Chapter 32
Knox
I wake up to the feel of her.
Solid weight, real warmth, a whole woman wrapped around me as though she's staking a claim.
Her knee is hooked over my thigh, bare calf against my leg, and her hand is spread over my chest right where the ink is.
As if she's keeping my heart pinned in place just in case it thinks about going anywhere.
For a second I don't move. Just lie there and memorize every detail before the world rushes back in.
Gray light sneaks around the curtains, soft enough that everything looks blurred and quiet. The air smells of her shampoo and my soap. Her hair is a mess against my bicep, soft and wild. Every exhale ghosts warm over my skin.
My hand is already on her hip, under the hem of the T-shirt she stole from my drawer. The fabric rucked up in her sleep, and my palm found bare skin. Warm, smooth, soft. My fingers flex before I can stop them.
Fuck. Want is my baseline. Breathing, blinking, wanting her. No space between the three.
Sloane stirs, fingers twitching against my chest. Her nose scrunches, then this sleepy little sound escapes her. She burrows closer, tucking her face under my jaw as though she's decided my throat is her personal pillow.
I'm gone. Completely.
"Morning," I rasp, more growl than word.
She goes still for half a heartbeat, as if habit makes her check the exits even asleep. Then she relaxes, melting back into me, and presses her palm more heavily over my heart.
"Hi," she whispers. It's rough with sleepy edges and a soft center. I feel it as much as I hear it.
I tip my chin enough to see her face. Her eyes are half-closed, lashes smudging shadows on her cheeks. There's a pillow-crease on her temple. Unguarded in a way I don't get to see often; young, soft, a little wrecked.
And sexy as hell.
"Sleep at all?" With my thumb, I trace circles on the small of her back. I could die here and call it a good death.
She nods against me. "Think so. You?"
"Yeah." More than I've slept in weeks. No bombs behind my eyes, no blood on my hands, no waking up sure someone's screaming. Just her weight, her breathing, and the feeling that if the world ended outside these walls, I might not notice.
She shifts, thigh dragging over mine, and my restraint snaps tight as a wire.
Easy. Don't flip her under you and spend the whole damn day fucking her into this mattress.
"You're thinking loud," she mutters, eyes mostly shut.
I huff a laugh. "Yeah?"
She nods, nose brushing my neck. "Your chest is doing… something." Her fingers press harder, tracking my heartbeat as though she can read Morse code from it. "Feels as though you mainlined espresso."
"I haven't had coffee yet."
"That's… concerning."
What's concerning is all the places I want her. Counter, bed, couch, my lap, the wall. What's concerning is that now the words I love you are out, my pulse won't come down. Three words and my whole chest runs hot, every beat louder than the last.
"Hungry?" I ask, because if I stay in this bed much longer, the only thing I'm feeding is my own lack of self-control.
She stiffens, barely perceptible, shoulders pulling in a quarter-inch and her fingers curling against my chest. Then her stomach growls loud between us. Heat crawls up her neck. "Traitor," she mutters into my chest.
I laugh, a real one that feels strange after the last few days. Light. Unarmed.
"Coffee first. Then we steal the day."
She tips her head back. "Steal it?"
"Yeah." I brush a tangled strand off her cheek, let my knuckles skim the soft skin because I can. Because she let me keep this. "Just you and me. Off-grid for a few hours."
Her eyes scan my face as though she's looking for the trap. "You can just… do that?"
"I'm the one who tells Malachi when shit's on the schedule. War's important. So's not burning out before we get there."
The corner of her mouth lifts, small but lethal. "You can't reschedule war, Knox."
"Watch me. Today's booked. Says so right in my calendar. 'Do not disturb, busy with wife.'"
Her breath catches. Wife lands between us, a struck match. Her chin dips, eyes going wide and wet, and her teeth press into her lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. I want to press my thumb to that mark and hold it there.
"We could use a normal day," I add, softer. "Our version."
Our version of normal is pancakes at a shitty diner and my hand on her thigh under the table. Wind on the bike instead of sirens. Dusty bookstore shelves instead of war-room walls. Getting her naked because she wants to be, not because anyone demands it.
She watches me, my heartbeat doing double-time under her palm.
"Okay," she says finally. "A day." Neither of us has anywhere to be. No shifts, no meetings. Just this.
My chest unclenches so hard I almost feel dizzy.
