"I know." A sip of wine. A few bought seconds. "Her father sold her, Knox." It's flat, clinical, reading a chart out loud, but herknuckles go white around the glass. "His own daughter. Sold her like she was—" She stops. Sets the glass down too carefully. "I don't want to think about it."
I lean back, watching her. There's a part of me that wants to push. Force the doors open and deal with whatever monsters crawl out. The bigger part remembers her in that parking lot. The way she flinched when I raised my hand too fast. Every time she's shut down when I got too close to the word father.
I swallow the pressure back. I don't say anything. Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. Grateful. Afraid. All at once.
"Knox—"
"Doesn't mean I'm letting it go," I add, because I don't lie to her. "Just means I'm not going to make you bleed for it when you're already wrung out."
Her eyes go bright. She blinks twice, fast, and looks at her wineglass instead of me. She sets her fork down, stands, then walks toward me.
I track every step, heartbeat picking up like I'm about to go into a fight. She steps closer, moving between my knees, and looks down at me.
"You want to know what I do want to think about?" she asks softly.
"Yeah, sweetheart," I say, voice rough. "I really do."
She swings a leg over and settles into my lap, straddling me in the chair like she belongs there. Her thighs press against the outside of mine, heat seeping into my bones. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling in the front of my shirt. Every part of me goes tight.
This is the thing that undoes me every time. She could run. She's good at it; instead she climbs closer. I know what this is. She does this. Gets close to the edge of saying something real, then puts her body where her words should be. I let her. Every time, I let her.
"Want to think about you," she whispers. "About anything that isn't… that."
"Yeah?" My hands find her hips, thumbs stroking warm bare skin where my T-shirt has ridden up. She shivers. "I can work with that."
She leans in, mouth brushing my jaw, then the corner of my lips, then my throat. Each kiss soft, searching, finding the places that make me lose it. Desire slams through me, hot and heavy. My skin pulls tight, pulse thudding in my palms.
Sloane has no idea what she does to me, sitting here, trusting me with her weight and her wanting.
"Sweetheart," I rasp, "you start something in my lap, you better be ready to finish it."
Her laugh is a breath against my skin. "That's the plan."
She tilts my head and kisses me properly. Slow at first, then deeper. Her tongue strokes mine, fingers sliding up to the back of my neck, nails scratching at my hairline. I groan into her mouth, hands tightening on her hips. The kiss turns open-mouthed and dirty fast. She rolls her hips, seeking friction, and my control frays to threads.
All I can think is more. Closer. Mine. I drag my mouth away just long enough for words.
"Table. Now."
She sucks in a breath, eyes dark. "Bossy."
"Always."
I stand, lifting her as I go. One arm sweeps the plates aside, silverware clattering against the wall. She makes a soft sound, legs locking around my waist, hands gripping my shoulders. I set her on the edge of the kitchen table and plant my hands on either side of her hips, kissing her again hard enough we both feel it.
She leans back on her palms, lips swollen, gaze locked on mine.
"You good?" I ask because I always do.
She nods. "Better than good."
"Words, Sloane."
"Yes," she breathes. "I want this. I want you."
That's all it takes. Whatever restraint I was clinging to snaps. I slide my hands up her thighs, thumbs stroking the softer inside where her skin is hot enough to make my pulse stumble.
She spreads for me without thinking, a small hitched sound breaking out like she didn't mean to let it slip.
