure than necessary as I rethread the rope through the figure-eight loop and cinch it tight.A little too tight.
He sucks in a breath.
“Too much?” I ask flatly, not looking up.
“No,” he says, voice low. “I like it snug.”
I glance up then. His eyes are already on me. Heavy and bright all at once… unreadable.
“You’ll feel it every time you move,” I say, standing slowly.
“I know.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. And he doesn’t loosen the knot.
Rolling my shoulders, I attempt to quell the arousal flaring through me. I hate that part of me still burns where we touched. My hands on his hard body. His on mine—his cool fingertips brushing so close to my cock I forgot how to breathe for a second.
Focus.
I follow the other people who are strapped into the base of the rock wall. The instructor double-checks our harnesses and knots, thoroughly ensuring we’re all safe, and hands us helmets to put on. We’re the last to climb—of course we are. Jacques andWalter go before us, and I watch as they giggle and snort their way up, having fun while I feel like I’m in my own personal hell.
King stands just behind me, checking the rope with practiced ease, humming low in his throat like this is all part of a morning ritual. Like he hasn’t spent the last forty-eight hours making me question everything.
“After you,” he says, gesturing toward the rock like a gentleman offering his jacket.
I don’t respond. I just start climbing.
The wall isn’t high, but it feels vertical. Jagged holds, damp stone, and King right behind me. Each time I stretch, I hear the rope tighten. Each time I falter, I feel the tension in the way he’s holding the rope.
His breath stutters each time the rope tightens around his waist as he shifts his weight below me.
“Left foot higher. That one. No—higher,” he directs from below me.
“Don’t tell me how to climb.”
“Would you prefer I tell you how to fall?”
My fingers clench harder around the hold. I want to hurl myself off the wall just to spite him. But I don’t. I keep going.
When I reach the top ledge, I pause, breathing hard. Cold air hits my face. My hands shake, and despite being warm, the tips of my fingers are numb from the cold.
“You good up there?” he calls from below.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me rephrase,” he says. “Do you trust me to bring you down?”
