I let go and take her waist, guiding her as she braces on my shoulders and starts carefully. Testing. Learning. The first glide of her tight heat down my cock rips a noise from me I've never made in my life.
"Good girl," I groan, thrusting up to meet her.
Her head tips back at the praise, a catch in her throat as her hips roll down to match my thrust. She slides up my chest, fingers gripping fabric for balance, for leverage. From need.
I flatten one palm at her spine, feeling each tremor. "Look at you."
Her eyes flutter open, heavy and hazy. Lips parting on a breathless whimper, she moves on me with hungry, deliberate rhythm. Thighs clamping, pulling me deeper.
She leans forward, forehead against mine, and whispers. "I… I love your dirty mouth."
I freeze for half a second, then yank her in and put my lips at her throat.
A filthy smile curves my mouth as I thrust up hard enough to make her gasp. "I know." I press the words into her skin. "Your pussy told me." She clenches around me so sharply my vision blurs. "Fuck, you feel perfect."
I drag my mouth along her throat, kissing, nipping, sucking a mark she'll feel tomorrow. She cups the back of my neck, anchoring me to her, needing me everywhere at once. She moves harder now, riding me with a rhythm that stutters each time my hips snap up to meet hers. The wet, obscene sounds of her on me fill the room.
"Made to sit on my cock."
She whimpers, a cry I've never heard from her, and her hips jerk, pace breaking, chasing every word, every thrust, every filthy thing I give her. Rocking harder, her breath stutters, eyes half-lidded, lips parting with each punched-out noise.
"Knox—I'm—"
I reach between us. "Give it to me."
My thumb finds her clit, working tight circles while I thrust up into her. With my free hand I find her left wrist, press it flat on my chest, our rings stacked and gleaming.
"Come for me, wife," I growl. "Come on your husband's cock."
She shatters. Her whole body stiffens, then shudders violently. A cry rips from her throat as she comes, locked around me, pulsing.
"Fuck," I gasp, gripping her hips, sure I'll leave marks. "That's it. That's my girl."
When she collapses on me, still quaking, I thrust up hard, once, twice, and come deep with a low, guttural growl at her neck. The world goes white around the edges.
I'm hers.
She slumps onto my chest, breath ragged, hair wild, dress rumpled. I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth to her temple, breathing her in. My eyes land on her hand resting on my chest, ring gleaming.
I hold on. "You okay?" I murmur into her hair.
She nods. "Yeah."
I stroke her back, gentle and steady. "Come to bed."
I lift her off my lap, carry her toward the bedroom with her arms wrapped around my neck, and her mouth skimming my jaw instinctively.
Her hand twitches once in her sleep, fingers closing around nothing. I put my hand there instead.
Chapter 12
Sloane
The Present
Thethingaboutsmalltowns is you can measure time by the traffic lights. In Chicago, it took three songs and a podcast episode to get anywhere. Here, it's one stoplight, two left turns, and Knox's hand on my thigh the whole way.
We're stopped at that light now. The only one on this side of Willowridge. Knox idles the bike with one hand relaxed on the handlebar, the other heavy and warm just above my knee. His thumb traces lazy circles over bare skin.
