"Mm." He bites me. Not hard, just teeth and heat that makes my whole body lock and melt. "I tolerate you, too."
I turn my head enough to glare. He's watching me already, gaze heavy and satisfied as though he's been awake longer than he admitted.
"Creep," I mutter.
"Obsessed," he corrects, and kisses the corner of my mouth as punctuation.
I slide my hand up, fingertips brushing his jaw. "You're going to make us late."
His eyes flick to my mouth. "Late for what?"
"For…" I gesture vaguely, because I don't want to invite the world back into this bed. "Life." And whatever Malachi called about three times last night while we were otherwise occupied.
His gaze stays on me. "We can be late."
"We can't always be late," I say, and there's the old fear under it.
Knox's hand stills. The humor goes quiet. He doesn't lecture. Doesn't soften me with a speech. Just nudges my chin with his knuckles until I'm looking at him.
"Hey," he says, low and firm. "You wake up. You stay. You breathe. You drink coffee. That's what you do." His thumb strokes my hip. "Everything else gets scheduled around it."
"You make it sound so easy."
"It's not," he admits. "But it's mine to handle." His gaze drops to my lips. "And you're mine to keep."
"If you keep talking that way, I'm going to do something reckless."
His mouth tilts. "Good."
"Knox."
"Yeah, sweetheart?" He kisses my jaw, softer. "Tell me."
"If we don't get up, we're going to end up having sex again."
His laugh is a low, sinful thing. "We are married."
"That's not a plan."
His voice drops to that rough growl that makes my stomach go tight. "It's a lifestyle. You keep rubbing my arm that way, Sloane, and I'm going to forget we own clothes."
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. It doesn't work. "Get up."
He stares at me, weighing obedience against hunger. Sighs dramatically. "Fine." A quick, sharp kiss. "But I'm filing a formal complaint."
"Where?"
"On your skin," he murmurs, and the promise makes my thighs tense. "Later."
I roll away before my body betrays me. Cold air hits and I shiver. He tosses the blanket over my shoulders, wrapping it around me as though he's annoyed the world contains drafts. By the time I've pulled it tight, he's on his feet, snagging his jeans off the floor with eyes still tracking me.
"Stop staring."
"No." He steps back, tugs on the jeans, and kisses my forehead in a way that hits harder than anything filthy. "You're real. I'm going to look."
We move through the morning in easy rhythm, me in the bathroom, him pulling on the rest of his clothes. He crosses the bathroom in two strides, palms bracketing my hips from behind, and tucks his chin into the crook of my neck. He presses a kiss on the side of my neck, right under my ear, and murmurs good girl so softly it almost doesn't count.
It counts.
