His knuckles are white around the mug handle. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth and dragging itself back up.
He leans his hip against the counter, mug in one hand.
"Last night," I say, staring into the swirl of coffee and cream, "I said too much."
"Sloane." My name in his mouth is heavy velvet. "You didn't say too much. You finally stopped carrying it alone."
My throat squeezes. The mug feels too heavy. "It still feels too much."
He doesn't look away. "Then I'll help you carry it until it doesn't."
The certainty slips under my skin, invasive, heat seeping into fingers gone numb. Uncomfortable at first, then impossible to pull back from.
I drag my gaze up.
Knox is watching me the way he always does. As though I hung the damn moon, and he's wondering how soon he can get me under him again. His fingers twitch against the counter, grip releasing and re-forming. His eyes catch on a loose piece of hair over my cheek; his jaw ticks, physically stopping himself from tucking it behind my ear.
He swallows instead.
He's trying so hard to behave.
"You can kiss me," I hear myself say, the words slipping out before fear can gag them. Softer than I intend. "If you want."
Heat flares in his gaze, and relief floods his expression so intensely it almost looks painful. The corner of his mouth kicks up. The click is almost audible. Us, falling into place.
He sets his mug down with exaggerated care, then pries mine from my fingers and sets it beside his, careful, as if any sudden movement might send me skittering.
Then he steps in.
The air shifts. Lungs crowded with the way he smells. Cedar and skin, so close it crowds out everything else. He lifts two fingers under my chin and tips my face up.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, warning or prayer or both, then his mouth is on mine.
Purposeful. Almost worshipful, as though he's reminding both of us that this is a choice. Us, standing in our kitchen in wrinkled clothes and yesterday's grief, choosing each other anyway.
His beard scrapes against my skin, the rasp sending a sweet, jagged ache across my nerves. His lips are sure, moving with a patience that makes my knees go weak. One hand slides to theback of my neck, fingers spreading into my hair, holding me as though I'm something fragile and holy he's terrified of dropping.
My fingers fist in his shirt, grasping for him because the floor doesn't feel trustworthy. The kiss deepens, just enough for him to taste of strong coffee, heat, and every what-if I've swallowed since Chicago.
When he pulls back, he doesn't go far. Forehead against mine, breath hot over my lips, a little uneven.
"Sweetheart. You have no idea what you do to me."
A lie. What I do to him is pressed hard and hot against my hip where our bodies are flush. My thighs tremble, a little aftershock of want. I'm grateful for the counter keeping me upright.
"Show me," I whisper.
His eyes go dark. Feral. "Sloane—"
"I need you. Please."
He moves fast, hands gripping my hips and lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. I gasp at the cold tile under my thighs, at the way he steps between my legs and crowds in close.
"You need me?" His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt. His voice is rougher than last night, quarried from bedrock. He knows now. Every ugly corner, every name, every form I signed. And he's still here with his hands on me, hard against my thigh, looking at me as though I'm the only thing in this kitchen that matters. "You've got me, sweetheart. You've always had me."
His mouth crashes into mine. Raw and hungry, tongue sweeping in to taste, to claim. I arch into him, hands finding the hem of his shirt and yanking it up. He strips it off and tosses it, then he's back on me, pulling my top over my head in one motion.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders and stops. His eyes move over my bare skin, and I can see the shift. He's reading the story written over the body he already knows. Knox cupsmy breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they're tight and aching. I gasp, holding his gaze. His mouth drags hot and open down my throat, teeth scraping, tongue following.
