12. Chapter Twelve #5
“Maybe I am.” My eyes drift over her mouth, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat where her pulse flutters wildly. “But I play best under pressure.”
Her breath catches, just barely, but enough for me to see it, feel it, savor it. Slowly, deliberately, she moves her queen again, placing pressure exactly where she knows I’m weakest.
“I noticed,” she murmurs softly, dark eyes challenging, provocative, another loaded meaning hanging between us.
I narrow my eyes, pulse thrumming faster. Another careful maneuver of my rook, strategically aggressive, controlling, taking back ground inch by inch.
“You’re defensive now,” she notes quietly, tracing one fingertip absently along her collarbone, watching me intently. “Worried?”
“Strategic,” I correct sharply, voice low and edged. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
I hold her gaze, heavy and dark. “For you to make a mistake.”
Her lips part slightly, something unspoken trembling there. Then she moves again, quick, confident, completely unexpected. She traps my rook, ruthlessly snatching one of my strongest defenses away.
“Looks like I’m not the one making mistakes tonight,” she whispers, soft and lethal.
Fuck.
I exhale slowly, impressed and something else, something primal, possessive. Hungry. She’s playing me better than anyone ever has, understanding the rhythm, anticipating every strike. Reading me in ways no one ever fucking does.
I lean in closer, pushing a pawn forward slowly, inch by tense inch, taking ground back, forcing her hand. “I’ll make you pay for that.”
She tilts her head, a slow, provocative smile curling her lips. “I’m counting on it.”
My heart nearly stops, adrenaline surging, desire spiking hot through my blood.
I move instinctively, chess forgotten for a half second, hand sliding forward to grip hers, fingers circling delicate skin, holding tight, possessive, needing her to feel exactly how much she’s affecting me.
Exactly how much she’s pushing me to the brink.
“You like provoking me,” I murmur, thumb brushing her pulse point, feeling it race beneath my touch. “It excites you, doesn’t it?”
Her breathing quickens, eyes darkening, mouth softening dangerously. “And you love it.”
“I fucking live for it,” I whisper roughly.
She exhales sharply, eyes locked onto mine, heat and anticipation threading the air between us like live wires. Slowly, her gaze drifts to the board again, fingers grazing the marble, considering carefully.
“Finish the game,” I challenge, voice low, the words a dare wrapped in desire.
She pauses, eyes meeting mine again, defiant and reckless. “I thought I already had.”
“Not yet,” I breathe, leaning forward until there’s almost no space between us, until every breath she takes brushes hot against my mouth. “Not even fucking close.”
Camille
My breath catches sharp in my chest, a ragged little hitch betraying just how deeply he’s crawling beneath my skin.
Kane Rivera isn’t simply playing chess, he’s playing me, inch by torturous inch.
Each move, each careful adjustment of his pieces feels like his fingers ghosting slowly over my skin, teasing, testing, tempting me to slip.
He’s studying me, waiting for me to crack open, to yield, to finally lose this game we’re playing beneath the game itself.
But I won’t.
Not yet.
I force my attention back to the marble pieces, my fingers trembling slightly as they hover just above my queen. The tension between us thickens, charged and dangerous, settling heavy in my chest. Kane’s dark gaze sears into my skin, daring me to take the next step, urging me toward the edge.
I move my queen forward carefully, dangerously, invading his territory, closing in tighter. “Check,” I murmur softly, glancing up slowly beneath lowered lashes.
Kane’s jaw flexes sharply. Something in his eyes flickers, a thrill, something close to admiration. But he covers it fast, calm returning to his features, cool and unshakable. He reaches forward slowly, decisively shifting his king just enough to escape my immediate threat.
My pulse spikes harder, hotter, excitement racing beneath my skin like wildfire. He’s good. Better than good. Every move he makes is careful, patient, lethal. Exactly like the man himself.
“You’re running out of moves,” I say softly, lips curving in a teasing smirk.
He leans forward, elbows resting casually on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowed and intense as he studies the board. “Maybe I just enjoy being cornered,” he murmurs. “Makes it sweeter when I turn the tables.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I swallow hard, forcing a composure I barely feel. I take a slow breath, leaning forward myself, pushing my bishop into position, another subtle strike. “You think you can turn the tables on me?”
His eyes flicker, meeting mine, something hot and primal burning deep in his gaze. “You already know I can, Camille.”
I shiver, the ache he left inside me suddenly reigniting with full force.
I reach for the whiskey glass again, the liquid smooth and hot on my tongue, mingling with the taste of him still lingering on my lips.
I set the glass back down slowly, my voice dropping to a whisper, a quiet challenge. “Prove it.”
His chest expands slightly, pulse thrumming visibly at his throat. He moves his rook suddenly, capturing my bishop with a decisive strike. “Check.”
I suck in a sharp breath, heart thudding violently. He’s turned it around fast, ruthless, without mercy. Every nerve in my body is a light, my awareness sharpening. But I’m not finished.
I move swiftly, repositioning my king, pulse racing faster, body warming beneath his intense stare. “Your move.”
He leans in closer, voice rougher. “Careful, Munequita. You’re getting reckless.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, leaning into his space, daring him. “Or maybe I just like the thrill.”
He reaches forward, fingers sliding around my wrist, thumb pressing firmly into the fluttering pulse there, his voice low with barely restrained desire. “Don’t provoke the devil unless you’re ready for hell.”
My heart pounds, his words sliding down my spine. But the reckless spark inside me won’t be quieted. It whispers to me to push him further, to see exactly how close to the edge Kane Rivera can come before he snaps.
