Chapter 9
Toby
Knox is leaning against his bike when I exit the library, and I stop short.
He's been here before — this morning, surrounded by children and craft supplies and Robin's ice cream sandwiches — but this is different.
This is nighttime Knox, all sharp edges and dark promises.
He's wearing dark jeans that fit like they were made for him and a black henley that shows off his arms, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the tattoos I haven't had a chance to properly catalog yet.
His eyes track me as I approach, gold flickering in the streetlight, and I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. Like hands on my skin. Like the promise of everything we didn't get to finish last night.
"Hi," I say, then immediately launch into nervous babbling because apparently that's just who I am now.
"Sorry I'm a few minutes late. Margaret cornered me about the young adult acquisition budget, and you know how she is — well, you don't know, but she's very persistent about fiscal responsibility which is ironic because she wanted to spend three thousand dollars on those awful beanbag chairs that literally no one asked for and no one would use — "
"Toby."
"Right. Yes. Hi." I adjust my messenger bag, suddenly very aware of how much I'm sweating. "Should I — do I need to drop this off at home first? I have my laptop and some books and — "
"It's fine." He holds out the spare helmet, the same one from that first night. "You remember how to do this?"
"Hold on, don't let go, lean when you lean." My face heats at the memory — my arms around his waist, my thighs bracketing his hips, my whole body pressed against his back. "I remember."
The helmet still smells like him. Leather and something wild, something that makes my pulse jump. I fumble with the straps, fingers clumsy with nerves, until he steps close and bats my hands away.
"Let me."
His fingers are deft on the buckles, adjusting the fit, and then they drift lower. Brush against my throat. Find the edge of a mark hidden under my collar and press gently.
I shiver.
"Still marked up?" he asks quietly. His voice is rough, intimate.
"Yes."
"Show me."
My hands tremble as I tug the collar down, just enough to reveal the bruises scattered across my neck. Purple and red and healing yellow, a map of everywhere his mouth has been.
His eyes flash fully gold.
"Good." His thumb traces one of the marks, and I have to bite back a whimper. "But not enough. Not nearly enough."
The ride to the club feels endless and too short at once.
Every rev of the engine vibrates through me, settling low in my gut, and I'm already half-hard just from being pressed against him. My arms are wrapped tight around his waist, my chest sealed to his back, and I can feel every breath he takes. Every shift of muscle as he navigates through traffic.
I keep thinking about last night. His weight on top of me. His mouth on my skin. The way he looked at me like I was something precious and edible and his. The way I was so close, so fucking close, and then his phone rang and —
Tonight. Tonight there will be no interruptions.
The club is quieter than I expected. A few people at the bar, soft music from the jukebox, the low murmur of conversation. But everyone looks up when we walk in. Everyone notices Knox's hand on my lower back, possessive and sure.
Jason practically bounces over, face lighting up. "Toby! Did you eat? We have leftover — "
"No." Knox cuts him off, steering me toward a door marked PRIVATE. "We're going upstairs."
The words hang heavy with intent. Upstairs. Where Knox lives. Where he sleeps. Where he's going to —
I can't finish the thought or I'll combust right here in the middle of the bar.
Everyone carefully doesn't react, but I catch Jason mouthing finally to Vaughn. Ezra raises his glass in what might be a toast. Silas just shakes his head and goes back to wiping down the bar.
"Upstairs?" My voice cracks embarrassingly.
"My apartment." Knox's breath is hot against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "The whole pack lives up here. Easier that way." His hand slides lower, just grazing the curve of my ass. "Unless you'd rather have an audience?"
The thought of — god, no. But also the idea of Knox claiming me where everyone could see, where everyone would know — it makes something hot and shameful curl in my stomach. I shiver before I can stop myself.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"Interesting," he murmurs. "But not tonight. Tonight you're just for me."
He guides me through the door and up narrow stairs, worn smooth from years of use. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. My legs feel like jelly. My whole body is vibrating with anticipation and nerves and desperate, desperate want.
Another door. His hand on the knob. A pause that feels weighted with significance.
Then we're inside, and I barely get a glimpse of the apartment — minimal furniture, clean lines, a kitchen that looks rarely used, dominated by a massive bed with dark sheets — before he's spinning me around and pressing me against the closed door.
