Page 10 of Kneel with the King
Brooklyn, Ari, and all the other women I’ve dated always had a featherlight touch, hovering more than landing.
But King’s touch? It’s a statement, sure and controlled. It’sconfident, just like everything else about him.
Something sharp and inconvenient stirs to life under my skin.
I tell myself it’s irritation. Ithasto be irritation. Because whatever it is, I don’t have time for it.
Shifting my weight forward a bit, away from his touch, I force my focus back where it belongs.
Walter raises a pleased eyebrow. “Mr. King. So nice to see you again. I didn’t realize…” He gestures between the two of us, looking both surprised and delighted at the same time.
“Oh, this?” King says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, it just sort of happened last year. What can I say? Couldn’t resist those blue eyes.”
My throat clicks as I swallow. I feel every molecule in the room shift as Jacques’s eyebrows lift and Walter’s mouth curves in amusement.
I turn my head to look at King, keeping my hardened jaw as subtle as I can. “That’s right.”
“How wonderful,” Walter says, grinning. “What a power couple you two make. We were just about to get drinks. Join us?”
“We’d love to,” King says smoothly, his hand squeezing my shoulder once.
Jacques and Walter walk ahead of us, and King leans down to murmur into my ear. “You’re welcome.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter back through my teeth.
We’re led to a private seating lounge just off the main restaurant. The area is full of high-level players and their partners. I recognize at least three CFOs and a regional VP of a competitor firm with their wives. And now I’m sitting next to King, across from Walter and his partner, trying to keep my breathing steady.
Walter smiles at us like we’re adorable. I try and focus on anything other than the unfavorable emotions roiling inside of me. The leather chairs, the low lighting, the carafe of wine already waiting. I take it all in, trying to compose myself. King pours for everyone like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Walter and Jacques slip into comfortable banter about the retreat’s programming. Infrared saunas. Cold plunges. Couples yoga. Shadow work. All of it sounds like psychological torture, if I’m being honest, but I keep the smile plastered on my face.
I try to keep up, but I’m painfully aware of how close King is sitting, and it’s distracting as fuck. He smells like cinnamon and cloves, and when he removes his jacket, I try not to stare whenhe rolls his shirtsleeves up, exposing tanned, corded forearms covered in ink. My eyes take in the tattoos, zeroing in on a large one on the inside of his forearm—a shaded gravestone with random numbers and ‘AK’ in bolded text. The stone is in black ink, and surrounding the gravestone are bright, orangish-red wild roses. I can’t help but watch the muscles pull across his tan skin with every movement.
How much is this guy benching?
“You two seem comfortable,” Jacques says at one point, eyes flicking between us.
King hums. “Thank you.” In the next second, he snakes an arm around my shoulders once again, and I want to punch him. He’s only touching me because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.
Walter watches us both, like he’s collecting data, and I relax my shoulders and lean into King as much as my body and mind will let me. “How long have you been at the New York office, Asher?”
“Almost two years,” I say, giving him a warm smile as I place a hand on King’s thigh. He jumps in surprise.Two can play this fucking game.
“He started the West Coast branch before helping the New York office expand,” King offers up.
I glance sideways. Why is he helping me?
Jacques nods approvingly. “Impressive.” His eyes flick between us, and he smiles faintly, obviously buying whatever it is we’re selling. “It’s interesting to see partners who work at different firms. I’m not in the same industry as Walter so I can’t even imagine. You’d think there’d be competition, no?”
I stiffen, looking at King. He only arches a brow as if to dare me to say something, so fuck it.
“He poached one of my biggest clients, actually,” I say.
Walter chortles before whistling. “I’d heard of Mr. King’s cutthroat business style, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He glances at King. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“It’s how we met, actually,” King says, removing his arm from around my shoulders and placing his hand on top of mine.
I squeeze King’s thigh tightly—tootightly—and relish the way I can hear the tiny, little inhale of air through his lips. His nails dig into my palm as he squeezes my hand tightly—a reaction to me—and something hot and electric flashes through me.
