Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Knox
She wears nothing but a towel when she emerges from the bathroom, her wet hair slicked back from her face, her skin flushed from the hot water. I haven't left the room as she expected. Instead, I've been waiting, seated at the foot of the bed we once shared, the bed where we created the life now growing inside her. Her steps falter when she sees me, the hand clutching her towel tightening reflexively. Good. Let her feel exposed. Vulnerable. It's the first step to breaking down the walls she's rebuilt during our time apart. Her body remembers mine—the kiss on the rooftop proved that much. Now I just need to remind her how perfectly we fit together, how completely I can satisfy her. Words won't convince Seraphina Vale. But pleasure? Pleasure has always been our most honest form of communication.
"I thought I made it clear I wanted to be alone," she says, her voice impressively steady despite the pulse visibly hammering at her throat.
"You did." I remain seated, deliberately non-threatening in my posture while my eyes devour every inch of exposed skin. "I chose not to listen."
"That's always been your problem." She edges along the wall, keeping maximum distance between us as she moves toward the closet. "Selective hearing when it comes to my boundaries."
"No, angel. My problem has always been listening too much to what you say and not enough to what your body tells me." I watch her shoulders stiffen at my words. "Your mouth says you want to be alone. Your body says something entirely different."
"My body is none of your business anymore." But the slight tremor in her voice betrays her.
"The goosebumps rising on your skin right now say otherwise." I stand slowly, noting how she tenses in response. "The way your pupils dilate when I move closer says otherwise. The fact that you're carrying my child says otherwise."
"That was one night of weakness," she insists, clutching the towel like armor. "A mistake."
"Was it? Did it feel like a mistake when you came three times before we even made it to the bedroom?" I take a step toward her, enjoying the way her breathing quickens. "Did it feel like a mistake when you begged me not to stop, when you wrote your surrender across my back with your nails?"
"Stop it." Her voice has lost some of its firmness, the command more plea than demand.
I take another step closer. "Did you let him touch you like that? Your safe, predictable fiancé? Did he know how to make you scream, Seraphina? Did he understand that the uptight gallery director needs to be taken apart completely to find her release?"
"This isn't appropriate." She backs up until she hits the dresser, nowhere left to retreat. "I'm pregnant, Knox. We need to discuss co-parenting arrangements, not—not rehash our sexual history."
"Our sexual present," I correct her, closing the distance between us until mere inches separate our bodies. "There's nothing past tense about what's between us, angel. The heat. The hunger. The way your body calls to mine even when your mind is still fighting it."
She tilts her chin up defiantly, but I can see the flush spreading across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the towel's edge. "Physical chemistry isn't enough for a relationship."
"But it's a hell of a starting point." I reach out slowly, telegraph my intentions as I brush a strand of wet hair back from her face. She flinches but doesn't pull away. Progress. "And we had so much more than that. Have so much more than that."
"Had," she insists weakly. "Past tense."
My fingers trail down the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. "Your body disagrees."
"My body is a traitor."
That pulls a genuine laugh from me. "Or the only honest part of you left."
Before she can formulate a retort, I cup the back of her neck, my thumb brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear that always makes her shiver. Right on cue, her body responds, a tremor running through her despite her attempt to remain stoic.
"You see?" I murmur, leaning closer until my breath warms her ear. "This is truth, Seraphina. This connection that has never dimmed, never weakened, despite your best efforts to deny it."
"Physical response is just—just biology," she stammers, her hands coming up to press against my chest. Not pushing me away, just resting there, feeling my heartbeat beneath her palms. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Then why didn't you respond this way to him?" I challenge, my free hand moving to the knot holding her towel secure. Not untying it. Not yet. Just resting there, a promise and a threat. "Why did you come back to me that night instead of finding satisfaction in his bed?"
"You're impossible," she whispers, but there's a weakening in her resistance, a softening in her body as it begins to remember what her mind is trying so desperately to forget.
"No. I'm inevitable."
Before she can argue further, I close the final distance between us, capturing her mouth with mine. Unlike our earlier kisses—the claiming on the helicopter, the possessive reminder on the rooftop—this kiss is deliberately slow. Seductive. I take my time, coaxing rather than demanding, teasing her lips until they part on a sigh that I swallow like the sweetest wine.
Her hands fist in my shirt, whether to push me away or pull me closer, I suspect even she doesn't know. I deepen the kiss gradually, my tongue stroking against hers in a rhythm that mimics how I want to move inside her. When her body melts against mine, when her resistance transforms into participation, I know I've won the first battle.
"Knox," she gasps when I finally release her mouth, her eyes dazed, lips swollen. "We shouldn't?—"
"We should," I counter, my fingers finally tugging at the knot of her towel. It falls open, revealing the body I've dreamed about for eighteen months. Fuller breasts, already showing the earliest signs of pregnancy. The slight curve of her stomach, still flat but soon to round with my child. The slender legs that I want wrapped around my waist, my shoulders, any part of me she can reach.
