Chapter 7
Toby
I don't know why I asked him to stay.
My hands shake as I fill the kettle, water splashing against the sides because I can't hold it steady. Knox is standing in my kitchen, taking up all the space, all the air, and I can't breathe properly. Every inhale catches in my throat. Every exhale comes out shaky.
He's just there. Leaning against my counter like he belongs here, arms crossed over that massive chest, watching me fumble with basic tasks like I've never made coffee before in my life.
"Robin's brownies are in that container," I babble, pointing vaguely toward the counter.
"The ones with the green lid. Not the blue—that's his experiment with savory breakfast muffins and they're terrible.
I don't know why he keeps them. Probably hoping someone will eat them out of politeness.
Don't be polite. They have bacon in them. "
"Toby."
"I warned him that bacon doesn't belong in muffins but did he listen? No. He never listens. Creative genius, he says. More like creative disaster. Last month he tried to put lavender in scrambled eggs and I had to—"
"Toby."
Knox is suddenly behind me.
Not touching—there's still an inch of space between us—but close enough that I feel his heat radiating through my cardigan, through my shirt, into my skin. The kettle clatters against the sink as my hands jerk.
"You're nervous," he says. His voice is low, right next to my ear, and I can feel his breath against my neck.
"I'm not—" I turn and that's a mistake because he's right there, so close I could count his eyelashes if my brain was functioning. He's got one hand braced on the counter on either side of me, caging me in without actually touching. "I'm not nervous."
"Your heart's racing."
Right. Super senses. Lions have super senses. He can probably hear the blood pounding in my ears, the way my pulse is jackrabbiting against my throat.
"That's just... caffeine. From earlier."
"You haven't had coffee since this morning."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Can't smell it on you." He leans closer, and I hear him inhale, slow and deliberate, nose brushing against my temple.
"Ink. Paper. That vanilla hand lotion you use.
Robin's shampoo from when he hugged you earlier.
" Another inhale, this one deeper, his nose trailing down to my neck.
"Something sweet underneath, something that's just you. But no coffee."
"That's—" My voice cracks. I have to swallow twice before I can continue. "That's very specific."
"I pay attention."
To me? Why would he pay attention to me? I'm nobody special. Just a librarian who stumbled into his bar and couldn't even manage to call an uber without help. Just some guy in a cat cardigan who fell asleep at his table and drooled on his booth and—
"You're overthinking," he says.
"I'm always overthinking. It's what I do. Think. Overthink. Read too much into things that don't mean anything. Make up scenarios in my head where—"
He kisses me.
It's nothing like I expected. Nothing like the few careful, polite kisses I've had in my life—guys who treated me like I might break, who kissed me like they were checking a box before moving on to someone more interesting.
Knox kisses like he's claiming territory.
One hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my head exactly where he wants it. The other stays braced on the counter, keeping me caged, keeping me his. His mouth is hot and demanding and so sure, like he's done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I don't know what I'm doing. I never know what I'm doing. But my body doesn't seem to care—my lips part for him without conscious thought, and when his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound I've never made before.
Needy. Desperate. Embarrassing.
He growls in response. Actually growls, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, and it shouldn't be hot. It should be terrifying. This is a predator pinning me against my kitchen counter and growling at me.
It's the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.
"Fuck," he mutters against my mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. "Knew you'd be like this."
"Like what?" I'm gasping, hands fisted in his shirt without remembering reaching for him.
"Responsive." He kisses me again, softer this time, almost teasing. "Sweet." Another kiss, this one to the corner of my mouth. "Perfect."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He kisses me deeper, swallowing whatever protest I was going to make, and my knees actually buckle. Just give out, like they've decided they're done supporting my weight.
He catches me like it's nothing. Like I weigh nothing. One arm wraps around my waist, hauling me up, and then I'm sitting on the counter with Knox between my legs and oh.
Oh, this is better. This is so much better.
I can wrap my legs around him now, pull him closer, and when I do he groans against my mouth. His hands slide down to my hips, gripping hard enough that I'll probably have bruises tomorrow. I hope I have bruises tomorrow. I want evidence that this actually happened.