"Good." I kiss her hair, then tap her hip. "Come on. I need caffeine if I'm going to be charming in public."
She groans but lets me go, rolling onto her back. The sheet slides down, exposing one long bare thigh and the hem of my T-shirt that's slanting high on her hips. No idea if she's doing it on purpose. Doesn't matter. My dick doesn't care about intent.
Focus.
I drag on sweats, rake a hand through my hair, then head for the kitchen before I decide the stolen day starts and ends in this bed.
By the time the coffee machine's grumbling to life, the air in the kitchen shifts the way it always does when she walks into a room.
I hear bare feet on hardwood. The whisper of cotton.
She appears in the doorway. My T-shirt stops at mid-thigh, her hair is twisted in a messy knot, and her face still looks sleep-soft.
I have to tighten my grip on the counter so I don't drag her against it when my gaze catches on her bare legs.
"Hi," she says, a little shy, as though we didn't spend last night wrapped around each other while she poured her nightmares into my hands.
"Morning, Mrs. Turner," I say before I can stop myself.
Color flares high on her cheekbones. She fidgets with the hem, fingers rubbing cotton as though she doesn't know what to do without a task. "Dangerous words this early," she mutters.
I pour two mugs and jerk my chin toward the table. "Sit."
She heads for a chair on the opposite side. I catch her wrist, tugging gently.
"Not there. Here." I drop into the nearest chair and pat my thigh. "Lap's open."
Her eyes flick from my face to my lap and back. "You're handsy this morning."
"Been handsy since Chicago. I'm just better at hiding it now."
Sloane hesitates, searching my face for any sign this is a joke at her expense.
There isn't one. After a heartbeat, she swings a leg over and settles, facing the table.
Her weight sinks onto my thighs, back resting against my chest. I bite down on a curse when her ass hits exactly where every part of me is paying attention.
I wrap one arm around her waist, splay my hand over her stomach, and slide my thumb under the edge of the shirt. With the other hand I reach around and set both mugs on the table. She blows on her coffee, pretending she isn't hyper-aware of every place we're touching.
"This isn't conducive to drinking," she says, breathier than the words deserve.
"You'll manage," I murmur into the side of her neck. "Multitasking's one of your strengths."
"You're teasing."
"Little bit." I drag my nose along the soft spot under her ear. "Gotta practice my self-control somehow."
She makes a tiny sound that goes straight to my cock.
Her body relaxes gradually, as though she's realizing I'm not going to push further if she doesn't want me to.
We sit there for a while. She drinks; I drink.
My hand drifts from stomach to hip, down her thigh, back up, staying on the right side of that thin line between teasing and pushing.
"You're doing that on purpose," she says finally.
"Yep."
Small, shaky laugh. "And here I thought I was safe until after breakfast."
"You're never safe from me, sweetheart. But I'll always stop when you ask."
She swallows. "I know." That lands heavy. I tighten my arm a fraction. "Okay," she says after another quiet minute, shifting carefully on my lap. "What's the plan, Vice?"
"We ride. Take the bike out to that diner on Route Seven. The one Maggie says has the best pancakes in the county."
Her nose wrinkles. "The one with the clown mural."
"Unfortunately. We'll sit on the other side. I'll body-block if it looks at you."
She twists to look back at me. "You are more afraid of that clown than I am."
"Correct. And yet I will face it for you. That's love."
Her smile hits me square in the chest. "So dramatic."
"Realistic." I nudge her nose with mine, kiss the corner of her mouth. "Diner for breakfast. Drive around. Maybe hit the bookstore Maggie won't shut up about. Then we come home and…" My hand drifts lower on her thigh. "…See where the day goes." She knows exactly what I'm saying.
"And if I decide I want to skip the bookstore and get to the last part faster?"
Fuck. "Then we do that. I'm not married to the bookstore. I'm married to you."
She lets out a sound that's half laugh, half prayer. "You keep saying things as though you mean them, and I'm going to forget how to be afraid of this."
"Good. That's kind of the point."
I give her one more lingering kiss. Then I pat her hip. "Up. Go put on something that won't get you arrested if the wind hits wrong."
She slides off my lap, legs a little shaky, and I feel smug as hell about it. "Bossy," she says, but there's a glint now that wasn't there yesterday.
"You love it," I call after her.