She twists to reach, fingers fumbling at my jeans, finding my wallet, then the foil packet. She presses it into my hand, eyes blown wide, lips slick and parted.
"Jeans off," I mutter. "Or this will be the most frustrating shower of my life."
I set the condom on the shower ledge and let go of her long enough to kick off my boots, both of them skidding across wet tile. Then I work the button. Denim that was merely stubborn before becomes opposition under the spray. The fabric clings to my thighs, heavy and wet. I shove them halfway down before one leg gets stuck. I swear, kick, nearly eat tile. Sloane grabs my forearm. Her laugh bubbles out sharp and startled before she swallows it.
"Oh my God," she chokes. "You okay, graceful?"
I catch the wall, yank my foot free with the other hand, then get the jeans off and shoved into a soggy heap. "Jeans started it," I growl. "I finished it." Her smile lingers, soft and sharp. "Come here," I say.
She presses into me, then stops. A half-second where her weight shifts toward the tile, some internal argument I can only see the surface of. Then she closes the distance, palms braced on the wall, the spray running over both of us in a drum. Her spine curves as she leans, and she fits mine in a way that makes my throat close.
I grab the condom from the ledge and roll it on, hands slick, vision narrowing to nothing but her. My mouth finds the curve of her neck; teeth scrape wet skin. She trembles, pushing into me, done being patient.
"Knox," she says. "Please."
I slide one hand down, guiding her hips as I pin her with my weight. "What do you want?" I say against her ear, each word dripping with need. "Say it."
"You," she breathes. "I want you inside me. I want you to take it all away for a while."
For a while. The words file themselves somewhere I'll have to look at later. She reaches for me as anesthesia, not a person.
Her words hit the base of my spine and spread. I turn her fast, pinning her to the tile as I lift her. Her legs lock around my waist on instinct, and the word that fires through me is belongs. She belongs here. Steam clings to us. I force her to meet my eyes.
"Look at me," I say.
She does. Her breath is wrecked, pupils blown. I line myself up and push in with a controlled thrust. She gasps, nails biting into my shoulders as she tightens around me. I don't rush. I slide the rest of the way in, deep and sure, opening for me like she was built to take me. In a few days my name will be on hers. I bury that in the next thrust.
The sound she makes goes straight down my spine. I groan, forehead to her shoulder, fighting the urge to lose control too fast. "Fuck, Sloane," I grind out. "You feel so good."
Her hips rock, searching. I take over, driving in hard, measured thrusts, keeping her pinned, making her feel every inch. The shower fills with breath and the broken noises she can't hold back. A floorboard groans in the room beyond, loud enough to cut through the spray. I lock up, instinct screaming. I freeze mid-thrust, arm banded around her waist, the other flat on the wall to brace us. My head whips toward the door, senses straining past the rush of water.
Nothing. Silence. Just the old building settling. I lean close to her ear. "It's nothing. Just the building." I wait for her nod, stiff and jerky against me. Only then do I move again, the retreat and the push feeling closer to a claim than before.
"Knox. I'm close."
"Good," I growl. "Let go. Come for me."
She shatters, crying out as she comes undone in my arms, locking around me as if I'll disappear the second she loosens her grip. That's all it takes. I thrust deep and lose it with her, groaning into her neck as pleasure rips through me. I hold her through it, grip iron-sure, keeping her upright while her legs shake.
When it's over, I don't move right away. I keep her pressed to the wall, breath settling, the water beating down on our backs. She doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
I ease her down, palms lingering on her waist until she's stable. Then I turn off the water. The sudden quiet is absolute, ringing in my ears.
Without a word, I listen at the bathroom door. Only then do I open it enough to scan the room. My gaze cuts to the main door. Still chained. Still bolted. Safe. For now. I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders. The gesture is out of me before I've decided to make it. She goes still under the terrycloth, and the way she looks up at me, startled, almost flinching, cracks me open behind my ribs.
Chapter 7
Knox
Bythetimewemake it out of the shower, we're wrecked. Our breaths too loud, limbs heavy. We dry off in silence. She pulls on the T-shirt and sweats I grabbed at the gas station. I dig boxers from my bag and leave it at that. She moves as if she's drunk on exhaustion and endorphins, towel wrapped haphazardly, damp hair streaking her neck. I flip off the bathroom light and guide her to the bed. The low lamp throws everything in cheap, soft gold. She melts into the sheets. I stretch out beside her; she slides into my side as if gravity pulled her there. Sloane presses her face into my chest, turned toward my throat, one leg slung over mine. I pull her in, thumb tracing circles over her hip.
Her breathing is uneven; teetering between sleep and the edge of another panic. She goes taut and slips out from under my arm, dragging the sheet as she sits on the bed's edge, shoulders rigid.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
She laughs once, brittle. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
I sit up, bracing my forearms on my thighs. "Try me."
