Chapter 11
Knox
The clubhouse smells of Maggie's cooking: frying oil, warm bread, something chocolate cooling on the counter. The place hums louder than usual. That's what happens when The Outsiders get a wedding dropped into their lap before noon.
Sloane stays close to my side as we walk in. All of it pressing in at once: the open space, the eyes tracking us, the noise swelling louder. She's steady, though. Braver than she knows.
Maggie spots her first and makes a sound; the soft, helpless one she probably doesn't know she makes. "There she is," she coos, sweeping in with open arms.
Before Sloane can brace, Maggie cups her face, eyes shining. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."
Sloane blushes so hard I grab her hip to anchor us both.
Then Frankie barrels over, all tattoos and a sharp grin. "Alright, move aside. I need to see the dress again in better light."
Sloane laughs quietly, startled, real. Frankie beams like she won a prize.
At the long table, Sloane ends up wedged between Frankie and me. Frankie steals rolls off her plate. East throws peas at Nash. When Maggie yells at them as though she raised every last one, Sloane looks overwhelmed in a soft way, cheeks pink, shoulders relaxing little by little.
Her gaze finds me every few seconds, checking if this is allowed.
It is.
Maggie sets a plate in front of her with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls, the works. "Eat," she orders gently. "You need fuel after a morning like that."
Sloane obeys. Tentative bites at first, then real ones when she realizes it's good.
I rest my palm on her thigh under the table, thumb tracing circles through the fabric. She stiffens for half a breath, then melts. I settle into it. Let it sit. She's married to me. Sitting here in my world, wearing my ring.
And I've been hard since before we left the courthouse.
Frankie leans in, tapping Sloane's wrist. "So. Wedding ink."
Sloane chokes on her iced tea. "Wedding—what?"
Frankie smirks. "A date like today deserves a mark. Could be tiny, hidden, whatever the fuck speaks to you."
Sloane's eyes go wide. "Today?"
"Tomorrow at the latest," Frankie says. "I book up fast. And your husband"—she jerks her thumb at me—"already told me he's getting something."
Sloane's head snaps toward me. "You are?"
I shrug, sipping my tea. "For you."
Her breath catches. Her gaze drops to her plate as if the potatoes hold the secrets of the universe. A flush crawls up her throat. My dick twitches under the table.
James laughs quietly from across the table, the benevolent old wolf watching his pack. "Young love," he mutters into his coffee.
Maggie elbows him. "They're adorable. Don't ruin it."
Sloane tries to protest. "We've only known each other for—"
Frankie cuts her off. "Time makes no difference when the universe bitch-slaps two idiots together."
East raises his glass. "Cheers to idiots."
Nash grunts, which is basically a toast in Nash-language.
Sloane hides her face in her hands, but the smile trying to escape shows through her fingers. Each person at this table who calls her Sloane Turner is another person she'll have to grieve if she runs. I watch her watching them and wonder if she's doing the same math.
I squeeze her thigh, just enough to remind her I'm here.
When dessert hits the table, warm brownies and whipped cream, she picks at hers, distracted, exhausted, happy in a way I wasn't ready for.
I stand, placing a palm at the small of her back. "We're heading home."
Chairs scrape. Maggie hugs her, then shoves a bag of leftovers into her arms. Frankie squeezes her hand, holds on. East promises to come by tomorrow and "harass her appropriately."
Malachi tells her, "You're protected." It's a vow. Nash gives her one assessing nod.
Sloane's voice is small but steady. "Thank you. All of you."
We walk out.
The afternoon has stretched past four by the time we reach the truck, turning the sky honey-gold.
I open the truck door and help her in, catching the skirt of her dress so it doesn't snag.
She clutches the leftover bag as though it might bite her.
Nobody's given her things without a price tag in a long time.
I kiss her forehead before I close the door. Can't help it.
On the drive home, she holds the bubble wand Maggie pressed into her palm. Twirls the stem. Stares out the window with a soft, stunned expression. She glances at me. Each time, the ache behind my ribs spreads.
When we pull into my driveway, ours now, even if it doesn't feel real yet—she exhales. A breath full of nerves, want, and whatever she's been trying so hard to hide.
She steps inside first. Sets the bag on the kitchen counter, then drifts through the living room, fingertips brushing the picture frame of me and the guys. Her wedding dress sways around her thighs. The ring catches the light when she lifts her hand. I have to look away.
