Smack.
Again. The sound echoes, wicked and delicious.
“Consider it feedback,” he says, voice smug and teasing. “Five stars. Would devour again.”
I laugh, breathless and completely undone, my whole body buzzing. I’m high on him. High on the way he takes control and gives it back in the same breath. On how he’s wrecked me, and yet I’ve never felt stronger.
“I hate you,” I lie.
“No, you don’t,” he murmurs behind me. Then softer. Rawer: “You like this just as much as I do.”
The words hit harder than the spatula. They steal the air from my lungs.
I twist my head to look at him, eyes wide. His face is close. Flushed. His mouth parted like he didn’t mean to say it, but now that it’s out there, he’s not taking it back.
“Knox.”
His hands move, sliding over the curve of my ass, gentle now. Kneading. Apologetic. Worshipful.
“I can’t focus when you’re around,” he says roughly. “I can’t dobusiness as usualwhen all I can think about is you.”
My chest clenches. My heart thuds, hard and unsteady.
I twist farther, trying to reach him, and he leans in. One hand unknots the ribbon, letting my wrists fall free. The next moment, I’m in his arms, pulled upright, dragged against his chest like he needs the contact like air.
His mouth crashes into mine. Raw and desperate, just as I feel.
Our bodies are slick and trembling. We cling like we’ll break apart otherwise. This isn’t just lust anymore. It’s deeper. Hungrier.
And when he takes me again, it’s different.
Slower. Fiercer. Deeper.
He sinks into me with a groan that sounds like surrender. His forehead presses to mine. Our fingers twine together, his grip tight, grounding. My breath catches at the way he moves, dragging moans from my throat with every slow, consuming thrust.
“I feel you everywhere,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
“I want you everywhere,” I gasp, meeting him with everything I have left.
He lifts me without faltering, like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He carries me across the kitchen, never breaking rhythm, until my back hits the walk-in fridge door. It’s cold. We’re not.
He presses into me, thrusting deep and hard, mouth on my neck, one hand cradling the back of my head like I’m breakable, like I matter.
Every movement is laced with meaning.
It’s not just sex anymore.
When we come, it’s loud. Messy. Guttural.
A beautiful, shared undoing that shakes the air around us.
His name tumbles from my lips over and over, like it belongs there.
And in the aftermath, in the quiet, sticky warmth of our entangled limbs and tangled hearts, one thought echoes through me:
Holy shit.
I’m in trouble, aren’t I?
