I step back from him, breathless, and try to make a move that feels confident and cool, like I know exactly what I’m doing.
Except I don’t.
Because when I reach for the hem of my sweater to pull it off in one smooth, seductive motion, it decides to betray me completely. One arm gets stuck. Then the neckline folds in on itself. I try to shimmy out of it, but my elbow jerks at a weird angle and… nope. Now it’s over my head, halfway off, tangled like a knitted straitjacket.
I let out a muffled groan.
“Ugh. Sexy and graceful. That’s me.”
I finally yank it free with a dramatic huff, my hair standing up like I’ve been electrocuted. My cheeks burn as I toss the sweater aside and try not to look like I want the floor to swallow me whole.
But then I hear him laugh.
Not a smirk. Not a condescending chuckle.
A real laugh. Low and warm and fond.
And when I finally meet his eyes, he’s looking at me like I hung the stars.
“Sexy and graceful,” Knox says, stepping toward me, his voice like smoke and honey. “You forgotadorable. And completely lethal to my self-control.”
My breath catches. Whatever mortification I had fizzles out as his hands slide to my waist, grounding me in the best possible way.
“I’m serious,” he murmurs, dipping his head, his lips brushing my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. “You could’ve walked in here wearing a paper bag and tripped over a chair, and I’d still want you so bad it hurts.”
This time, when I reach for him, my hands find his shirt, soft cotton stretched over warm, solid muscle. I slip my fingers beneath the hem, and he lets me, watching me like he’s memorizing every move. I lift it slowly, revealing inch after inch of him, my breath catching when the fabric clears the tattoos I can’t get enough of.
Knox helps, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
Damn.
He really is gorgeous, isn’t he?
I trail my hands across his chest, fingers skating over the ink that sprawls across his skin, and he shudders under my touch. Then his hands are on my hips, guiding me gently, reverently, like he’s not in a rush, like unwrapping me is something sacred.
I feel it too.
He tugs me close again, kissing me deep, slow, and searching, like he’s trying to speak in a language made only of mouths and hands and soft gasps in the dark.
My jeans are next. He unbuttons them without breaking the kiss, and I kick them off, not even caring when they get caught around my ankle for a second. We laugh into each other, breathless, and he pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Still sexy and graceful,” he says, voice rough with want.
“Shut up and take your pants off,” I whisper.
He grins and does exactly that.
And then, someone help me, he’s naked, and I forget how to breathe.
There’s a beat of silence where I just look. At all of him.
Not just the inked lines of his body or the heavy weight of his cock, though yeah, that’s impressive enough to make my mouthwater, but the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m something he can’t believe he gets to touch. Like I’m the thing he wants more than anything.
It does something to me.
Flips a switch I didn’t know I had.
I step toward him until I’m right between his legs, and he’s watching me with barely restrained hunger. I press my hands to his thighs and push gently, guiding him back onto the bed so he’s sitting up against the headboard, legs spread wide, that gorgeous body on full display just for me.
