"Text if you need anything," Maggie calls. "And I mean anything. I've got lasagna, casseroles, and opinions. I will show up with all three."
A breathless laugh escapes me. "Yes, ma'am."
Outside, the night air is cool against my overheated skin. Knox's bike gleams under the security lights, predatory and familiar. He hands me my half helmet, fingers brushing my jaw as he settles it. Always does it himself, even though I'm perfectly capable.
"Long fuckin' night."
"Yeah." I give him what I can, a small nod. "I want to go home."
"Then let's go home." He swings over. I climb on behind him. The engine roars to life, a low familiar snarl that vibrates up through my bones.
"Hold on tight," he calls over the noise.
I always do. But tonight, I do it differently. My arms wrap around his waist, then I slide my palm over his chest, right over his heart. The drum of it under leather and cotton. My cheek settles against the broad span of his back. I breathe in the cedar, soap, and that cologne he swears he doesn't wear.
The bike rolls out of the lot. Wind hits us. The world tunnels to the dark stretch of road ahead and him under my hands. I should be thinking about Candace. About Darla. About fathers who sell daughters and men like Donovan who keep breathing.
Instead, my brain does what it always does when Knox is this close. Zeroes in on him. Heat. The solid line of his spine. The way his muscles tense under my palm every time we hit a curve. I start tracing small circles over his chest. Over his sternum. Lazy, thoughtless, needy.
The growl that rumbles out of him is more felt than heard. His hand leaves my thigh for half a second, long enough to catch mine. He drags it down his torso, over the ridges of his abs, lower and lower until he plants it firmly over the thick length straining against his jeans.
"Thought you were tired," he shouts back, rough with laughter and want.
My fingers flex around him on instinct. Heat flares in my belly, sharp and heavy. Who am I kidding? I've been tired for years. This isn't about rest. It's about wanting something that doesn't hurt. I squeeze. He jolts, hips shifting, the bike giving a tiny lurch he corrects immediately.
"Careful, sweetheart. You keep that up and I'm gonna pull over, then fuck you right here on the side of the road."
Warmth floods my cheeks. My thighs clench around his hips. "I might be okay with that," I shout back.
He curses; the low vicious word is swallowed by the wind. I stroke him through denim, the hard line of him, the way he swells even more under my palm. Every move tethers me. This is real. This is now. And I chose it.
By the time we pull into the driveway, his breathing is uneven, shoulders tight. Nerves buzzing under my skin. He kills the engine. Sudden quiet ringing in my ears. I swing off, legs shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with the ride.
Knox is barely off the seat before I'm on him. I rip the helmet off, let it drop in the grass, and fist my hand in his cut, yanking him down to crush my mouth to his. He stumbles back. The momentum carries him into the siding with a low thud, more me slamming him than him backing into it, and one hand flies to my waist to steady us before we both end up in the flowerbed.
The kiss is messy, all teeth and desperation. He tastes like mint and the faint sweetness of gum. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, coaxing, a demand and a plea at once.
Please don't leave. Don't make me talk. Just stay.
He breaks away ragged, forehead against mine, noses bumping. "Sloane. Talk to me," he rasps out.
"I am talking. Just… not with words you want right now."
His eyes darken. "What do you want, sweetheart?"
You. Always you.
"I want your cock," I say, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale. "I want you inside me until I can't think."
Whatever restraint he had snaps. He fumbles the keys, swearing, then gets the door open and drags me inside, slamming it with his heel. The hallway is dim, lit only by theweak kitchen nightlight. He shoves me gently against the wall, hands tugging at my shirt, mouth on mine again.
His palms slip under my shirt, calloused and hot, skimming up my sides, over my ribs. Thumbs tracing the underside of my breasts through my bra, and I arch into him with a gasp.
"Fuck, you're always so responsive," he growls against my mouth.
His hands cup me properly, squeezing, thumbs rubbing over my nipples through fabric until they're hard and aching. Already soaked, already clenching around nothing, and he hasn't even gotten me naked yet.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against my lips. "The way your body jumps for me?"
