Chapter 14 #2
Her face does that thing. Loosens for half a second, like she forgot to guard it, before she catches herself. I've learned not to point it out.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Don't burn the house down."
"No promises," I call after her.
I move around the kitchen by habit. Pan on. Chicken, pasta, jarred sauce Maggie shoved at me last week with a "just in case you two forget adults need vegetables." While water boils, I lean on the counter and let my head fall back against the cabinet.
She kept it together upstairs. For Candace, she always will. But I saw the way her eyes went distant when I told her what Chuck did. The way her fingers dug into her thigh, as if she was feeling something that wasn't there.
I don't know the details, but I know enough. I know what it looks like when a girl has been treated like a thing you trade. Chuck sold his daughter. Treated her like inventory. Handed her over to men who thought they could take what they wanted.
The interpreter's family surfaces before I can stop it.
Kandahar. The compound. His wife and daughter were held in a back room while command used him as leverage.
I wanted to go in. Told them we could extract.
Command said stand down. So I stood down.
Followed orders while a man begged us to save the people he loved most, and we did nothing.
His daughter was eight. Pigtails. Sitting in the dirt outside that compound after, staring at nothing, because by the time they let the family go, her father was already gone.
I blink hard, forcing my jaw to unclench. The pasta water's boiling over. I turn the heat down, shake it off. Different war. But the math is the same. Men with power deciding who's worth keeping and who gets spent. And I couldn't stop it then. But I can stop it now.
A pipe creaks. Shower cuts off. I curse under my breath and focus on not overcooking the damn pasta. Eventually she walks into the kitchen, and I forget how to breathe for a second.
She has on soft gray sleep shorts I like way too much and one of my old T-shirts, neck stretched, hem hitting high on her thighs. Bare legs, bare feet, hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. No makeup.
Just Sloane. Fucking perfect.
"Every pair of pajamas I own came out of your cart," she says, arching a brow. "You realize that, right? This is a rigged game."
I smirk, taking my time looking her over. "Yeah. I did that on purpose."
Her cheeks warm. She moves closer, drawn in as if she can't help it. I love that. I live on that.
"Smells good," she says, nodding toward the stove.
"You're going to say that about me in about an hour."
She makes a choked sound that might be a laugh.
Might be a protest. Hard to tell when she's tired.
We eat at the little table by the window.
Red wine for her, water for me. She twirls pasta around her fork, takes a bite, closes her eyes for a second as though it's the first real thing she's tasted today.
"Good?"
"Very. Look at you. Functioning adult."
"I prefer 'domestically menacing.' But I'll take it."
We swap stories from the day for a few minutes. Maggie threatening to throw a spoon at Malachi. Ruby stealing fries off Nash's plate and not getting murdered. James sneaking extra bacon to the kids when Maggie's not looking.
The normal stuff. The stuff I brought her here for. Then, when her plate is half-empty, and the wine has put color back in her cheeks, I nudge gently.
"How are you really? After today."
Her fork pauses. "I'm fine."
"Try again," I murmur.
She stares at her plate. "She's… strong. Candace. She's angry and hurt and exhausted. Doesn't know which way is up, but she's strong."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know." A sip of wine. A few bought seconds. "Her father sold her, Knox." It's flat, clinical, reading a chart out loud, but her knuckles go white around the glass. "His own daughter. Sold her like she was—" She stops. Sets the glass down too carefully. "I don't want to think about it."
I lean back, watching her. There's a part of me that wants to push.
Force the doors open and deal with whatever monsters crawl out.
The bigger part remembers her in that parking lot.
The way she flinched when I raised my hand too fast. Every time she's shut down when I got too close to the word father.
I swallow the pressure back. I don't say anything. Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. Grateful. Afraid. All at once.
"Knox—"
"Doesn't mean I'm letting it go," I add, because I don't lie to her. "Just means I'm not going to make you bleed for it when you're already wrung out."
Her eyes go bright. She blinks twice, fast, and looks at her wineglass instead of me. She sets her fork down, stands, then walks toward me.
I track every step, heartbeat picking up like I'm about to go into a fight. She steps closer, moving between my knees, and looks down at me.
"You want to know what I do want to think about?" she asks softly.
"Yeah, sweetheart," I say, voice rough. "I really do."
She swings a leg over and settles into my lap, straddling me in the chair like she belongs there. Her thighs press against the outside of mine, heat seeping into my bones. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling in the front of my shirt. Every part of me goes tight.
This is the thing that undoes me every time. She could run. She's good at it; instead she climbs closer. I know what this is. She does this. Gets close to the edge of saying something real, then puts her body where her words should be. I let her. Every time, I let her.
"Want to think about you," she whispers. "About anything that isn't… that."
"Yeah?" My hands find her hips, thumbs stroking warm bare skin where my T-shirt has ridden up. She shivers. "I can work with that."
She leans in, mouth brushing my jaw, then the corner of my lips, then my throat. Each kiss soft, searching, finding the places that make me lose it. Desire slams through me, hot and heavy. My skin pulls tight, pulse thudding in my palms.
Sloane has no idea what she does to me, sitting here, trusting me with her weight and her wanting.
"Sweetheart," I rasp, "you start something in my lap, you better be ready to finish it."
Her laugh is a breath against my skin. "That's the plan."
She tilts my head and kisses me properly.
Slow at first, then deeper. Her tongue strokes mine, fingers sliding up to the back of my neck, nails scratching at my hairline.
I groan into her mouth, hands tightening on her hips.
The kiss turns open-mouthed and dirty fast. She rolls her hips, seeking friction, and my control frays to threads.
All I can think is more. Closer. Mine. I drag my mouth away just long enough for words.
"Table. Now."
