Page 36 of The Bonds We Break
Plus, wouldn’t it help Ryker in the long run if King actually liked me?
There are two coolers, both with ice packs. They’re filled with meat and fruits and vegetables. There’s yogurt and granola and creamer. And next to the coolers is a box of snacks. Cashews. Chips. A jar of salsa. A plastic container with six cupcakes in it. There’s also a box of tampons, which makes me think for a moment that he is more like the man Ryker thinks he is than the asshole I’ve met so far.
I grab the chicken and take it into the kitchen. There’s just enough light from the two lamps in the living room to find my way around. I find the skillet and chopping board and then cut the chicken into thin slices that will cook faster. With the addition of a little butter, I have the chicken sizzling on top of the fireplace.
King didn’t even stir at the noise. I add some chili flakes to it in the hope of adding a little flavor. Panic builds that I’ve done the wrong thing, that King won’t like something spicy. That he’ll be angry at me for ruining what he bought. I force myself to take three deep breaths.
When I cook at home, I use one of those meal-delivery kits. Five meals in a box with recipes. I just dump the seasonings inside, in whatever order the instructions state. When I’m left to my own devices, things tend to either be flavorless or at a spice level you need milk on hand to swallow.
Then I toss together a quick salad. It’s a little uninspired, but it’s fresh, and green, and healthy.
As I’m walking the salad to the table, King sits up with a start and looks around the room, seemingly coming to rest when he notices me place the bowl on the table. “I don’t know what you had in mind, but I started some dinner. I’m not the greatest cook.”
He runs a hand over his face. “I’m sure it’s fine, although you can humor me and take the first bite so I can be sure you didn’t poison me.”
“No poison,” I say calmly. “But I guess you’ll never know if I spat in it.”
King raises an eyebrow.
I plate the food, and we both sit at the dining table now that the room is warmer. We eat in silence beyond the scrape of cutlery on our plates. I use a knife; he doesn’t. I eat my salad first. He pushes the spinach around like it offends him. I wonder why he bought it and struggle with the idea that he wanted something healthy for my sake.
“Thank you for bringing supplies. I would have survived another night, but it would have been pretty miserable.”
He tosses his fork down on his plate. “Well, I know how you can pay me back.”
I know what he’s going to say. Sex.
What he doesn’t know is that him speaking to me this way makes it easier for me. For him to make me feel like I have no consent, to take away my power to choose, makes my body hum. Because otherwise I’d actually have to admit how attractive the man sitting across from me is. How if he approached me in a bar and asked me to go home with him, I’d say yes in a heartbeat. I’d also have to admit that I can’t reconcile why I don’t feel more fear.
Perhaps for Ryker, I do. But for some reason, I know I’m safe with King. As in I know I could reach him if I had to.
“And how’s that?”
“I want an orgasm.”
As I thought. It’s just sex.
He stands and moves to my side of the table, clutching my chin between his thumb and forefinger so I look directly at him. But instead of the harsh features I’ve seen previously, there’s a curiosity in his eyes. “Don’t you?” he asks.
14
KING
There.
I see it.
The slight flare of her iris. The single clench of her jaw.
What I can’t decide is why she won’t come for me. She’s told me she consents. So I can only assume she’s holding her orgasms back from me. While I don’t have a score card, the number of women who want to sleep with me more than once suggests I’m not useless in bed, and they can’t all be faking. Or she’s holding them back because that’s all the power she has right now.
I definitely don’t want to spend a minute thinking about why it matters to me that Rae comes, beyond the fact this woman has held her own against me from the first moment I laid eyes on her. There’s a sick part of me that actually likes matching wits with her. Because I’m president of the club, there are lots of women who’d fall at my feet to tie up my dick and be my old lady. But one look at Rae’s face says she’d never be one of them.
I dig deep into the memory banks of first girlfriends, first times, first moments that mattered. I’m so used to women who know the score, who accept me fucking them like they don’t mean shit, that I need to consider how to handle Saint’s skittish little sister.
Maybe it’s because I’m so fucking tired after a night of partying, but something stirs in my gut at the way Rae looks at me. It’s the kind of look that a guy remembers twenty years later.
I shake the thought from my head and tug her to me, placing my lips to hers. Our bodies line up against each other like they’re two pieces of the same puzzle. It shouldn’t feel this good to slide my hands into her hair as she melts against me.
