Page 36 of Knot So Slick (Select-A-Mate #1)
REMI
“What did you do?” My voice is barely above a whisper, seething with barely restrained fury.
Knox steps forward, and my gaze falls on him.
He doesn’t look like he did last night when he said those awful words.
In fact, he looks the complete opposite.
He looks regretful, mournful. He looks as if he’s staring at the center of his world.
But that can’t be right. I’m not the center of anyone’s world.
“We took care of a problem,” he says, making his way toward me.
I don’t flinch. I refuse to give ground, even as Knox’s steps eat up the distance between us. My feet are rooted, shoulders squared, every muscle tight with defiance. His presence presses against me, heavy and magnetic, but I stand my ground—chin high, spine rigid. I will not be the one to retreat.
He comes to a stop in front of me. I feel the heat radiating off his body, and it literally makes me weak in the knees. I hate the reaction I have to his closeness. He doesn’t deserve to have me lapping up the proximity of us like a cat drinking warm milk.
His scent. His aura. His entire being draws me in like a fly to honey. I can’t help my body’s reaction to him, but I can help what I allow my mind to think.
“It wasn’t your problem to take care of. Not anymore,” I reply, peering up into his gunmetal eyes.
The air between us crackles, thick with an impossible heat.
Every inch of my skin is suddenly aware of his nearness as if the space itself has been set alight.
A flush climbs up my neck and spreads across my cheeks, pulsing beneath my skin.
Warmth pools low in my belly, radiating outward in lazy waves, tingling through my limbs until even my fingertips feel feverish from my arousal.
I’m burning—softly, hopelessly—from the inside out as if his presence alone is enough to unravel everything I’ve tried to hold together. My pulse hammers a frantic beat, dizzy and molten, and I wonder if he can see how his nearness sets me aglow.
By the smile that graces his lips, I know he can. His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken. I know he can smell my arousal. His chest swells with each inhale, dragging in my scent as if it’s an aphrodisiac to his senses. His eyelids lower—his lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“Mmm, you’re not playing fair, little omega,” he croons, stepping impossibly closer. His stomach brushes against my chest, the scrap of my bra causing my nipples to harden into stiff points.
My cheeks burn. “I’m not playing at anything.”
His eyes trail over my body. A look of pure rapture transforms his face. “Sure, you are, especially wearing that.”
“I didn’t wear this for you.”
The next moment, he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, and I find myself moving instinctively—the backs of my thighs brushing the wall, cool and unyielding.
My breath snags in my chest, caught mid-inhale, suspended and trembling, as if the very air is too thick to draw in.
For a heartbeat, I am pinned—not only by his body, but by the gravity of the moment—my lungs tight, the world narrowing to the charged stretch of space between us.
His hands come up, slow and purposeful, bracing themselves on the wall beside my head. The heat of his palms radiates through the plaster, fencing me in with nothing but his body and the certainty of his intent. The space shrinks, intimate and inescapable, his forearms framing my face.
Each muscle flexes and tenses as he settles in, the scent of his skin mingling with the sharp tang of anticipation.
For a moment, the world falls away, leaving only the thudding echo of my heart and the steady, possessive pressure of his arms as he cages me against the wall, claiming the air between us as his own.
His head dips forward, his face coming impossibly closer. “Oh, you naughty, little omega,” he coos, going a step further by rubbing his cheek against mine. “Who did you wear it for then?”
“Me,” I reply, hating myself for how breathless I sound.
“You know what I think ...” He pauses, rubbing his cheek against mine, the scruff teasing my skin. “Secretly, I think you did dress like this because of us. I think you want to be seen ... heard ... felt .” I startle when I feel his fingers ghost along my naked outer thigh.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” But I don’t push his hand away. I stay still, relishing in the feel of his finger on my skin.
This isn’t the Knox I’ve come to know. I don’t know who this person is. He’s sinful, dominating—a complete one-eighty from the guy tearing me down until I was nothing more than rubble lying at his feet.