I lean in the doorway. My heartbeat is steady and loud. She bends over the frame, studying it, hair falling forward. She straightens and turns.
Her eyes meet mine. We're alone in the quiet house.
I close the distance. She holds her ground.
Then we sit on the couch. The moment she tucks against me the way she did last night, as though she's always fit here, my skin goes taut, each nerve firing. She rests her head on my chest. I circle her waist. Her palm presses over my heart.
Then she whispers. "Knox?"
Each nerve locks on. I slide up her thigh. "Yes, wife?"
Her thighs clamp together. It's a single, involuntary contraction she tries to hide by shifting her weight. Wife.
I tilt her chin up with my knuckles. "What's going on in your head?"
Her lips part. "All of it at once. I'm not sure how to hold this much."
I stroke the inside of her thigh, tracing the seam of her dress. "I've got you."
Her eyes flutter. Then I cage her in, bracing on the couch behind her head, and turn toward her. The air goes taut. She inhales sharply, her knees grazing mine as she leans into the cushions. She already knows what's coming. My arms on either side of her. My weight angled over hers. Mine.
Sloane looks up at me, mouth parted, breath unsteady. Her chest rises fast. The neckline of that dress pulls taut over her ribs. Vanilla from Maggie's lotion clings to her throat.
"Knox," she whispers again, barely audible. Her fingers dig into the couch cushion, knuckles white.
"Fuck, Sloane. You say my name like that and I'm gonna lose the last piece of control I've got."
Her eyes burn into mine. Wide. Trusting. Brave enough to tempt a man to sin. She takes a breath, and she chooses. "Then lose it."
The line snaps. I lean in and kiss the hell out of her. It's deep, messy, hungry. My mouth slants over hers, tongue pushing past her lips. She opens instantly, a soft gasp turning into a needy moan as her fingers fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, closer, closer.
Her back hits the cushions. I follow, braced above her, knees on either side of her hips. She arches under me, her body aligning with mine, heat rushing through us both.
"You have any idea," I growl at her mouth, "what this dress has done to me today?"
Dizzy, lips swollen, she shakes her head.
I run down her side, over her hip, gripping hard enough she moans. It pours straight into my bloodstream. "That dress has been killing me all day. I almost lost it twice before we left the house."
She shivers, nails digging into my shoulders. "Knox…"
"Yeah, baby," I murmur, kissing down her neck. Her pulse jumps under my mouth. "Feel what you do to me."
I guide her hand down, pressing it over my cock, thick and straining through my dress pants. Her palm trembles. She inhales sharply. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." My voice scrapes low, filthy. "Been like that all damn day."
Her thighs tense around me, drawing me in.
I grab her waist and sit up abruptly, hauling her with me, dropping onto the couch with my legs spread. She gasps, soft and breathless, palms flying to my shoulders. I drag her to straddle me. Her dress rides up her thighs.
Her heat settles right where I'm aching. The world shrinks to weight, heat, and heaven.
"Knox—"
"Stay," I rasp.
My hands slide under the hem, up warm skin, to grip her ass. She lets out a tiny, wrecked whimper that punches the air from my lungs. Soft and warm and trembling for me.
I kiss her again, unhurried this time, savoring it. She tastes like sweet tea, Maggie's frosting, and addiction I could drown in. When I pull back, her eyes are glazed and hungry.
"Lift your hips," I breathe against her lips.
She does, obedient and gorgeous, rising just enough that her heat grazes my cock. My dick throbs so hard it's almost painful.
"Good girl."
A shudder runs through her, startled and wanting, and her fingers curl at the back of my neck.
I fish the condom from my pocket, the one I grabbed this morning before we left.
Then I unbuckle my belt one-handed, then unzip.
She rises on her knees without being asked, giving me room.
I shove my pants low. My cock presses at my briefs, swollen and desperate, the head already leaking from holding back all day.
I free myself and she stills at the sight. I tear the foil with my teeth, rolling the condom down in one practiced stroke.
"You're shaking," I tell her.
"So are you," she breathes.
My hands aren't steady where I hold her. I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them aside. She gasps, thighs trembling around me, when the fabric drags over her soaked slit.
"Fuck," I growl, head tilting back. "You're already wet for me."
