Page 119 of Knot So Lucky

Heat flares through me in scorching waves—each like a whip of fire tempered by want—and my body replies like a long-dormant engine roaring back to life.

I clamp down on my breath, swallowing the urge to whimper. I draw in another lungful of him, tilting my chin so his mouth trails along my temple, past the hairline, presses against my jaw. My voice scrapes out, gravel and hunger.

I wonder what happened to the kidnappers. Where exactly am I? A safe house? My suite? Some unknown destination that no one can track?

A low rumble vibrates through my skull—his promise.

“You’re safe. I protect you. Cross me, and I break them.”

“Good,” I breathe, letting the word switch off the panic flashing behind my eyes. I’m clearly talking to myself, and yet its so easy to wonder if this is a hallucination or actually happening in real time.

My need only intensifies, all-consuming.

I slide my thighs apart—no hesitation, every motion deliberate—and grind down on the thick column of his thigh wedged between me. The ruined lace clings and slides over my clit, fabric rasping in a shameless whisper. A sound escapes me, something raw and unbridled. “Pressure,” I command, yanking his wrist and directing his hand lower. Not pleading—precise placement. “Here. Now.”

He exhales, a growl of triumph. Callused fingertips trace the soft hollow inside my thigh before he finally cups me through the lace. Electric fire detonates deep and furious.

“Look at you,” he rasps, awe and profanity tangled in his tone. “Slick as oil.”

“Efficient,” I correct, arching back to chase more friction. “Don’t waste time when I’m incandescent.”

The room smells of sin and sweat, like we’ve vandalized the night. The digital clock glows neon green, slicing the darkness. Between us hangs a charged atmosphere—octane and honey, feral and domestic. I anchor a hand at the nape of his neck, my nails crescent moons of impatience. “Cale?”

“Yeah, Trouble.”

“Stop telling me to be good. This isn’t ‘good.’ This is survival. Give it to me.”

His chuckle trembles, reverent and shattered. “Say please, and I’ll?—”

“No.” I crash my mouth onto his, hard and unannounced, stealing the breath I need. When I pull away, my lips tingle, my pulse drums a warning. “I’m not asking. I’m ordering.”

Something inside him snaps—a pinball flaring wild. His hand slides beneath the lace, discovers heat, finds slick, and circles with a measured cruelty. My hips jerk in response; my fingers snag in his hair. I guide his mouth down my throat, and when his teeth graze that sensitive skin—territory marked with want—I quake as if struck by lightning.

“It’s burning,” I grit out, rolling against his fingers in tight, hungry arcs. “Make it count.”

“Count it for me,” he murmurs, voice an arming fuse.

“One,” I pant, and for a moment the world tilts as he traces figure-eights across my clit with pinpoint precision, like he’s memorized every curve of me.

I suck in a breath that tastes like petrol and late-night rain, forcing control back into my voice. “Two. Harder. Don’t handle me with kid gloves.”

He emits a sound halfway between pain and pleasure, his rhythm sharpening. I seize his forearm with both hands and grind, unyielding as a driver defending the apex of a turn. The orgasm crashes through me without warning—white-hot, electric, savage—and I ride it eyes wide, jaw slack, a primal cry tearing free.

He doesn’t relent. His hand remains a steady drumbeat through my aftershocks, his lips a string of curses that feel like worship. When the pleasure spikes again, raw and feral, I tilt my head so my lips brush his ear. “More.”

He pins me with those unblinking eyes, chest heaving, every muscle tensed like a wire in a storm. His voice breaks at the edges, raw and desperate, but he wants to hear the need from my lips—no disguises, no mercy.

“Say what you want,” he growls, the demand peeled down to bone.

“I want your mouth,” I say, voice slicing the silence clear as a checkered flag snapping in wind. “Devour me. Don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t. One second he’s looming above, the next he disappears beneath the sheets, dragging them off the bed with a single sweep. His hands grip the backs of my thighs, flexing bruises into my skin, and he pries me open, no room for modesty or self-preservation.

His breath is a furnace against my soaked lace, and then his tongue is there, blunt and broad, flattening over the slick fabric before he rips it aside with his teeth. The sound it makes is obscene—a soft, wet pop as he bares me fully, the sheer heat of his hunger turning my whole body into a live current.

He feasts like a man starved, tongue lapping and curling and flicking in a rhythm that’s both calculated and wild. Every stroke is a dare, each pass more deliberate than the last, as if he’s intent on memorizing every twitch, every unguarded gasp, every way my body betrays itself under his mouth. I fist both hands in his hair, dragging him closer, grinding helplessly against the pressure. He moans, the vibration traveling straight through my core, and the sound is almost enough to tip me over again.

He keeps going, shifting my hips higher so I’m half airborne, devouring every drop, every tremor, every whimper I try and fail to smother. He doesn’t just lick—he bites, he sucks, he tongues in relentless, circling patterns that leave me suspended between agony and bliss. I’m writhing, cursing, begging for more even as the next orgasm tears through me—hot and shattering andinstant. But he doesn’t stop, not even when I try to push him away, not even when I sob his name in broken fragments.