"Knox..."
"I love you." The words come out like he's been holding them back for weeks. Maybe he has. "I should have said it before. Should have said it that first night, when you told me my eyes were pretty and I forgot how to breathe. I love you, Toby."
A tear spills over before I can stop it. He catches it with his thumb.
"I love you too," I whisper. The words feel huge and terrifying and exactly right.
He kisses me.
It starts soft. Gentle. A seal on the words we just said. But I make a sound against his mouth—needy, wanting—and gentle isn't enough anymore.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He walks me backward until my back hits the wall, and I gasp, arching into him. He swallows the sound, licks into my mouth, and I taste coffee and something that's just him.
"Knox," I breathe when he breaks away to kiss down my neck. "Please."
"Please what?"
"I don't know. Everything. Anything." My head falls back against the wall. "Just touch me."
"The bite," he says against my throat. "Can I see it?"
I go still. Then my hands move to my cardigan, fumbling with the buttons.
He stops me. "Let me."
He undoes each button slowly, revealing inches of skin as I go. The shirt underneath is soft cotton, easy to push aside. And there it is—the bite mark on my shoulder, still dark, still visible.
His mark. On me.
"It didn't fade," he says, tracing the edges with his fingertips.
"No." My voice comes out unsteady. "It ached, the whole time we were apart. Not bad, just... present. Like it was waiting for you."
He leans down and presses his mouth to it. I shudder.
"I want to mark you again," he murmurs against my skin. "Everywhere. Want everyone to know you're mine."
"Yes."
"Want to take you to bed and keep you there until neither of us can move."
"God, yes."
"Want to hear you say my name when you come."
My hips jerk against his. I'm so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans. "Bedroom," I manage. "Now. Please."
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall.
The bedroom is dark. He doesn't turn on the light—there's enough glow from the streetlights outside. Enough to see each other by.
I stand at the foot of his bed, cardigan hanging open, watching him.
"I want to do this right," he says. "Last time I rushed. Didn't take care of you the way I should have."
"You took care of me. The bath, the fruit—"
"After. I mean during." He steps closer, runs his hands up his arms. "I want to go slow. Learn what you like. Make it good for you."
