He comes over me again, braced on his forearms, eyes locked to mine. His body is heat and tension and need.
My breath catches. My body answers before my mind can catch up, legs parting, hips lifting, aching to take him in.
But he doesn’t move yet.
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “Tell me you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I breathe. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He groans, deep and guttural, like it costs him something not to lose himself completely. Then he reaches between us, guiding himself to my entrance. The pressure builds, slow and steady. He pushes in just an inch, then waits.
My breath hitches. My pussy stretches around his cock, new and unfamiliar, but feeling so damn right.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and strained.
I nod, wrapping my legs around his waist. “More.”
He sinks in deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated. My fingers dig into his shoulders. His name slips past my lips again.
He holds still, trembling with restraint, letting me adjust to the fullness of him.
“Jesus, you feel like heaven,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to mine.
Then he starts to move slowly.
He worships every inch of me with his body, his hands, his mouth. His lips find mine between every breathless moan, every soft gasp. He whispers my name like a prayer, like a vow.
And when the rhythm builds. When the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, I lose myself all over again.
This time, with him.
Together.
Chapter 7
Sierra
Thescentofcoffeepulls me from sleep.
Then I hear it — the low rumble of his voice on the phone, the quiet click of the coffee pot, and the creak of floorboards under footsteps that sound far too awake for this hour.
I sit up, the sheets sliding down my bare skin, and blink toward the soft light spilling in from the kitchen.
Knox is shirtless. Again.
So damn gorgeous.
He’s wearing a clean pair of jeans, slung low on his hips, and his hair is still damp from a quick shower.
A mug sits in one hand, the other braced on the counter like he owns the sunrise. When he turns and catches me watching him, something flickers in his eyes. Heat and something deeper.
“Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls, voice low and rough from sleep. “You’re up late.”
I glance at the nearest clock. “It’s five a.m.”
He shrugs like that’s sleeping in. “Cowboys wake up at four-thirty.”
A disbelieving laugh slips out. “There’s only one cowboy bodyguard here, and it’s definitely not me.”
