Page 59 of Kneel with the King
Grinding my teeth, I take a seat next to him just as he drapes my jacket over the back of his.
I sit stiffly, forcing a relaxed smile onto my face. “Sorry if I kept you all waiting.”
“Not at all,” Jacques says warmly. “We’ve only just ordered drinks. I took the liberty of asking for another red.”
King flags the server down with a slight tilt of his fingers, already so at ease it makes my skin crawl. The server walks over and before I can ask for whiskey, King orders for me.
“He’ll have a cosmopolitan. Extra juice, please.”
Now I’mreallygoing to kill him.
“Actually,” I say quickly, giving the server an apologetic grimace. “I’d like a rye whiskey. Neat.” When King’s eyes flash with dissatisfaction, I tilt my head and give him a sweet smile. “Pumpkin, I’m trying to cut sugar. Remember?”
Walter chuckles like this is all very charming. “Well, you two certainly make for interesting dinner companions. Sparks were flying at brunch.”
“Was that before or after he threw coffee at me?” King asks mildly, already lifting his menu. “Because, honestly, it’s all starting to blur together.”
I inhale slowly, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that my knuckles ache. “I don’t know. Maybe it was after you almost let me fall to my death,” I retort, smiling sweetly at him.
“Oh, come on,” Jacques says with a laugh. “No more bickering. We’re here to relax, right? So, let’s relax.”
King hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like a solid plan.” Looking at me, he quirks a brow, but his mouth is distinctively turned down into a frown.
My whiskey arrives a second later, and I drink half the glass in one go.
I avoid looking directly at King until our food arrives, but the heat of his body beside mine is impossible to ignore. His thigh brushes mine under the table, and he doesn’t even flinch.
He’s in charge of his emotions, apparently, and it’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
We all eat our starters, which is some kind of fancy tiger shrimp. I pick at it, wondering if I should perhaps order something else.
“You need to speak up when you don’t like something, Harrison.”
Walter launches into a story about a disastrous product launch for his multimillion-dollar company, and I nod along, half listening, until King leans in slightly and says under his breath, “You’re not wearing your collar.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
I don’t look at him—I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his voice and the feel of his breath against my ear affect me.
Instead, I smile at Walter and ask a question I don’t hear the answer to.
King’s knee nudges mine again, and I nearly snap. Because this time, he does it with more intent. The weight of his thigh settles firmly against mine beneath the linen-covered table. I’mjust about to turn and glare at him when his hand snakes around the back of my chair, and he grabs the back of my neck firmly.
My body nearly goes limp, and I feel my entire thought process short-circuit. My spine straightens on instinct, but my shoulders ease under his touch like they’ve been waiting for it.
I want to shove him off, twist away, or saysomething—but instead, I freeze.
Not from fear, or arousal, but from… something else.
Something inside me—some ancient, humiliating instinct—sits up and listens.
The heat from his palm burns through my skin, and my breathing slows. My body is responding to something it’s not supposed to… like I’ve been waiting for someone to put their hand there.
Like I forgot I liked it.
But I don’t like this. I don’t need it.
Across the table, Walter is still talking. Jacques is swirling his wine. No one notices the war happening inside my mind and the racket of my speeding, silent heart rate.
