Chapter 33
We barely made it through the door of his penthouse.
Andrew pinned me against it the second it closed, kissing me hard. His hands were in my hair, pulling me closer.
“I watched you all night,” he said between kisses. “Sitting there. In that fucking shirt. Everyone looking at you.”
“It was your dinner. No one was looking at me.”
“Searcy was. Chappell couldn’t shut up about you.” His mouth moved to my jaw, my neck. “All I could think about was getting you alone.”
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Andrew Knox, are you jealous of Kirk?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s straight. And married. He wasn’t looking at me like that.”
“I know.” He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to taste the truth of it. “Doesn’t mean I liked it.”
We stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes in a messy trail. My glasses were gone, my jacket hit the floor. His shirt followed, yanked over his head. Hands everywhere—urgent, greedy—palms sliding under shirts, nails scraping lightly down ribs, belt buckles clinking as fingers fumbled.
By the time we reached the bed, I was down to my boxers and he was already working his belt open, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs. The black explosion tattoo on his ribs flexed with every sharp breath.
“Get over here,” he said, voice rough.
I climbed onto the bed. He followed, covering me with his body, all heat, all muscle, all intensity. His weight settled between my legs, grounding me, and for a second we just breathed against each other’s mouths.
This time was different than before. Slower. More deliberate.
Andrew took his time. Kissed me until my head spun, with long, languid drags of his tongue, sucking on my lower lip until it was swollen.
His hands roamed: tracing the line of my collarbone, thumbing over my nipples until they peaked, then sliding down to grip my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows there.
When he finally pulled back to strip us both bare, the air felt charged. He reached for the nightstand—condom, lube—coated himself slowly while I watched, chest heaving. Then he settled back between my thighs, one hand guiding himself, the other sliding under my lower back to lift me just enough.
He pushed in inch by inch, slowly, carefully, letting me feel every stretch, every slide. I gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving half-moons. The burn faded fast into heat, into fullness that made my toes curl.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he said against my ear, voice low and ragged. Then, quieter, almost broken: “Please.”
Oh.
Andrew Knox didn’t say please. He demanded, ordered, took.
But he was saying it now.
Please.
Like he needed to hear it. Like it mattered more than anything.
I should’ve argued. Should’ve pointed out that people aren’t possessions, that we’d barely defined what this was, that “mine” was a dangerous word for someone like him to use with someone like me.
I didn’t.
“I’m yours,” I breathed instead.
His whole body shuddered against mine.
Andrew groaned, deep and broken, and buried his face in my neck. Then he moved.
Long, rolling thrusts at first, each one deep enough to make me see sparks, but slow enough to drag every nerve along the edge.
His hands stayed on my hips, guiding the angle, pulling me down to meet him each time.
My legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer, harder.
The rhythm built, inevitable, relentless. Skin slapping softly, breath hitching, the bed creaking under us. His mouth found mine again, swallowing every sound I couldn’t hold back. One hand slid between us, wrapped around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
When I came, it hit like a wave, sudden and shattering, his name torn from my throat as I clenched around him, spilling hot over his fist. He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep with a low, guttural sound, shaking as he pulsed inside me.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us catching our breath. Then Andrew shifted, pulling out carefully. I felt the mess immediately—wet and uncomfortable.
“Come on,” he said quietly, helping me up.
My legs were shaky as he guided me to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, tested the temperature, then stepped in with me. The water was warm, and he was gentle, washing me carefully, his hands steady and sure in a way that made my chest tight.
When we were clean, he dried us both off, then led me back to bed.
We collapsed into the sheets, still tangled, legs entwined, his arm heavy across my waist, holding me close like he wasn’t ready to let go.
“Stay,” he said.
“I was planning to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled me closer, my back against his chest, his arm around my waist.
“Good,” he murmured into my hair.
I felt his breathing slow, even out. Within minutes, he was asleep.
I lay there in the dark, Andrew’s arm around me, the penthouse quiet except for our breathing.
This was real now.
Us.
The word settled in my chest, warm and terrifying and right.