“Maybe hell doesn’t scare me,” I breathe, voice soft, defiant, a seductive dare lingering between us.
His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, the pressure sending heat spiraling low, throbbing between my thighs. He stares at me, eyes glittering, dark amusement curving his lips. “It should.”
I hold his gaze defiantly, despite my heart racing violently. “Make your move.”
He watches me a second longer, dark eyes holding mine like a physical touch, then releases me slowly, turning his attention back to the board.
And something shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
The playfulness melts away, replaced by pure, calculated ruthlessness.
Kane Rivera is a predator finally ready to strike.
His rook slides forward, cutting sharply into my line of defense, capturing my knight with ruthless precision. My stomach tightens.
Shit.
“Check again,” he murmurs calmly, voice deceptively quiet. He lifts his gaze slowly to mine, satisfaction burning dangerously in those dark eyes.
My pulse spikes hard, breath quickening as my fingers flutter nervously over the pieces, desperately searching for escape. I see an opening, small but workable, shifting my bishop defensively, blocking his immediate path. A temporary reprieve.
He smiles faintly, a dark, cruel twist of his mouth. “You’re running, Camille. I thought you liked the thrill.”
My cheeks flush hot, desire and frustration bleeding together beneath my skin. “Maybe I’m just playing with you,” I bite back, voice wavering only slightly.
His eyes narrow, satisfaction deepening.
He moves forward swiftly now, precisely placing his queen into position, slicing deeply through my carefully laid defenses.
My heart sinks sharply, the realization dawning on me like ice through my veins.
He’s been baiting me, drawing me closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“Check,” he repeats, low and dangerous, eyes never leaving mine. “Again.”
I exhale shakily, scanning the board, desperate for escape. But every exit is blocked. Every path closed off with merciless efficiency. My fingers hover helplessly, panic flickers.
“You planned this,” I whisper, realization sharp, breathless. “You set me up from the start.”
He leans forward slowly, palms resting on the table, voice dropping to velvet-edged darkness. “Always. Every single move.”
I move my king desperately, a last-ditch effort to evade his grasp, to delay the inevitable…
But he’s already anticipated me.
His bishop slides forward calmly, decisively, trapping my king with ruthless finality.
“Checkmate,” he murmurs softly, gaze locked onto mine, the triumph raw, undeniable. Complete.
I stare helplessly at the board. He’s won, not just the game, but the battle beneath. He’s dominated every move, every breath, every moment since the second I walked into this penthouse.
Slowly, Kane stands, until he towers above me. He looks down, fingers grazing my chin, forcing me gently to meet his gaze, possessive, victorious, darkly satisfied.
“You should know by now, Munequita,” he whispers, voice rough velvet, sliding dangerously against my ear, “I always win.”
My breath trembles softly, lips parting as I stare up into the raw darkness of his eyes. My heart crashes violently against my ribs, panic and excitement twisting sharply in my chest. He’s so close, so overwhelming, heat radiating off his skin, filling every last inch of space between us.
He trails his thumb slowly across my lower lip, the pressure soft yet possessive, tracing my mouth with a maddening patience.
“And when I win,” he murmurs quietly, voice sliding into something rougher, deeper, darker, “I always take my prize.”
My pulse spikes viciously, heat spiraling low, an aching throb igniting between my thighs. I tilt my chin up, trying to hold onto the fragile threads of defiance, but my voice comes out breathless, unsteady. “And what prize is that?”
His lips curl slowly, dangerously. The victory in his eyes sharpens, deepens. He leans in further, breath hot against my cheek, whispering softly into my ear.
“You.”
A tremor shivers through my body, anticipation pooling dangerously, overwhelming any remnant of control. His hand moves slowly, deliberately, sliding down to grip my wrist, gently pulling me to my feet until we’re standing chest to chest, my body pressed flush against the solid heat of his.
His eyes skim over my face, my throat, lower where the robe slips open, revealing more skin than intended. His gaze darkens further, hunger clear, undeniable.
“Give me what I’ve earned, Camille,” he says softly, brushing his lips against mine, barely touching, a cruel tease that shreds my composure.
“And what exactly is that?” I whisper, my voice shaking softly.
He smiles darkly against my mouth, the answer a ruthless promise whispered into my very soul.
“Everything.”
My head spins gently, whiskey finally catching up with me, clouding my thoughts, my reason, loosening every last bit of control.
His mouth claims mine fully, no hesitation, no mercy, lips hot and demanding, tongue sliding over mine, tasting the whiskey, tasting himself, devouring me whole.
I gasp against him, dizziness hitting sharp and sudden, hands gripping his shoulders, fingers sinking into muscle and sinew, clinging desperately as reality slips.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur, voice velvet-rough and possessive, “I’ve got you.”
Before I can respond, his hands drop lower, gripping my thighs firmly, lifting me effortlessly.
My legs wrap instinctively around his waist, locking tight, the robe slipping further open, exposing nakedness, bare skin, pressed shamelessly against him.
His heat sears through me, branding, claiming, leaving nothing untouched.
I bury my face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, intoxicated by him more than any drink.
He carries me easily. The bedroom door opens, his bedroom, a sanctuary of shadows and black sheets.
He moves inside without breaking stride, gently lowering me onto the bed, his weight following close, pressing down against me, pinning me in place.
Kane’s mouth finds mine again, deeper this time, slower, devastatingly thorough. His voice rasps against my lips, the quiet promise wrapping around me, dark and absolute:
“Now, Munequita, let’s see how gracefully you surrender.”