The heat from his body makes it hard to breathe. From the thumping of music to the alcohol swirling through my bloodstream, I’m captivated by his presence.
And I hate myself for it.
Inside, I am a storm—a chaos of yearning and resistance, each emotion colliding in my chest with punishing intensity. I want, desperately, to pull him closer, to feel the comforting crush of his body against mine and drown in the certainty of his embrace.
My hands twitch, caught between surrender and defiance; every instinct screams for his touch, for the dangerous heat he radiates that promises to consume every last rational thought.
But another voice, sharp and insistent, claws at my resolve. It reminds me of all the pain his words have caused, of the vulnerability that lingers like a raw wound. It urges me to push him away, to carve out distance before I lose myself entirely to the magnetic pull between us.
My pulse races with indecision—each heartbeat a drum of contradiction. I teeter on the edge, torn between the wildfire blazing in my veins and the protective walls I’ve built to keep him—and the hurt he brings—at bay.
And so I stand, suspended in that impossible space, every muscle strung tight with longing and fear, the inner battle raging on, silent but ferocious. For a moment, I don’t know which side will win: the aching desire to be held or the desperate need to save myself.
It isn’t until a man stumbles into the hallway, drunk and high on life and drugs, that I gather my wits about me and push Knox away. I take in a shaky breath, wishing I could’ve done that on my own instead of needing the encouragement of someone else happening upon us.
“Tell me I’m lying,” he says with a challenging gaze.
Fine.
He wants me to tell him he’s lying.
I’ll do one even better.
“Okay. Fine. You’re right. I am wearing this because of you all.”
“I knew it.” His smile turns practically devilish.
At this, I smirk. “Because you all fucked me over, and I needed something to pick me back up. Oh, and I will be seen, heard, and felt by someone who isn’t you.”
Before he can cut in with another slick retort, I duck beneath his arm, swift as a shadow. My shoulder brushes against his torso—one last searing contact—then I slip into the open space, leaving him caged in by nothing but his own bravado and the cooling imprint of my absence.
My strides are purposeful and unhurried, each footfall a declaration.
I don’t spare him a glance, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the way my heart hammers or the flush that still stains my cheeks.
Instead, I walk away—chin high, spine unbowed—my refusal a silent, thunderous note in the tense, humming air behind me.
When I come out of the hallway, I spy Windy still on the dancefloor. I make my way over to the table, grab my purse, and hold my phone up so she knows I’ll call her later. She looks sad but nods her head in acknowledgment.
The bass thumps on, echoing in my chest as I weave through the haze and strobe-lit chaos of the club.
Every step away from Knox, Tripp, and Boone feels like peeling off a second skin—one that’s slick with longing and regret.
The air outside sears cold, biting through the leftover heat clinging to my body, but even the night can’t wash away the shame burning beneath my skin.
I push through the door, exhaling the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
The city is alive, neon and indifferent, but I’m an island, stranded in the undertow of my own humiliation.
My heels clack sharp and lonely on the pavement as I put distance between myself and the temptation I almost surrendered to.
I hate the way I tremble—hate how close I came to unraveling for someone who’s already left too many cracks in my heart.
Each memory of his touch—his voice, the predatory confidence in his eyes—sticks to me like sweat. I’m dizzy with self-reproach, cursing the ache in my chest and the weakness pooling in my bones.
“I should be stronger,” I whisper as I walk faster, clutching my purse like a lifeline.
I should know better than to let my heart stutter at the scent of him, the promise of his arms, the ghosts of a tenderness that never really belonged to me.
But tonight, I nearly let it happen. I almost allowed myself to believe in something sweeter than survival.
The thought makes my stomach twist, sour and raw.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together all the scattered pieces, determined not to let anyone—least of all them—see how close I came to falling apart.
Head down, spine straight, I disappear into the night—leaving behind the pulsing lights and the echo of his voice, and carrying with me only the bitter taste of almost, and the vow never to let myself forget how easy it is to lose myself in the arms of someone who’s already broken me once.