CHAPTER 7: PLAYING WITH FIRE

KNOX’S POV

The second I haul her back onto my lap, still naked and trembling from that pathetic excuse for a blowjob, I realize I'm fucked.

Not literally—though that's coming soon enough.

I'm fucked because I've wanted this for months.

Every time Gale dragged her to pack meetings, every time she'd bring coffee into my office wearing those conservative dresses that somehow made me want to rip them off more than if she'd walked in naked.

Every boring dinner, every treaty signing, every moment she stood quietly behind her waste-of-space husband while I imagined bending her over the conference table and showing her what a real alpha feels like.

I'd convinced myself it was just base attraction. The forbidden fruit bullshit. Another man's wife, off-limits, which only made the fantasy hotter.

But having her here now, bare and willing and looking at me like I'm something more than the monster everyone knows I am? That's dangerous.

I don't do commitments. Don't do feelings. Not since—

I shut that thought down hard. Ancient history. Dead and buried where it belongs.

I spread Ember's knees with one hand and slide my fingers between her thighs.

She's still soaking wet from earlier, her pussy greedy and swollen, and when I push two fingers inside she makes this broken little sound that goes straight to my cock.

"Already wet again," I say, making sure it sounds like both compliment and accusation.

She meets my gaze, cheeks flushed, trying for defiant. "Is that a problem?"

Fuck, she's got more fire than I expected.

I answer by adding a third finger and curling them hard against that spot inside her that makes her whole body jerk. She arches back, head dropping onto my shoulder, a sound like a sob tearing from her throat.

She's so responsive it's obscene. Every touch, thrust of my fingers makes her clench and whimper and fall apart.

I could get addicted to this—to having this much control over someone who's spent years being controlled by the wrong man.

That protective instinct I've been fighting flares hot in my chest. She's fragile in ways she doesn't even realize, and I'm playing with fire that could either destroy her or consume us both.

I should care more about which one.

"Harder," she gasps, nails digging into my bicep.

"Greedy little thing." I pump my fingers faster, rougher, watching her face as pleasure overwhelms everything else. "You want it rough? Want me to make you scream so loud the entire resort hears who's fucking you properly?"

She nods frantically, beyond words now.

I lean in close, my mouth against her ear. "Then let go. Come on my hand like the desperate omega you are."

She does, her whole body locking up before she shatters completely.

Her pussy clamps down on my fingers so hard I feel it in my cock, and she comes with a strangled cry that makes me want to throw her on the floor and fuck her until neither of us can walk.

But I've got plans for her first.

I don't stop until she's limp and gasping, eyes glassy, completely wrung out.

"Holy shit," she manages after a long moment.

I withdraw my fingers slowly and bring them to my mouth, licking her taste off while holding her gaze. Sweet and addictive and mine for the next week.

She makes a wounded sound, like I've just committed some kind of crime.

"Fucking delicious," I tell her, then lift her off my lap like she weighs nothing. "Come on. Shower."

"I can walk—"

"You really can't." I head toward the bathroom. "And I'm not done with you yet."

The shower is all marble and steam. I set her down on the counter and start the water, adjusting it until it's just shy of scalding.

Ember stares at her reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wild hair, swollen lips—like she doesn't recognize herself. She looks thoroughly fucked, and we're just getting started.

I strip off the rest of my clothes and her eyes track every movement, lingering on the scars across my chest, the muscle, the half-hard cock that's already aching to be inside her again.

When the room fills with steam, I pull her into the shower and pin her against the tile.

She gasps at the heat, then gasps again when I run my hands over every inch of her body. I soap her up slowly—shoulders, breasts, hips, ass—then slide my hand between her thighs to clean the mess I made.

She whimpers, oversensitive, trying to close her legs.

"Stay still," I command, my fingers gentle despite my tone. "Let me take care of you."

She does, trembling under my hands, and something in my chest tightens at how easily she submits. How much she trusts me despite barely knowing me. The things I’ve done.

I tilt her head back and wash her hair, fingers massaging her scalp until she melts against me with a soft sigh.

"Are you always like this?" she asks quietly.

"Like what?"

“Intense. Over the top.”

I consider lying, then decide she deserves the truth.

“With most people, no. With you, apparently yes.” I rinse the soap from her hair, thumb stroking the back of her neck. “You bring out something I can’t explain. I don’t like it.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

I kill the moment before it gets dangerous. "Come on."

I scoop her up bridal-style and carry her out of the bathroom, ignoring her weak protests. She's already half-asleep against my shoulder, completely spent, and we haven't even gotten to the main event yet.

My bedroom is all black and floor-to-ceiling windows showing the snow-covered mountains glowing blue in the moonlight. The bed is massive—king-size, sheets expensive enough to bankrupt a small pack.

I drop her onto the mattress and peel away the towel, leaving her completely exposed.

"Stay there."

She does, breathing shallow, pupils blown wide as I crawl onto the bed.

Here's where I should tell her what I'm actually planning. Give her a fighting chance.

Instead, I start at her feet and work my way up, mapping every inch of her with my hands and tongue and mouth.

I kiss the arch of her foot, suck and bite, the inside of her ankle, up her calf to behind her knee where I bite just hard enough to make her gasp.