Page 88 of Kneel with the King
We make it to the first platform, which sways under our weight. My heart’s thudding in my throat, and King steps in, hand on the small of my back, steering me toward the first obstacle—two ropes, one for your feet and one chest height for your hands.
“Just one foot in front of the other,” he says, voice pitched for me alone. “You’ve got this.”
“Do you give all your fake boyfriends pep talks, or am I special?”
He grins. “Only the ones I actually like.”
I glare at him over my shoulder, but my grip on the top rope tightens as I take the first wobbly step. The ropes sway, the platform behind me creaks, and every muscle in my body is tense enough to snap.
I fucking hate this.
Halfway across, my foot catches wrong and the rope jerks sideways. I lurch to the side, but King’s right there again, one hand gripping my harness, the other braced on the rope to steady us both.
“Easy,” he says. “Breathe.”
I do, though it’s shallow and not entirely helpful to my racing heart. “This is the worst foreplay I’ve ever experienced.”
His mouth curves into that dangerous half-smile. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”
We make it to the next platform, and for a second I let myself stand there and pretend this is fine, that the only thing shaking is the wobbly structure, and not my knees. King hands me a bottle of water from the supply bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hydrate,” he says simply.
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I take a long drink anyway.
“Efficient,” he corrects, watching me with a look that’s not just about the course anymore.
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t hate the casual way he takes care of me, the way it’s starting to feel… easy to let him lead.Tooeasy.
I hand the water bottle back, trying not to think too hard about the fact that my mouth was just on the same top he’s now drinking out of. When he’s finished, King tucks the bottle back into the bag, then glances toward the next obstacle—a series of swinging wooden planks spaced far enough apart to make my stomach drop.
The facilitator in the white, branded Altura coat jogs over to check our harness clips. “You two make a great team,” he says, upbeat and oblivious. “Some couples fight like cats and dogs on this course, but you—” He waves a hand between us. “—smooth as anything. Like you’ve been together for years.”
I open my mouth to correct him, but King gets there first.
“Only a year, but it’s the real deal,” he says easily. No denial. Not even a smirk. Just this low, steady confidence like the idea of us being a real couple is the most natural thing in the world.
Something in my chest does this weird, uncomfortable twist. I tell myself it’s the height, the cold, the harness digging into my hips—anything but the fact that I liked hearing him say it. That something lit up inside of me when King said this is the real deal.
The facilitator moves on, and King crouches to check the strap at my thigh. “Loosened up a little,” he says, tightening itbefore I can tell him I could’ve done it myself. His fingers brush along my leg, firm and sure, and I swear my pulse skips.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, because my brain defaults to sarcasm when I don’t know what else to do.
His mouth twitches. “You’re missing the last two letters.”
I roll my eyes and step onto the first plank, gripping the rope on either side. The wood swings under my weight, the gap to the next plank looking much bigger from up here than it did from the platform. I take a breath, ready to jump, heart galloping a mile a minute, and that’s when I feel King’s hand briefly at the small of my back. Not pushing, just… there. Solid.
I land on the next plank with only a minor flail, and when I glance back, he’s watching me with bright eyes and something akin to… respect?
It’s suddenly too much—the attention, the steadiness, the way he’s just there in this easy, reliable way I didn’t think he was capable of. My stomach shivers with nerves at the idea ofusin the real world.
No. I can’t think of that right now. Absolutely not.
By the time we hit the third obstacle, my palms are slick inside my gloves. It’s not the ropes, or the height, or even the swinging planks. It’s him.
King is everywhere—a hand on my back, steadying my harness, catching my wrist when I misjudge a gap. It should be annoying, the constant proximity, but it’s not. It’s… worse. Because I’m starting to want it.
Because I’m starting tocraveit.
