She shakes her head. "Grabbed a granola bar at the hospital. That's it."
"Yeah, no. We're done here."
"Done?"
"You are going to go home, eat actual food, and sleep. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," she says reflexively.
"Cool. Husband's orders, then."
Her lips twitch.
"Take her home," Maggie calls from the kitchen doorway, as if she's been eavesdropping the whole time. "I've got Candace for the night. If she lets me, I'll bully her into eating too."
"Bossy," Sloane mutters.
"Pot," Maggie fires back. "Kettle."
A ripple of laughter from around the room.
I curl my fingers around Sloane's hip. "Let's go, wife. Before someone tries to hand you another crisis."
"Okay."
Quick goodnights, the usual chorus of "Text if you need anything" and "Love you, baby girl" from Maggie and Frankie. East calls out something crude about not breaking her, earning him a rag tossed at his head from Maggie.
Then we're out in the lot, the night air wrapping around us warm and thick.
Sloane eyes me as I hand her the helmet. "You really going to let me rest?"
I cock a brow. "Sweetheart, I am going to let you sit on my face until you forget Candace's name."
Color blooms across her cheekbones, pupils going wide. "Knox," she whispers, half scandalized, half tempted.
"What? Man's gotta have a plan."
Sloane rolls her eyes, but her fingers are clumsy on the helmet straps. She climbs on behind me, thighs bracketing my hips, arms wrapping around my waist. The second her chest presses to my back and her hands slide under my cut to find my shirt, I bite down on a groan.
Every time. Every fucking time.
"Hold on," I tell her, voice rougher than before.
She already is.
When I kick the bike over, the vibration shudders through both of us. Her fingers flex against my stomach, nails scratching lightly over my abs. She does it again, testing what she can get away with.
I am one bad decision away from pulling into a dark side street and bending her over the tank. Easy. Get her home first. Feed her. Then ruin her.
The ride back is short and familiar. A stoplight, two turns, her body molded to mine.
By the time we pull into the driveway, I'm hard, wired, and aware of exactly how thin my self-control is. She slides off first, handing me the helmet, and I watch the way her scrub top lifts when she stretches. Just a flash of stomach, her warm skin catching the porch light.
She rolls her shoulders, head tipping back, throat exposed in a way that punches directly through my restraint.
Focus, Turner.
Inside, the house is cool and dim. She toes her shoes off by the door, drops her bag on the bench, then starts toward the stairs.
