Chapter 6
Knox
The bathroom door clicks shut behind her, and the room tightens. She left the door unlocked. Pipes clank, then the spray starts. It's a cheap hotel shower, but I picture it like holy water, pouring over her skin, holding the last forty-eight hours at bay.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, fingers laced so I don't follow.
It doesn't help. My mind fills the blank space behind the door with her: towel gone, hair plastered flat, the spray sliding down her throat.
One palm on the tile, holding herself upright while the crash hits.
I drag a hand down my face and breathe out hard.
My palms itch. I stand and shrug out of my shirt because the fabric feels wrong across my shoulders.
The air on my bare skin does nothing to cool me.
I toss the shirt onto the chair and stalk to the little hotel desk like wood can fight desire.
I grip the edge, and the desk creaks. The faucet runs. My imagination runs faster.
Her head tipped back. Water sliding down the column of her throat.
Droplets clinging to the swell of her breasts, tracing the line of her ribs, slipping lower.
Suddenly I'm there instead. Fingers pressing into damp skin, bracing her while she falls apart for me all over again.
Fuck. I stare at the cheap art until my pulse settles, then focus on what I can control: breathing, stance, exits, threat vectors.
If she opened the door and said my name the way she did last night when she came on my cock, voice wrecked and begging? I close my eyes. I don't know what I'd do. That's the part that scares me.
Steam curls under the bathroom door, sharp with hotel soap and heat.
"Knox?" Her voice is small, shaky. Panic frames my name in a way that pulls me across the room before I've moved consciously. Boots on, jeans low, chest bare. The door is cracked an inch; steam pours out. I rest my palm on the wood.
"Yeah?" Rougher than I want. "I'm here."
The door opens just enough. She stands wrapped in one white towel that's working overtime.
It's damp, soft, and knotted between her breasts.
Droplets trace lines down her collarbone and disappear under terrycloth.
Exactly what I pictured, and worse. Her hair is wet.
The dark waves are slicked flat, dripping onto cheap tile.
Her eyes flick to my bare chest, widening for a half-beat, then drag up.
"I thought…" Her voice breaks; she swallows. "I thought you left."
I step through the threshold, filling her space without touching. Steam laps at my skin. Her bare toes curl on the tile.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
Not for her; never for her. For whatever made that fear feel logical.
She retreats one step, more instinct than rejection, bumping the vanity.
The towel slips a fraction at the top; a corner dips, revealing the bare edge of her breast, the soft curve threatening to spill free.
I don't look away. I plant my palms on either side of the sink, body and shadow caging her, not my fingers. She has inches to leave. She doesn't.
Her gaze skims my shoulders, my arms, the scars scattered over my chest, the ink marring my skin, then locks on my mouth.
"I'm right here," I murmur, the words rough despite how quiet they come out. "Look at me, Sloane."
She does. Everything in me draws taut. Up close I can see the faint tremor in her lashes that have water still clinging to them, as well as the fear and heat tangled in her pupils. She looks like a woman on the edge of a cliff, wind at her back, unsure if the fall will kill her or save her.
"You're shaking," I say.
"So are you," she whispers. She's not wrong.
Her hand lifts hesitantly, as if a leash tugs at her wrist. Then she pushes through and lays her fingers against my chest. They're light, damp, barely there.
It detonates me. My breath punches out. Her fingertips rest over my heart as if she's checking if it's real. Beating too fast. For her. Only her.
"Sloane," I say. Her name is a warning and a prayer. "If you touch me like that again, I'm not going to be able to stop." She flexes against my chest. Swallows.
"I don't want you to stop," she says. Steady. Eyes on mine.
Every lock I put on myself breaks at once.
I step the last inch into her space, hips brushing the counter, knees framing hers, heat rolling off me.
I tilt her chin with two fingers, thumb skimming her jaw.
Firm enough to feel, gentle enough to give her room.
"You sure?" Low enough that the words scrape.