"All day," he growls, caging me in with his arms. "All fucking day, thinking about you. Couldn't focus on anything else. Had to throw Jason across the garage when he mentioned how your ass looks in those jeans."
"He — what?"
"Everyone wants you." His face is inches from mine, eyes burning gold. "The cute librarian who takes care of everyone, reads to kids, wears ridiculous cardigans. They all want to protect you. Claim you."
My breath catches. "But?"
"But you're mine." He leans in, lips barely brushing my ear. "Aren't you?"
"Knox — "
"Answer me." His hand wraps lightly around my throat — not squeezing, just holding, just reminding me who's in control. "Are you mine, Toby?"
"Yes." It comes out as a whimper, high and desperate. "Yes, yours, please — "
He kisses me like he's trying to crawl inside me.
One hand still on my throat, the other fisting in my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, possessing, and I melt into him. Go boneless against the door and let him hold me up.
"Fuck, you're perfect." He breaks the kiss to attack my neck, shoving the turtleneck out of his way, sucking hard over yesterday's marks. Refreshing them. Making them darker. "So desperate for it. Bet you've been thinking about this all day too."
"Yes — "
"Bet you touched yourself thinking about me."
My face burns. I bury it against his shoulder, but he pulls back, grips my chin, makes me look at him.
"Tell me." He's working on my belt now, movements sure and quick. "Tell me how you touched yourself."
"This morning." I gasp as his hand slides into my jeans, wrapping around me through my underwear. "In the shower. Thinking about — oh fuck — thinking about your hands."
"Just my hands?" He squeezes, and I choke on a moan. "What else?"
"Your mouth. The sounds you make." His thumb swipes over the head, and I nearly sob. "How you — ah — how you just take what you want."
"And you want me to take you?" He shoves my jeans down my thighs, freeing me, wrapping his bare hand around my cock. The skin-on-skin contact makes me see stars. "Want me to throw you on that bed and fuck you until you can't remember your own name?"
"God, yes, please, Knox — "
He drops to his knees.
One second he's standing over me, fully in control, and the next he's kneeling on the hardwood floor, yanking my jeans the rest of the way down, his face level with my aching cock.
"Knox, you don't have to — "
He swallows me down without preamble.
Hot. Wet. Perfect. His mouth is a revelation, and I have to slam my head back against the door to keep from coming on the spot. He takes me deep, deeper than should be possible, throat working around me like he was made for this.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck — " My hands fly to his hair, fisting in the short strands. I don't know whether to pull him closer or push him away. It's too much. It's not enough. It's everything I didn't know I needed.
He pulls off just long enough to look up at me, lips wet and swollen, eyes blazing gold. "You can pull harder. Won't hurt me."
Then he's swallowing me down again, and I do pull his hair. Hard. Hard enough that a normal human would protest, would pull away, would tell me to stop.
Knox just groans around me, the vibration traveling up my spine and exploding behind my eyes.
"Knox, I'm — if you keep — I'm going to — "
He pulls off, stands in one fluid motion, and throws me over his shoulder.
I yelp, disoriented, grabbing onto his shirt for balance. "What — "
"Bed. Now."
He tosses me onto the mattress like I weigh nothing. I bounce once, twice, sprawling on my back amid the dark sheets, and then he's standing at the foot of the bed, stripping.
He pulls the henley over his head and I forget how to breathe. His chest is a work of art — sculpted muscle, scattered scars, tattoos I want to trace with my tongue. A trail of dark hair leading down to where his hands are working his belt.
"Clothes off," he orders.
I scramble to obey, kicking off my shoes, shoving my jeans the rest of the way down, yanking my shirt over my head. By the time I'm naked, he is too, and —
"Oh my god." He's huge. Everywhere. His cock is thick and hard and leaking, jutting out from a nest of dark hair, and I genuinely don't understand the logistics of what we're about to do. "That's — you're — how is that going to — "
"I'll make it fit." He crawls onto the bed, predatory, muscles shifting under his skin. "I'll go slow. Open you up with my fingers and tongue until you're begging for it."
"Tongue?" My voice squeaks embarrassingly high.
He grins, all teeth and hunger. "Oh sunshine, the things I'm going to do to you."
He flips me onto my stomach in one motion, manhandling me like I weigh nothing, pulling my hips up so I'm on my knees with my ass in the air. It should be embarrassing. It should feel vulnerable and exposed.
It feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be.