"Oh," she breathes, hooking her legs around my waist, "please do."
Fuck.
I line up, push into her, too slow for how badly I want her, and groan when she tightens around me, welcoming me home.
"Jesus. Sloane…"
She claws at my back, pulling me closer. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
"Never," I grit out, thrusting deep, steady, rocking her up the bed. "Not with you. Not fucking possible." Mine. Mine. Mine. She grips my face, foreheads touching, and our breaths mix.
"I love the way you feel," she whispers. Raw, honest in the only place she ever lets herself be.
My vision goes white around the edges.
"Say it again," I groan. "Fuck. Sloane, say it again."
She rolls her hips, meeting every thrust. "I love… the way… you feel. I love your cock inside me."
I lose it. My rhythm falters, then deepens, harder, desperate. Her second orgasm hits sharp and sudden. She digs her nails into my shoulders and muffles her cries against my throat. I keep going, chasing mine, and when it slams into me I bury my face in her neck, pulse hammering. Her name comes out wrecked. I don't try to clean it up.
I stay inside her a few moments longer, then ease out. I roll onto my back and she follows, draping over me with her head on my chest.
She draws idle circles on my skin with one fingertip, half-asleep already. The quiet settles; just her breaths, my heartbeat, the hum of the house. My mind drifts back to Chuck. To Candace running barefoot. To whoever put that look in Sloane's eyes when I said the word father. Then the words come out before I can stop them.
"I'd kill anyone who tried to take you from me."
Her fingers still. The circle stops mid-stroke.
"Knox—"
"I know." I press my mouth to her hair, eyes closed. "I know you don't want to hear it. But it's true."
Her hand curls into a fist over my heart, knuckles pressing into my chest like she's holding on.
"Okay," she whispers finally, voice so small I almost miss it. I'll take it.
I smooth my hand down her spine, tracing the curve of her back until her breathing evens out and sleep drags her under.
"Not going anywhere," I murmur into her hair.
Chapter 15
Knox
Theclubhouseistoofucking quiet. Objectively, it isn't. Pool balls crack, someone laughs near the bar, there's a low thrum of country on the jukebox. But my nerves are wound tight enough that everything feels half a beat off.
Or maybe that's just because my wife's been gone since before sunrise and I hate the goddamn twelve-hour shifts almost as much as I hate not knowing where Chuck is.
I flip my phone over. No new messages.
"Jesus Christ," Nash mutters from across the table. "You gonna burn a hole through that thing with sheer misery, or you want a beer?"
I drag my gaze up. He's leaned back in his chair, arms folded, expression in full resting-enforcer mode.
I just grunt. "It's barely one. I'm good."
He snorts. "You are absolutely not good. You're an asshole. There's a difference."
