13. Knox
KNOX
T hree days.
Three long, testy, beautiful fucking days with my petal curled up in my bed, out of commission, snapping and softening by turns.
The first day after the visit, I carried that knot in my gut like a stone, waiting for her to bring up town again.
Waiting for her to say the word leave.
But she didn’t, thank fuck. Each time she blinked up at me from the pillows with those stormy eyes and made conversation about something else, that knot eased just a fraction, only to tighten again when she shifted and winced from soreness.
By the second day, I was dealing with a whole other problem—her damn period.
My petal was temperamental as fuck during her time of the month.
The blood didn’t faze me.
Hell, I’d bleed for her, with her, over her if it came to it.
No, it was the fire in her eyes, the sharp tongue, the way she flinched at my shadow one minute, then clawed for me the next.
Not ashamed to admit I was out of my fucking depth.
May have hovered too much. She slapped me for it.
I should’ve been pissed. But the second her palm cracked across my chest, she froze—then dropped to her knees like she’d sinned in church, and wrapped that pretty mouth around my cock.
Her apology sucked my balls dry, rattling my spine until I was shaking like a damn sapling in a hurricane.
First time I’d ever been slapped and sucked in the same breath.
Wouldn’t mind it happening again.
The look in her eyes—defiant, guilty, hungry—burned into me harder than her mouth ever could.
By the third day, I was pacing less and smiling more. Not that I’d admit it to a damn soul. But I’ve been using the time wisely, finishing up what I started in the barn. She doesn’t know. I’ve kept her barred from it, told her she’ll see it when it’s ready.
Truth is, I want her surprised. Want her eyes wide, her mouth soft, when she sees what I’ve built back up for her.
My old ring. My resurrection. Our game.
And for once, I don’t feel chained to it. I feel like maybe I’m the one holding the reins. The thought unsettles me almost as much as it steadies me. Like I’m waking up from an eight-year hibernation and stretching muscles I forgot I had.
Still, looming on the horizon?
That damn fair this weekend.
The one I promised I’d take her to. I grit my teeth and shove it down.
Don’t need to deal with that yet. Not when I’ve got more pressing matters.
Like feeding my petal.
I shut the barn door and head inside.
Prepare what she likes and balance the tray in one hand—a cup of cider with bread, venison, the jar of her favorite jam I found stashed in the pantry. Push open the bedroom door with my shoulder.
She’s propped up in bed, my vest that looks like a dress on her riding high on her thighs, socks sagging at her knees. A manual open in her hands. One of mine.
“Is it safe to come in, petal?” I rumble, leaning in the doorway. “Or is it still Armageddon in here?”
Her eyes flick up. Green fire. “Fuck you, Bear.”
My cock twitches.
Christ, I love her mean. The sound of her voice like that makes something in my chest loosen and clench all at once.
I groan, palming myself through my jeans, letting her see. “Just say the word, baby, and I’ll plug you good and nasty, make us both feel so much better.”
She narrows her eyes. Then hurls the manual straight at my head.
It smacks my shoulder and falls to the floor.
And for the first time in years, I laugh.
Not a huff or a grunt.
A deep, tearing laugh that shakes loose something I thought was fossilized. It rolls out of me until my ribs ache and my eyes sting.
She glares, but the corners of her mouth twitch.
And I know, without a fucking doubt—this mountain hasn’t heard the last of my laughter. Not while she’s here. Not while she’s mine to feed, to fuck, to tease, to surprise.
Sweet heaven, if there’s a God listening, please, fucking please ... mine to love.
“Are you listening to me, petal? You need to listen.”
My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to. Low and rumbling, half warning, half plea.
Because every inch of me is stretched tight as a bowstring.
She presses her palms to my chest—those tiny, warm hands on slabs of tense muscle—and tilts that little face up at me. “I heard every word, Bear. Stop worrying.”
But I can see her eyes darting everywhere. Over me. Over the ring.
Over the impossible thing I’ve built for her.
The barn isn’t a barn anymore. It’s my world reborn. Floodlights blaze down from the rafters, catching dust motes drifting like sparks. Ropes are strung taut and corners padded, the extra triple-padded canvas floor gleaming with polish.
Somewhere from the old barn speakers, a low, gritty beat rumbles to life — “Red Right Hand” by Nick Cave—bass and drum, steady as a predator’s heartbeat. My pulse syncs to it instantly, my blood pounding as my breaths come faster.
My cathedral of heat and glory.
And she’s standing in it with her bare thighs, my socks pulled high, wearing my white vest double-knotted at the back so it clings from tits to waist. Braless, erect nipples pushing through and the juicy rings of her areolas catching the light.