"You say the word and I walk right out of this room. You hear me?"
Her eyes don't leave mine. "I'm scared," she says honestly. "Just… not of you."
"What are you scared of, then?"
Her gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts. "How much I want this."
"Want what?" I push because she deserves the choice spelled out in full, not just implied.
"You," she breathes. "Want you. Again."
That's it. "Turn around," I murmur. She shivers but obeys, turning until she faces the mirror.
Our reflections fill the glass. Her in damp terrycloth, me behind her, ink and scars and denim.
I hover near her hips without touching. "Still okay?
" She nods too fast. "Words, Sloane." I catch her gaze in the mirror. "Give me words."
"Yes," she says, voice rough. "Please."
"Good girl."
The words come out before I can check them.
In the mirror I see them land, her eyes going wide then half-shut.
I take the edge of the towel where it's knotted and ease it loose, letting the terrycloth slip an inch, then another.
Giving her all the time in the world to change her mind.
She doesn't. She watches herself instead, eyes wide as the fabric falls lower, baring the swell of her breasts, the line of her ribs.
The towel drops. Puddles at her feet. She's naked in front of me, steam slicking her, hair dripping down her spine. Water beads on her shoulders, along her vertebrae, the curve of her ass. I take her in with a slow, hungry sweep; every inch committing itself to memory whether I want it to or not.
I rest my hands on her hips. Heat pools under my touch. She exhales as if she's been holding her breath since Chicago. "You're fucking stunning," I tell her. Color blooms high on her cheeks.
"You're staring."
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
Her fingers find my thigh, seemingly to anchor herself. The contact sends a line of heat straight to my cock. I lean in, mouth near her ear. "Get under the spray," I tell her. "I'll take care of you."
A tremor runs through her. "Okay."
We move together. She goes into the spray, I’m right behind, boots and all, because apparently I've lost the ability to think past her.
The water hits her first, then splashes onto my chest, hot and relentless.
I brace one palm on the tile above her head, the other skimming up her stomach, over her ribs, to the underside of her breast. She arches into my touch like permission remembered.
"Fuck, Sloane…" I rasp.
Her head drops against my shoulder. The cascade drums over both of us, drowning out everything but her small sounds and my rough breathing.
My hand closes over her breast; my thumb brushes a peaked nipple.
She gasps, hips jerking into me. Denim strains at my groin, hard against the curve of her ass.
"Feel that?" I say against her neck, teeth scraping just enough to make her shiver harder. "That's what you do to me. Right here, right now. It's only you."
Her fingers claw at my forearm, pulling me tighter. "Knox…" she says, barely voiced.
"Say my name like that and I'll give you anything you want."
I wrap one arm around her waist, anchoring her, and slide the other hand down between her thighs. Already slick and hot; water mixes with arousal. When I stroke her slowly, she chokes on a sound halfway between sob and moan.
"Good girl," I praise, low and filthy. "So fucking responsive. You melt the second I touch you, don't you?"
She nods, breath breaking. I work her clit in knowing circles. My other hand massages her breast, rolling the nipple between my fingers. Her knees wobble. I cinch my grip and take her full weight, keeping her upright as she breaks.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Please don't stop."
"Not planning on it," I growl.
She's at the edge in under a minute. Her hips rock helplessly into my hand, mouth open on shattered breaths. "Come for me, Sloane," I order, voice gone dark. "Right now with my hand on you and my cock against you. Let go."
She shatters. Her whole body tenses, then shudders. A low, ragged cry rips from her throat as she comes apart in my hands. I hold her through it, fingers on her clit, arm banded around her waist, mouth on her wet shoulder.
"That's it. That's my girl."
When she sags into me, boneless, I press a kiss to the side of her neck, my chest heaving against her spine. I need to be inside her so badly it hurts.
"Condom," I manage, voice barely human. "Back pocket. Grab it for me."