She sucks in a breath, eyes dark. "Bossy."
"Always."
I stand, lifting her as I go. One arm sweeps the plates aside, silverware clattering against the wall.
She makes a soft sound, legs locking around my waist, hands gripping my shoulders.
I set her on the edge of the kitchen table and plant my hands on either side of her hips, kissing her again hard enough we both feel it.
She leans back on her palms, lips swollen, gaze locked on mine.
"You good?" I ask because I always do.
She nods. "Better than good."
"Words, Sloane."
"Yes," she breathes. "I want this. I want you."
That's all it takes. Whatever restraint I was clinging to snaps. I slide my hands up her thighs, thumbs stroking the softer inside where her skin is hot enough to make my pulse stumble.
She spreads for me without thinking, a small hitched sound breaking out like she didn't mean to let it slip.
"Look at you," I murmur, voice low and dangerous. "Opening for me without even thinking about it."
Her cheeks flush. "Shut up," she whispers, breath shaky.
"Not a fucking chance."
I hook my fingers in her shorts and panties together, tugging teasingly. She lifts her hips instantly, helping me, wanting me, eyes locked on mine, afraid to blink. I drag them down her legs and toss them behind me without looking.
The way she gives me that, the unhesitating lift, her body trusting mine before her mind has fully signed off, does more damage than anything else she could offer.
I drop to my knees in front of her. Her breath catches.
"Knox…"
"This is me helping you not think. Letting me take over."
I press open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh, reverent and possessive. She shivers, hands dropping into my hair, tugging enough that my cock throbs in response. Then I put my mouth on her. Her gasp comes out sharp and broken. My name punches out like a prayer she didn't mean to say.
"Yeah," I growl against her. "Give me that sound, sweetheart."
I lick her long and unhurried first, tasting, savoring, letting the heat build. Then I flatten my tongue and drag it over her clit, harder. Her hips jerk. Her fingers tighten painfully in my hair.
"F-fuck, Knox—"
"That's it," I murmur, then suck her clit into my mouth, tongue teasing the spot that makes her whole body tremble.
She's desperate tonight. Looser. Clinging to me, chasing every stroke like she needs it to breathe.
"God, I love your dirty mouth," she gasps, voice cracking.
Fuck.
My hands shake harder every time she says that. Same words. Same wrecked voice.
"I know," I rasp, sliding two fingers inside her. Taking my time then curling just right. "Your pussy clenches every time I open my fucking mouth."
Her whole body arches as though I electrocuted her. I keep my tongue on her clit and my fingers working the perfect rhythm. Enough to tease, deep enough to claim.
"Knox! Oh! Knox!"
"Come on my mouth. Give it to me."
She breaks. Thighs clamp around my head, pussy spasming around my fingers. Her whole body bows tight as a bowstring as she comes hard, then shakes, crying out my name, falling apart on purpose.
I ride it out, licking her through every aftershock until she collapses backward on her hands, panting, destroyed. I rise, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring her taste.
Eyes glazed, lips parted, completely wrecked.
"Relaxed yet?" I ask, voice hoarse with wanting her again already.
She laughs, breathless. "Getting there."
"Good," I say. She reaches for me, arms looping around my neck, then I hook my hands under her thighs and lift her as if she weighs nothing. "Because we're not fucking done."
I carry her down the hall while she nuzzles into my neck, breath warm on my skin in a way that shouldn't undo me this much.
I lower her onto the bed and strip. Fast, messily, because there's no part of me that's patient with her.
Her gaze follows every inch of skin I reveal.
I drag my T-shirt over her head before I crawl over her, and she arches up to help, bare skin meeting mine.
"Knox…" she whispers, wrecked. Hungry.
"Keep looking at me like that," I warn, crawling over her, "and I'm going to ruin you."
"Oh," she breathes, hooking her legs around my waist, "please do."
Fuck.
I line up, push into her, too slow for how badly I want her, and groan when she tightens around me, welcoming me home.
"Jesus. Sloane…"
She claws at my back, pulling me closer. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
"Never," I grit out, thrusting deep, steady, rocking her up the bed. "Not with you. Not fucking possible." Mine. Mine. Mine. She grips my face, foreheads touching, and our breaths mix.
"I love the way you feel," she whispers. Raw, honest in the only place she ever lets herself be.
My vision goes white around the edges.
"Say it again," I groan. "Fuck. Sloane, say it again."
She rolls her hips, meeting every thrust. "I love… the way… you feel. I love your cock inside me."
I lose it. My rhythm falters, then deepens, harder, desperate.
Her second orgasm hits sharp and sudden.
She digs her nails into my shoulders and muffles her cries against my throat.
I keep going, chasing mine, and when it slams into me I bury my face in her neck, pulse hammering.
Her name comes out wrecked. I don't try to clean it up.
I stay inside her a few moments longer, then ease out. I roll onto my back and she follows, draping over me with her head on my chest.
She draws idle circles on my skin with one fingertip, half-asleep already.
The quiet settles; just her breaths, my heartbeat, the hum of the house.
My mind drifts back to Chuck. To Candace running barefoot.
To whoever put that look in Sloane's eyes when I said the word father.
Then the words come out before I can stop them.
"I'd kill anyone who tried to take you from me."
Her fingers still. The circle stops mid-stroke.
"Knox—"
"I know." I press my mouth to her hair, eyes closed. "I know you don't want to hear it. But it's true."
Her hand curls into a fist over my heart, knuckles pressing into my chest like she's holding on.
"Okay," she whispers finally, voice so small I almost miss it. I'll take it.
I smooth my hand down her spine, tracing the curve of her back until her breathing evens out and sleep drags her under.
"Not going anywhere," I murmur into her hair.