I open the door a few inches.
He's right there. He must have changed while I was in the shower. Chest bare now, ink and scars on full display, jeans riding low. My breath stalls.
"I thought you left," I whisper.
His head snaps up, eyes locking on mine.
He steps through the threshold, filling the doorway, filling the air. His gaze drags over my wet hair, bare shoulders, and the towel clutched too tightly. His jaw goes tight, a vein cording in his neck, and his hands press flat against the doorframe as if pinning himself in place. He doesn't touch me. He just looks at me, and my skin pulls tight from my scalp to my feet.
Chapter 6
Knox
Thebathroomdoorclicksshut behind her, and the room tightens. She left the door unlocked. Pipes clank, then the spray starts. It's a cheap hotel shower, but I picture it like holy water, pouring over her skin, holding the last forty-eight hours at bay.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, fingers laced so I don't follow. It doesn't help. My mind fills the blank space behind the door with her: towel gone, hair plastered flat, the spray sliding down her throat. One palm on the tile, holding herself upright while the crash hits. I drag a hand down my face and breathe out hard.
My palms itch. I stand and shrug out of my shirt because the fabric feels wrong across my shoulders. The air on my bare skin does nothing to cool me. I toss the shirt onto the chair and stalk to the little hotel desk like wood can fight desire. I grip the edge, and the desk creaks. The faucet runs. My imagination runs faster.
Her head tipped back. Water sliding down the column of her throat. Droplets clinging to the swell of her breasts, tracing the line of her ribs, slipping lower. Suddenly I'm there instead. Fingers pressing into damp skin, bracing her while she falls apart for me all over again. Fuck. I stare at the cheap art until my pulse settles, then focus on what I can control: breathing, stance, exits, threat vectors.
If she opened the door and said my name the way she did last night when she came on my cock, voice wrecked and begging? I close my eyes. I don't know what I'd do. That's the part that scares me.
Steam curls under the bathroom door, sharp with hotel soap and heat.
"Knox?" Her voice is small, shaky. Panic frames my name in a way that pulls me across the room before I've moved consciously. Boots on, jeans low, chest bare. The door is cracked an inch; steam pours out. I rest my palm on the wood.
"Yeah?" Rougher than I want. "I'm here."
The door opens just enough. She stands wrapped in one white towel that's working overtime. It's damp, soft, and knotted between her breasts. Droplets trace lines down her collarbone and disappear under terrycloth. Exactly what I pictured, and worse. Her hair is wet. The dark waves are slicked flat, dripping onto cheap tile. Her eyes flick to my bare chest, widening for a half-beat, then drag up.
"I thought…" Her voice breaks; she swallows. "I thought you left."
I step through the threshold, filling her space without touching. Steam laps at my skin. Her bare toes curl on the tile.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
Not for her; never for her. For whatever made that fear feel logical. She retreats one step, more instinct than rejection, bumping the vanity. The towel slips a fraction at the top; acorner dips, revealing the bare edge of her breast, the soft curve threatening to spill free. I don't look away. I plant my palms on either side of the sink, body and shadow caging her, not my fingers. She has inches to leave. She doesn't.
Her gaze skims my shoulders, my arms, the scars scattered over my chest, the ink marring my skin, then locks on my mouth.
"I'm right here," I murmur, the words rough despite how quiet they come out. "Look at me, Sloane."
She does. Everything in me draws taut. Up close I can see the faint tremor in her lashes that have water still clinging to them, as well as the fear and heat tangled in her pupils. She looks like a woman on the edge of a cliff, wind at her back, unsure if the fall will kill her or save her.
"You're shaking," I say.
"So are you," she whispers. She's not wrong.
Her hand lifts hesitantly, as if a leash tugs at her wrist. Then she pushes through and lays her fingers against my chest. They're light, damp, barely there. It detonates me. My breath punches out. Her fingertips rest over my heart as if she's checking if it's real. Beating too fast. For her. Only her.
"Sloane," I say. Her name is a warning and a prayer. "If you touch me like that again, I'm not going to be able to stop." She flexes against my chest. Swallows.
"I don't want you to stop," she says. Steady. Eyes on mine.
Every lock I put on myself breaks at once. I step the last inch into her space, hips brushing the counter, knees framing hers, heat rolling off me. I tilt her chin with two fingers, thumb skimming her jaw. Firm enough to feel, gentle enough to give her room. "You sure?" Low enough that the words scrape. "You say the word and I walk right out of this room. You hear me?"
Her eyes don't leave mine. "I'm scared," she says honestly. "Just… not of you."