She twists to reach, fingers fumbling at my jeans, finding my wallet, then the foil packet. She presses it into my hand, eyes blown wide, lips slick and parted.
"Jeans off," I mutter. "Or this will be the most frustrating shower of my life."
I set the condom on the shower ledge and let go of her long enough to kick off my boots, both of them skidding across wet tile.
Then I work the button. Denim that was merely stubborn before becomes opposition under the spray.
The fabric clings to my thighs, heavy and wet.
I shove them halfway down before one leg gets stuck.
I swear, kick, nearly eat tile. Sloane grabs my forearm.
Her laugh bubbles out sharp and startled before she swallows it.
"Oh my God," she chokes. "You okay, graceful?"
I catch the wall, yank my foot free with the other hand, then get the jeans off and shoved into a soggy heap. "Jeans started it," I growl. "I finished it." Her smile lingers, soft and sharp. "Come here," I say.
She presses into me, then stops. A half-second where her weight shifts toward the tile, some internal argument I can only see the surface of.
Then she closes the distance, palms braced on the wall, the spray running over both of us in a drum.
Her spine curves as she leans, and she fits mine in a way that makes my throat close.
I grab the condom from the ledge and roll it on, hands slick, vision narrowing to nothing but her. My mouth finds the curve of her neck; teeth scrape wet skin. She trembles, pushing into me, done being patient.
"Knox," she says. "Please."
I slide one hand down, guiding her hips as I pin her with my weight. "What do you want?" I say against her ear, each word dripping with need. "Say it."
"You," she breathes. "I want you inside me. I want you to take it all away for a while."
For a while. The words file themselves somewhere I'll have to look at later. She reaches for me as anesthesia, not a person.
Her words hit the base of my spine and spread. I turn her fast, pinning her to the tile as I lift her. Her legs lock around my waist on instinct, and the word that fires through me is belongs. She belongs here. Steam clings to us. I force her to meet my eyes.
"Look at me," I say.
She does. Her breath is wrecked, pupils blown.
I line myself up and push in with a controlled thrust. She gasps, nails biting into my shoulders as she tightens around me.
I don't rush. I slide the rest of the way in, deep and sure, opening for me like she was built to take me.
In a few days my name will be on hers. I bury that in the next thrust.
The sound she makes goes straight down my spine. I groan, forehead to her shoulder, fighting the urge to lose control too fast. "Fuck, Sloane," I grind out. "You feel so good."
Her hips rock, searching. I take over, driving in hard, measured thrusts, keeping her pinned, making her feel every inch.
The shower fills with breath and the broken noises she can't hold back.
A floorboard groans in the room beyond, loud enough to cut through the spray.
I lock up, instinct screaming. I freeze mid-thrust, arm banded around her waist, the other flat on the wall to brace us.
My head whips toward the door, senses straining past the rush of water.
Nothing. Silence. Just the old building settling. I lean close to her ear. "It's nothing. Just the building." I wait for her nod, stiff and jerky against me. Only then do I move again, the retreat and the push feeling closer to a claim than before.
"Knox. I'm close."
"Good," I growl. "Let go. Come for me."
She shatters, crying out as she comes undone in my arms, locking around me as if I'll disappear the second she loosens her grip.
That's all it takes. I thrust deep and lose it with her, groaning into her neck as pleasure rips through me.
I hold her through it, grip iron-sure, keeping her upright while her legs shake.
When it's over, I don't move right away. I keep her pressed to the wall, breath settling, the water beating down on our backs. She doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
I ease her down, palms lingering on her waist until she's stable. Then I turn off the water. The sudden quiet is absolute, ringing in my ears.
Without a word, I listen at the bathroom door.
Only then do I open it enough to scan the room.
My gaze cuts to the main door. Still chained.
Still bolted. Safe. For now. I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders.
The gesture is out of me before I've decided to make it.
She goes still under the terrycloth, and the way she looks up at me, startled, almost flinching, cracks me open behind my ribs.