"Knox—"
"Like that?" He rolls his hips forward, and I feel him—hard and thick and pressing right against where I'm aching. "Like feeling me?"
"Yes." It comes out as a whine. An actual whine, high and desperate, and I should be mortified but I can't think past the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and edible.
"Couch," he says roughly.
"What?"
But he's already lifting me, hands under my thighs, carrying me through my own apartment like it's nothing. Like I'm not a full grown man who definitely weighs enough that this should be awkward. It's not awkward. It's hot. It's so hot I might actually die.
The couch happens somehow. I'm on my back, Knox above me, and his weight settles over me like a blanket. Heavy and warm and perfect, pressing me into the cushions, pinning me in place.
He kisses my neck and I see stars.
"Knox—"
"Been thinking about this," he says against my throat, mouth hot and wet against my pulse point. "Since you walked into my bar smelling like rain and misery and sweetness. Couldn't get you out of my head."
His teeth scrape against my skin—not biting yet, just a promise—and I arch up against him, desperate for more.
"Wanted to mark you that first night." His tongue soothes over the spot his teeth just touched. "Wrap you up in my blanket and never let you leave. Make you smell like me so everyone would know."
"Oh god."
"Would you have let me?" He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes flickering gold. "If I'd pinned you down in that booth and marked you up? Would you have let me?"
"Yes." I don't even have to think about it. "Yes, I would have—please, Knox—"
He finds the spot where my neck meets my shoulder and bites.
Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that I feel it. Hard enough that I arch completely off the couch, hips grinding up against him, a sound tearing out of my throat that I don't recognize. Pleasure and pain and need, all tangled together, spreading through my body like wildfire.
"Fuck, look at you." He pulls back to admire his work, thumb pressing against the mark he just made. The pressure sends another jolt through me, makes me whimper. "So pretty when you fall apart."
"Please—"
"Please what?" He's working on my cardigan now, pushing it off my shoulders, pulling my shirt free from my jeans. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."
"I don't—" I gasp as his hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my stomach. "I don't know. Everything. Anything."
"Anything?" His thumbs brush up over my ribs, my chest, and then he finds my nipples and I nearly come off the couch. "These sensitive?"
I can't answer. Can only make a choked sound as he circles one with his thumb, teasing, testing.
"Yeah, they are." He sounds pleased. Smug. "Bet I could make you come just from this. Just from playing with these pretty nipples while you squirm for me."
"Knox—" His name comes out broken as he pinches lightly, rolling the nub between his fingers. Sparks shoot down my spine, pool in my gut. "Oh fuck, oh—"
"That's it." He shoves my shirt up so he can see what he's doing, and the look on his face—hungry, reverent, focused—makes me feel like the center of the universe. "Look at you. So responsive. Does anyone else touch you like this?"
"No." It comes out embarrassingly fast. "No one ever—I don't really—"
"Good." He leans down, breath hot against my chest. "Then I get to be the first one to do this."
His mouth closes over my nipple and I actually scream.
It's too much. It's not enough. His tongue is doing something incredible, flicking and swirling, and when he adds a hint of teeth I see white.
My hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, holding him there.
He groans against my skin and the vibration makes everything worse. Better. I don't know anymore.
"Please," I'm begging, hips rocking up against nothing because he's shifted his weight and I can't get the friction I need. "Please, Knox, I need—"
"I know what you need." He switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and I'm going to die. I'm going to die on this couch from overstimulation and it's going to be worth it. "Need me to take care of you. Need me to make you feel good."
"Yes—"
"Going to." He kisses back up my chest, my throat, my jaw. "Going to take such good care of you, Toby. Going to ruin you for anyone else."
His hips drop back down and there—I can feel him now, hard and thick against my thigh, and when he rolls forward we both groan.
"Feel that?" He's grinding against me in a slow, filthy rhythm, and I'm matching it without meaning to, hips chasing his. "Feel how hard you make me? Been like this since I kissed you. Since before that. Since I walked into the bar and smelled you."
"Oh god—"