"Beautiful," I murmur, and mean it with every fiber of my being. "Even more beautiful knowing you're carrying my baby."
She flushes deeper, moving to cover herself, but I catch her wrists gently.
"Don't hide from me," I urge, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Never from me."
"This doesn't change anything," she insists, but there's no conviction in her voice anymore. Just desire, thick and honeyed, in every syllable.
"It changes everything," I correct her, bending to press my lips to the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse race against my mouth. "Or rather, it reminds you of what never changed in the first place."
My hands map her body with deliberate thoroughness, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot, every place that makes her breath catch or her body arch. I trace the undersides of her breasts, slightly heavier now, more sensitive if her reaction is any indication. When my thumbs brush across her nipples, she actually whimpers, the sound going straight to my groin.
"More sensitive now," I observe, filing the information away as I replace one hand with my mouth, drawing the hardened peak between my lips.
"Knox!" Her fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing me away but holding me closer, her body betraying her with every response.
I lavish attention on her breasts, knowing from her increasingly desperate sounds that pregnancy has heightenened her sensitivity. When I finally lift my head, her eyes are half-closed, her breathing ragged.
"Still want to tell me this doesn't mean anything?" I challenge, my hand sliding down her stomach to the apex of her thighs. "Still want to pretend your body doesn't know exactly who it belongs to?"
"Don't—" But her protest turns into a moan as my fingers find her center, already slick with arousal. So ready for me. So honest in its response when her words still try to deny the inevitable.
"You're soaking wet," I murmur against her neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin. "From just a kiss and some attention to your breasts. Tell me, did he ever get you this wet, this fast? Did his touch make you tremble like this?"
"S-stop comparing," she manages, her hips moving unconsciously against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. "It's not…it's not fair."
"Life isn't fair, angel." I slide one finger inside her, feeling her inner muscles clench around me. "If it were, you never would have left me in the first place."
Before she can respond, I add a second finger, curling them to stroke against the spot that always makes her lose control. Her head falls back, a strangled cry escaping her lips. I catch her weight as her knees buckle, backing her against the dresser for support as I work her body with practiced precision.
"I know every inch of you," I remind her, my voice low and intent against her ear. "Every secret place. Every response. The exact pressure to use here—" I press my thumb against her clit, circling slowly, "—to make you come apart. The perfect rhythm to drive you to the edge without pushing you over."
Her nails dig into my shoulders, her body caught between trying to escape the overwhelming sensation and press closer for more. I keep her balanced on that knife's edge of pleasure, building her need systematically, ruthlessly.
"Knox, please," she finally breaks, the words a desperate plea. "Please."
"Please what?" I press, needing her to acknowledge what she's asking for. What she needs. Who she needs it from.
"Make me come," she whispers, shame and desire warring in her expression. "I need to—I need?—"
"Say my name," I demand, slowing my movements to an excruciating tease. "Say who's making you feel this way. Who's always made you feel this way."
Her eyes flash with the last embers of resistance before surrender washes it away. "Knox. Please, Knox."
Victory tastes sweet on my tongue as I capture her mouth again, swallowing her cries as I increase the pace and pressure of my fingers. Her body tightens around me, trembling on the precipice of release.
"No one else will ever make you feel like this," I promise against her lips. "No one else will ever know your body like I do. No one else will ever satisfy you the way I can."
She comes with a broken sob, my name a prayer on her lips, her body clenching rhythmically around my fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her. I hold her through it, supporting her weight, prolonging her release until she collapses against me, utterly spent.
When her breathing begins to return to normal, I lift her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her gently on the cool sheets. She looks up at me with dazed eyes, confusion and satisfaction warring in her expression.
"This doesn't mean—" she begins weakly.
I place a finger against her lips, silencing her protest. "It means exactly what it means, Seraphina. Your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget. And I'm going to keep reminding you until you stop fighting the inevitable."
"The inevitable," she echoes, a question in her voice.
I smile down at her, brushing damp hair from her forehead with surprising tenderness given the possessive fire still burning in my veins.
"Us," I state simply. "You and me. And our child. A family. The way it was always meant to be."
I see the arguments forming behind her eyes, the objections rising to her lips. But they're weaker now, undermined by her body's betrayal, by the undeniable evidence that whatever issues stand between us, physical compatibility has never been one of them.
"Rest," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We have all the time in the world to continue this conversation."
I leave her then, our positions reversed from earlier—now she's the one watching me walk away, confusion and frustration in her eyes. But it's a strategic retreat. I've made my point. Reminded her body of what it's been missing. The first crack in her resistance has formed.
And I've always been very, very good at exploiting weaknesses.