She makes a broken, ruined sound that goes straight to my cock. Her fingers slip into my hair and tug. I brace her above the head of my cock. The heat of her drenches the tip instantly.
"Easy," I rasp. "I've got you." She lowers herself slowly, tight, hot, slick, and I choke on a curse. I clamp down to keep from thrusting up too hard. "Jesus. Fuck."
She moans, nails scoring my shoulders, clinging as though she'll fall apart without me. I drag her down until she takes me all the way in. Her lips part in a silent cry.
My head drops back with a guttural groan. "Fuck, Sloane."
Her pupils are blown wide, and her stomach muscles jump under the bunched fabric. She locks onto my shoulders and holds.
I hold her there, buried deep, both of us barely breathing, both hanging by a thread.
My eyes land on her left hand on my shoulder. The gold band winks under the lamplight, gleaming against my shirt. My ring. My wife.
My grip tightens until my knuckles ache. I don't ease up.
"Look," I rasp, catching her left hand and covering it with mine, pressing the rings together between our palms. "Look at us."
Sloane's gaze follows mine. Her face changes when she sees it; our hands stacked, rings aligned, her taking mine. Her eyes glass over, and her mouth works around something she doesn't say. I can't tell what that look is, but I hold on tighter anyway.
"You're mine now."
A shiver runs through her, making her clench so tight I see stars. But her eyes go somewhere for a second, and when they come back, they're wet. She hasn't said "for now" all day. I don't know what that means yet.
Then I drag her against me, lips at her ear. "Move," I whisper, voice wrecked. "Ride me, baby. Ride your husband."
The word husband punches out rough and possessive, and she gasps. It cracks in the middle, half desire and half ache she swallows before I can read it.
I let go and take her waist, guiding her as she braces on my shoulders and starts carefully. Testing. Learning. The first glide of her tight heat down my cock rips a noise from me I've never made in my life.
"Good girl," I groan, thrusting up to meet her.
Her head tips back at the praise, a catch in her throat as her hips roll down to match my thrust. She slides up my chest, fingers gripping fabric for balance, for leverage. From need.
I flatten one palm at her spine, feeling each tremor. "Look at you."
Her eyes flutter open, heavy and hazy. Lips parting on a breathless whimper, she moves on me with hungry, deliberate rhythm. Thighs clamping, pulling me deeper.
She leans forward, forehead against mine, and whispers. "I… I love your dirty mouth."
I freeze for half a second, then yank her in and put my lips at her throat.
A filthy smile curves my mouth as I thrust up hard enough to make her gasp. "I know." I press the words into her skin. "Your pussy told me." She clenches around me so sharply my vision blurs. "Fuck, you feel perfect."
I drag my mouth along her throat, kissing, nipping, sucking a mark she'll feel tomorrow.
She cups the back of my neck, anchoring me to her, needing me everywhere at once.
She moves harder now, riding me with a rhythm that stutters each time my hips snap up to meet hers.
The wet, obscene sounds of her on me fill the room.
"Made to sit on my cock."
She whimpers, a cry I've never heard from her, and her hips jerk, pace breaking, chasing every word, every thrust, every filthy thing I give her. Rocking harder, her breath stutters, eyes half-lidded, lips parting with each punched-out noise.
"Knox—I'm—"
I reach between us. "Give it to me."
My thumb finds her clit, working tight circles while I thrust up into her. With my free hand I find her left wrist, press it flat on my chest, our rings stacked and gleaming.
"Come for me, wife," I growl. "Come on your husband's cock."
She shatters. Her whole body stiffens, then shudders violently. A cry rips from her throat as she comes, locked around me, pulsing.
"Fuck," I gasp, gripping her hips, sure I'll leave marks. "That's it. That's my girl."
When she collapses on me, still quaking, I thrust up hard, once, twice, and come deep with a low, guttural growl at her neck. The world goes white around the edges.
I'm hers.
She slumps onto my chest, breath ragged, hair wild, dress rumpled. I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth to her temple, breathing her in. My eyes land on her hand resting on my chest, ring gleaming.
I hold on. "You okay?" I murmur into her hair.
She nods. "Yeah."
I stroke her back, gentle and steady. "Come to bed."
I lift her off my lap, carry her toward the bedroom with her arms wrapped around my neck, and her mouth skimming my jaw instinctively.
Her hand twitches once in her sleep, fingers closing around nothing. I put my hand there instead.