I scoop her up and sit her on the desk. “This.”
18
MAREN
For half a second after he says those words, I forget how to breathe.
Knox’s hands are already on me, strong and steady and certain as he tugs me to the edge of the counter so that the best bits of us line up perfectly.
His lips press to mine. “Been thinking about you all fucking day.”
The sudden closeness of him sends a rush of heat through my chest, every part of me sparking alive again.
I want to tell him that I’ve been the same. Mention the number of times I’ve wrapped my hand around the back of my neck, just to capture the ghost of a memory of how his hand had felt.
My memory served me wrong.
It was more intimate than I remembered.
My tongue meets his desperately; I can’t get enough of him.
One hand settles on the back of my neck, the other squeezing my hip tightly.
And my brain flashes between the reality of him touching me again and the places he took me the night of the storm.
Everything about Knox envelops me. His size, the way his broad shoulders cover me, the warmth and scent of him, and the way his hands hold me tightly. The sleeves of his shirt are folded up, revealing his deliciously muscled and veiny forearms. And those fingers he used on me in the shower, the ones clad in solid brass rings, have the ability to find the right places to touch me to make me come without any kind of instruction.
But as much as I want to fall into whatever this is with him, there is a tiny voice that’s getting louder and louder until I can’t ignore it. I swallow hard. “This is probably going to make things worse.”
My voice is far from steady.
Knox doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans closer. The hand on my hip slides up the side of my waist, beneath the polo shirt, until his thumb brushes the edge of my rib cage, making me shiver. “Probably,” Knox says. “Still waiting for that begging.”
My heart thuds. He smells so good. Clean soap, leather, and the faint salt air that seems to etch his skin.
I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me the out. If I don’t beg, we don’t do this. Because if I’m the one doing the pleading, it’s not him crossing the line, but me.
My fingers curl into the leather of his cut. “You’re manipulating me.”
“Is it working?” His mouth curves slightly, but his eyes are serious. His thumb strokes my cheek, runs across my lips. “Maren,” he says softly, and something twists in my chest.
“You said that if things were different…”
His gaze drops to my lips. “I know what I said.”
I place both my palms on his cheeks. “They’re not different, Knox.”
“No. But I’m having a really hard time convincing myself thatanytime spent kissing you is a bad idea.”
I laugh softly at the painful accuracy of his statement.
His forehead touches mine, and he presses the tip of his thumb between my lips. I suck on it before biting down gently on the pad. “If you’re trying to rationalize sleeping with me, I think that’s a sure sign we shouldn’t.”
He moves so that our lips are just touching. Not kissing. Just brushing so softly. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and my thighs tighten instinctively around the solid line of his hips.
I squirm a little at the ache between my legs. And he notices, his hand slipping back to my waist.
Of course, he notices.