She looks like the most delicious pint-sized sacrilege wrapped in my vest and the white cotton panties I didn’t even notice her pick up at the drugstore.
The kind that looks full and innocent at the front but are lethal tucked between her round, juicy butt cheeks at the back.
The kind destined to drive a man to an early grave.
And me... God help me, I’m ferociously jealous of that piece of string.
I’m back in my old trunks, boots laced tight and wristbands biting into my veins. My chest is bare, scarred, hair damp from hours of work.
I feel like I’ve stepped out of my own ghost and into a dream.
She’s glowing.
Shining so bright it almost hurts. I know she’s never seen anything like this. Never imagined I’d give her this.
I should be proud. Instead, I’m pacing like a caged beast, jaw locked, eyes shadowed. One wrong move and?—
“Describe it again,” she says quickly, like she can sense my terror.
Like she knows how deep this runs.
I exhale hard and go through it again. Slow, careful, my hands guiding her, positioning her. Where her feet should go. Where her weight should shift. How to brace when I come at her.
Every detail makes her shiver, and every shiver feeds me.
Pride flickers through the worry. She’s hanging on my every word, and Christ, it’s making me hard. This isn’t just wrestling. This is me handing over something no one else ever got to someone who won’t use it to manipulate me. Someone who will appreciate the art I bled for.
But my gaze keeps slipping downward.
Down her body. Down to where the vest clings and stretches.
My patience frays.
How long can I last before I forget the lesson and fuck us both blind right here on the canvas? The very thought of it makes my balls scream.
She’s addictive. She’s my forever. And I’m the one about to break.
“Like this,” I mutter, stepping close, grabbing her wrist, twisting gently until she gasps. Her bones feel fragile in my hands, but she moves with quickness, her fierce little body trusting me, bracing under my strength. I could crush her.
Instead, I teach and I treasure.
She stumbles and I steady her instantly. “Good,” I rasp, voice gone gravelly.
Her nails rake my chest without warning. The scrape of them ignites my skin.
My cock swells heavy against my trunks, but I keep my hands steady on her waist, showing her how to pivot?—
Until she surprises me. Drops low. Wraps her thighs around mine, calves locking tight.
A hiss rips out of me, half curse, half moan. My hand clamps her hip, holding her there, testing her.
The ropes creak as we shift, our bodies too close, way too hot.
Her cotton-covered clit presses hot and damp against my thigh, and her nipples brush my chest. She bites her lip, trying not to moan.
I don’t. I growl.
“Petal.” I crush my mouth to hers, a filthy, devouring kiss that tastes like sweat and longing. Tongues clashing and lips bruising, I bite her bottom lip and she yelps into my mouth.
She thinks she’s got me.
But while she’s still catching her breath, I shift, counter, and suddenly she’s weightless.
My arms hook under her, chest colliding with hers, and then I hurl her across the canvas.
She screams—pure shock, pure thrill—as she hits the mat, breath whooshing out of her.
And when she blinks up at me, sprawled and gasping, and I’m looming over her, massive, sweat dripping down my temple and my chest rising like a mountain...
I know we’re only just getting started.
She’s sprawled on the canvas, chest heaving, chestnut hair a wild halo around her flushed face.
Her thighs are parted from the throw, and with every panting breath, her peaked nipples strain against the fabric.
Christ.
She looks so fucking glorious on my mat. Enchanting. Mine .
The music thrums louder, vibrating through the canvas beneath me, a savage rhythm that matchesmylooming presence.
My chest heaves, my thighs tremble, and the bass feels like it’s carryingthe lead vocalist’sgrowl straight into my bones.
Every muscle in me locks, torn between hauling her up and sinking to my knees to devour her. The sight of her like this—laid out at my feet, gasping for breath, trusting me not to break her—shreds what’s left of my control.
Petal doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know she’s the most dangerous opponent I’ve ever faced.
Because I could fight a hundred men and walk away whole.
But one look at her like this, and I’m fucking ruined.
A growl rumbles low in my chest as I stalk toward her. The canvas groans under my boots, every step deliberate, every inch of my body strung tight with hunger. She scrambles back on her elbows, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that mix of fear and fascination shining in them.
“Bear...” she whispers. Half warning, half invitation.
I crouch low, muscles bunching, palms pressed to the mat on either side of her. My shadow swallows her whole.
“You think you can take me, petal?” My voice is gravel, torn from the pit of my chest. “Then get the fuck up and prove it.”
Her lips part.
A flicker of defiance sparks in her eyes. And before I can crush my mouth to hers, she twists, fast and clever?—
And the tables turn.