20. Knox
Knox
As soon as we step inside the penthouse and the elevator doors slide shut behind us, the pressure in my chest releases. Not all of it. But enough for me to notice the difference.
Out there, everything felt exposed. There were too many people and too many cameras. Too many blind spots. The thought of Dakota slipping into the ballroom, lurking in some shadowed corner while watching Cheyenne, has been gnawing at me since the second she said his name.
I drop my keys onto the console table and then shrug out of my jacket.
Chey slips off her heels near the entryway and lets out a small breath, her shoulders sagging, as if the effort of holding herself together all night has finally caught up with her. She’s still standing tall, but I can see the weariness in her posture now that we’re alone.
The emerald gown clings to every curve, as if it was designed specifically for her, but it’s not the dress I’m staring at.
It’s the woman wearing it.
It would be impossible to miss the faint exhaustion in her eyes or the way she wraps her arms around herself like she doesn’t quite know what to do now that the noise, lights, and attention have disappeared.
She looks tired. Not weak, just wrung out.
For some reason, seeing her like this has every protective instinct shooting to the surface.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For everything.” Her fingers drift over her bare shoulders. “Tonight. Earlier. Leaving when I thought I saw him. I know this wasn’t how you planned for the evening to go.”
I release a breath through my nose. “I don’t give a damn about any of that.”
Not the charity event, the sponsors, or the networking opportunities. None of it means shit if she’s uncomfortable, scared, or lying awake tonight wondering whether Dakota is going to show up somewhere else in her life. The only thing I care about is whether she feels safe standing here right now.
Cheyenne studies me for a second, as if trying to decide exactly how much of that I mean.
The answer is every damn word.
“I feel bad for dragging you into this mess,” she says, her gaze flicking to the bruise under my eye. “And that he hit you.”
My jaw tightens. “He caught me off guard. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”
That part still pisses me off. Not because he hit me. But because for one split second, I thought he was backing off instead of being the unstable little prick he is.
Guilt flashes across Cheyenne’s expression, and I hate it.
“This isn’t on you,” I say. “It never was.”
Her lips part, as if to argue.
“I mean it. You’re not responsible for Dakota’s choices. He is.”
Her shoulders ease just a fraction as she takes one step toward me before hesitating. I can almost see the moment she changes her mind and decides to close the distance between us.
“Still,” she says, voice quieter now, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
She rises onto the tips of her toes. For half a second, I’m unsure what she’ll do right before her lips brush across my cheek.
It’s a light, quick kiss.
Certainly nothing like the one on the red carpet or the couch.
My body reacts as if she just pressed a taser against my skin, and every muscle locks up. Her beachy scent wraps around me, and for one reckless second, I almost turn my head and catch her mouth with my own.
Almost.
My hand flexes at my side, fingers curling into my palm.
The memory of her mouth explodes in my head all over again. The softness of it along with the heat. The way she melted for that one split second before I forced myself to stop.
I remain perfectly still. If I move one damn inch, I’ll do something I won’t be able to take back. Something that changes everything between us.
It’s not that I don’t want to feel her lips again.
I want it too damn much.
The problem is that she’s standing in my penthouse after a night that rattled her, thanking me while gratitude shines in her eyes. The last thing I want to do is take something she never meant to offer.
So, I lock myself down tight and stand perfectly still. Cheyenne pulls back before I can betray myself.
“Good night, Knox.”
It takes effort to keep my voice level. “Night.”
With one last smile, she turns and walks down the hall, the silk of her dress whispering around her legs. I watch as she slips into her bedroom and closes the door. The silence that follows is deafening.
“Jesus,” I mutter before dragging both hands through my hair. I’m frozen in place for a full ten seconds, staring down the empty hallway, willing myself not to go after her.
Eventually, I force myself to move. Once in my room, I strip off the tux.
Shirt first, then belt and pants. Everything gets tossed aside in a careless pile as I beeline for the bathroom.
What I need right now is a shower. Hot water and steam.
Something to wash away the lingering feel of Chey and whatever the hell this tight, restless energy simmering inside me has become.
After turning the knob, I wait for the water to heat before stepping under the spray and bracing my palms against the tile as it pounds over the back of my neck.
It doesn’t help. Not even a little.
My brain is stuck in a vicious loop. Chey on the red carpet, gaze lifting right before I kissed her.
The feel of her on the dance floor and the way she rested her head on my chest, as if it was always meant to be there.
Her mouth opening beneath mine on the couch.
Her lips brushing against my cheek just now.
It’s not just the physical intimacy running through my head. It’s her laugh when she beat me to the building after our run. The way she looked tonight when we got back here—tired, yes, but trusting me enough to let the walls slip a little.
I shut my eyes, blowing out a slow breath. For one brief second, I consider taking matters into my own hands and dealing with the tension myself. With how tightly wound I am, it would probably take less than thirty seconds.
Already, I know it won’t work. This has nothing to do with being turned on and everything to do with the woman sleeping across the hall from me.
A quick release won’t fix the fact that I want more than just her body.
When it comes down to it, I want her laugh in my kitchen, her bare feet on my hardwood floors, and her curled up on my couch at the end of each day.
That’s the real problem.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary, grab a towel, and scrub it over my hair before dragging on a pair of boxers and climbing into bed.
Then I reach for my phone. I don’t scroll for more than thirty seconds before realizing that photos of us are everywhere.
Red carpet shots and close-ups of the kiss.
The two of us looking like we’d forgotten there was an audience.
Headlines are already popping up.
Is the Railers’ Bad Boy Off the Market?
Someone’s created a hashtag.
#KnoxAndChey
Another one follows right after.
#EmeraldAndIce
I let out a humorless huff.
Cute.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. I was just helping her out.
That’s it.
I was never supposed to get obsessed.
All right, maybe I’ve always been a little obsessed with the woman. Her living in my penthouse has just made it impossible to ignore.
I roll onto one side, then my back before flipping onto the other, but sleep refuses to come.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel her against me all over again.
The way she fit in my arms, turning pliant when I touched her.
The way she looked standing in my living room with gratitude radiating from her, and that goddamn dress wrapped around her body like temptation.
My brain takes a turn for the worse, picturing her across the hall, curled up under the covers with her long auburn hair spread out across the pillow.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That’s exactly the image I don’t need in my head right now. Eventually, I give up pretending there’s any chance I’m going to fall asleep, and shove the covers back, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I move down the hall, keeping the lights dim.
The baby grand sits near the wall of windows, black and glossy against the Chicago skyline.
I stop in front of it for a second before settling on the bench.
Playing the piano is something I learned as a kid when hockey wasn’t enough to burn off the restless energy building inside me. Dad claimed it was good for discipline.
For control.
I let my fingers move over the keys without thought or plan.
Just instinct.
The first notes are low and steady. Simple chords that fill the room and float through the quiet of the penthouse. After a few minutes, my shoulders begin to loosen. The tightness in my chest eases as the melody builds, and for a few minutes it almost takes my mind off her.
Even as the music carries through the dark, there’s one thought I can’t outrun.
Chey is here, in my home, filling a space I’m no longer sure I want to live alone in. My hands continue moving over the keys, but the pressure building inside me is too much to pass off as simple lust.
This isn’t just about wanting her.
It’s about wanting more.
More time.
More moments.
More of this closeness that was never supposed to exist between us in the first place.
And I’ve never wanted anything to feel less temporary than Chey Benson.