I turn my head. He's right there, close enough that his breath lands on my cheek. His eyes burn into mine, and his expression cracks open. The hunger is still there, the feral edge that's been part of him since the first night, but underneath it is vulnerability, raw and shaking.
"I love you," he says.
His voice breaks. It's different from last night on the floor, when the words came fierce and sure. This time they come as though he's handing them over, fragile and heavy at the same time. In the gray morning light, with my confession still between us, the words cost him more because he's saying them clearheaded, unhurried, and looking right at me.
My eyes flood. "I love you," I whisper back.
And it's harder the second time. Because last night was the floor, the dark, adrenaline holding the words up for me. This morning there's light in the kitchen and nowhere to hide.
He pushes inside me in one long, hard stroke.
I cry out, fingers scrambling on the tile. He fills me completely, thick and deep, and the stretch makes my whole body clench around him.
"Fuck, Sloane." His voice is wrecked. He grips both my hips and holds himself there, fully seated, letting me feel every inch. "Every time. Every fucking time. I'll never get enough of you."
He pulls back and drives in again. Hard enough to shove me forward on the counter. I brace my arms and push back into him, meeting his thrust.
"Harder," I say.
He groans. "Yeah?"
"I said harder."
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back. His other hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, and he gives me exactly what I asked for. Deep, punishing strokes that make themugs rattle. The sound of skin against skin fills the kitchen, wet and obscene, mixed with my moans and his rough breathing.
"You feel so fucking good," he grits out. "So wet. I can hear it. Can you hear what you sound like taking my cock?"
I whimper because I can. Every thrust is slick and loud and filthy.
He bends over me, chest pressed to my back, mouth at my ear. "This is mine. You hear me? This body. This pussy. Mine."
"Yours," I gasp. "All of it."
He reaches around, finds my clit, and rubs in fast, tight circles while he fucks me from behind. The dual sensation makes my knees buckle. He catches me, arm banding around my waist, holding me up while he drives into me.
"Come on my cock," he says against my ear. "I want to feel you."
"Knox! I'm close!"
"Then let go. I've got you."
I come hard, clenching around him, legs shaking, his name torn out of me in a sob. He fucks me through it, pace brutal, and I feel the moment his rhythm breaks.
"Fuck, Sloane—"
He buries himself deep and comes with a groan that vibrates through my spine. I feel him pulse inside me, the warmth of it, and my walls flutter around him in weak aftershocks. We stay bent over the counter, breathing hard. His forehead drops between my shoulder blades. His hand is still on my hip, thumb tracing circles I can feel will be bruises by tonight.
After a minute, he pulls out. I feel him drip down my thigh and my face goes hot. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
"Stay there," he murmurs.
He grabs the kitchen towel and cleans me up with hands that are gentle in a way that doesn't match what he just did to me. Wiping between my legs carefully. I shiver.
"You good?" he asks, tossing the towel.
"Better than good."
He turns me around, pulls me against his chest, and holds me there. My cheek is on his bare skin, his chin on top of my head.
