I closed the distance myself.
37
HARPER
The kiss was different this time. The first one had been desperate, impulsive, a last-ditch effort to stop him from doing something stupid. This one was intentional. The kind of kiss that said,I choose this. I choose you.
Knox’s cuffed hands rose to cradle my face, the chain pulling taut between his wrists and waist as his fingers slid into my hair at my temples. He kissed me like he’d been waiting fourteen years for exactly this moment. Like he wanted to memorize the taste of me, the feel of me, the way I melted against him.
Heat shot down my spine and pooled low in my belly.
I arched into him, pressing the front of my body against his. He was hard everywhere. Solid. Built like he’d been carved from stone and brought to life just to ruin me.
I ran my hands up his arms, feeling the muscles flex beneath his prison-issue shirt. The fabric was rough, cheap, nothing like what I imagined he’d wear on the outside. But underneath it, he was all power and restraint and barely leashed intensity.
When I locked my hands around his neck, he made a sound low in his throat. Something between a growl and a groan that vibrated against my lips and made my knees go weak.
He was letting me become part of his future.
Eight weeks. In eight weeks, he could be free. We could do this whenever we wanted. Wherever. However. No alarms. No locked doors. No chain around his waist. No cuffs on his wrists. Just him and me and all the time in the world.
He’d be mine. And I’d be his.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I breathed against his mouth.
“Probably not.”
“It’s irresponsible.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“This is insane.”
“Completely.”
But neither of us stopped.
Knox’s bound hands trailed from my neck down to my collarbone, the cuffs a cold contrast to the heat of his skin, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He paused there, his fingers hovering at the neckline of my scrubs.
He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes. Asking permission without words.
I answered by pressing my body harder against his.
His hand slid lower. Cupped my breast through the thin fabric.
I moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it was something precious. His palm was rough, and even through the layers of clothing, I could feel the heat of him branding my skin.
“Do you know what I would do to you,” he murmured against my lips, “if we weren’t in here?”
“Tell me.”
His hand kneaded my breast, thumb brushing over the peak that had hardened to a point.
“I would kiss every inch of your body. Start at your neck. Work my way down.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I wouldtake my time. Hours. Days. However long it took to learn exactly what makes you shiver.”
My thighs clenched together.
Eight weeks, I thought again. Just eight weeks, and this man could be mine in the real world. Waking up beside me. Making me coffee. Kissing me in the kitchen like we had all the time we’d been denied.
