Chapter 19
Knox
I’ve kissed Cami more in the last two weeks than I’ve kissed anyone in my entire life, and I’m still starving for more.
We made out at the fireworks show.
In the car, her heart-shaped lips pulling me into a world where nothing else exists.
Again, before I even started the engine.
At the fucking stoplight: my hand sliding up her skirt, over her thighs, beneath thin lace, two fingers inside her until a car horn from behind sliced through her moan and reminded me the light had turned green.
And now, inside the house, her back against the door.
I barely manage to set our pie slices on the entryway table before her mouth is on mine again, tugging me under.
“This is our first full night without those spoiled kittens,” I say, my mouth skimming over hers like the words alone should explain exactly what that means.
Her lips curve into a wicked little dare I feel everywhere. “And…?”
I press her harder to the door, hands sliding under her skirt, palms greedy for every bare, smooth inch of skin.
She tips her head back, lips parting, and I take her mouth like I’ve been holding my breath all night—hungrier still when she hooks a leg around me.
We should move. Head upstairs. Fall into bed.
But we won’t.
Not when her sleeveless top, bra, and skirt have come off. Not when my shirt and jeans hit the floor.
Dropping to my knees, I tug down her black, lace thong, then brace my hands on her thighs, nudging them wider, her pussy bare, beautiful, slick with heat.
My mouth finds her clit as if I’ve been ravenous for it, tongue teasing, then stroking in a rhythm that makes her breath catch every time.
Fingers thread through my hair, pulling when I go deeper.
Damn, she’s so perfect, and I suck her in, eating her out as if I’ll never get another chance, every moan she makes burning itself into my memory.
Weeks ago, she listed out what a fling meant to her: no real life, no strings, our summer bubble.
But right now, I can’t imagine leaving this bubble and stepping back into real life. I’m in so fucking deep.
Holding her steady with one arm, I don’t let her go until she’s shattering against my mouth, thighs clamping, body arching, my name falling from her lips.
“That’s it, Bubble Girl. Come for me.”
As she slumps against the wall, chest heaving, I rise and kiss her again, slow and full, so she can taste herself, taste the arousal that’s got me standing at full attention.
Fisting my cock, I guide her to the couch and pull her into my lap, her knees bracketing my hips.
With my hands on her bare ass, I sink into her in one long, unhurried thrust that knocks the air out of both of us.
“God, Knox…” she says, gripping my thighs, back arching, hips rocking.
She doesn’t know what that does to me, that moan, that wild look in her eyes, her beautiful tits bouncing as she rides my cock.
My fingers tighten at her hips, guiding her, but she sets the pace. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Each time she sinks down, her gaze holds mine like she’s daring me to blink.
Fuuuck. I’m an addict.
I remember the first night she stayed here, curled on the couch with the kittens, hair falling over her face. Back then, I thought I just wanted her in my bed.
Now, I’m sure that’s not all I want.
Her breathing stutters as I massage her clit with my thumb, her body tightening around me, and I can’t hold back, thrusting up into her once, twice, until we’re both unraveling, clinging like the couch might drop out from under us.
She collapses forward, cheek to mine, her long hair spilling over my shoulder, draping us in a quiet hush.
Body-to-body, we stay here, no words, no rush, lips brushing, tongues tangling.
Her skin’s warm against mine, her breath still uneven. I don’t want to move. But the lingering heat between us, the slickness of sweat and sex, makes the idea of a second round in the shower tempting.
Tucking a wavy strand of hair behind her ear, I say, “Come hop in the shower with me. Then we’ll dig into that cherry pie.”
Humming against my mouth, a lazy smile curves her lips. “Mmm. Shower first, pie second? I like how you think.”
“We’ve earned it.”
She laughs, the sound low and still wrecked, as she climbs off my lap.
I follow her upstairs to the en-suite bathroom, her body glowing in the silvery spill of moonlight, every curve, every sway, doing things to my self-control.
We reach the bathroom, and I turn on the water, the hiss barely audible over the boom of lingering fireworks outside, late-night stragglers still lighting up the sky like they can’t let the night end.
Cami steps in front of me, bare, unguarded, and I follow, sweeping her hair aside to press my mouth to the curve of her neck.
I trail kisses from just below her ear, down her neck, and along her spine, hands mapping the heat of her skin as steam thickens around us.
Once the water’s ready, I guide her under the spray, reaching for the soap and lathering it slowly across her back, over her shoulders, down her arms, until she leans into me, slick and warm, her head resting against my chest like a silent yes.
Wrapping my arm around her waist, I hold her tight, like I’m afraid she might slip away.
“I can’t seem to get enough of you,” I rasp against her ear. “It’s never felt like this with anyone else.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then slowly turns in my arms, water sliding between us as her palms find my chest, her gaze locking with mine.
“Same,” she whispers.
Her fingers drift up my chest, tracing slow, absent circles, as though she’s unsure if the words in her head deserve to be said aloud.
“What if this is us…falling?” she asks, barely above the sound of the spray. “We agreed not to—”
“We’re floating,” I say, brushing a wet strand from her face. “Letting this pull us wherever it wants…for as long as it lasts.”
She exhales, her smile soft, like hope is finally winning the argument in her head.
“Floating,” she echoes, trying out the word to see if it fits.
I lean in, heart pounding. “Fast.”
Before the word has a chance to fade, her mouth is on mine again, hungry, searching, the heat between us rising quicker than the steam swirling around our bodies.
I turn her gently, her slick back to my chest once more, and reach over to palm her breast, thumbing the peak until she gasps.
Bracing against the tiled wall, her head drops forward as I trail my hand down her stomach, between her thighs, finding her pussy wet and ready for me.
“Please,” she breathes. “I need you.”
Guiding myself to her entrance, I slide in deep, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her close.
Her body trembles around me, so tight, I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it too soon.
“You feel…” I bite off a groan, lips brushing her ear. “So fucking good like this.”
Water beats against my back as I thrust into her fully, rhythm steady, her hands gripping the edge of the wall tile for balance.
Every whispered plea pushes me closer to the edge until she clenches around me, legs shaking, her release crashing through her in waves.
I follow with a low growl, pressing her flush against me as we ride it out together, hearts thudding, water streaming over us like summer rain.
Chest rising and falling, she pivots in my arms, and our mouths find each other, torrid and tender, like all the words we probably want to but can’t quite say.
God, this woman.
She, this fling, was meant to be part of my healing. Not getting wrecked all over again.
But maybe I’ve already passed the point of no return.
Maybe I’m halfway in lo—
Nope. Not going to admit that. Not even to myself. Not when saying it out loud or in my head might make this real.
So, I chase that thought away and rest my forehead against hers, breaths still uneven. “How about that pie?”
Morning sunlight spills through the bay window, painting her skin gold.
Cami’s still asleep, curled against my chest, one leg slung over mine like it’s second nature.
She stirs as I ease out of bed but doesn’t open her eyes, just burrows deeper into the sheets and mumbles, “You better come back.”
I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Always.”
The floor is cool underfoot as I pad downstairs for coffee. It’s just past six. The house is still. No kittens yet. No sound but the hum of the fridge and the ocean doing its thing outside.
This is the rhythm now.
Wake up early.
Review acquisition targets.
Skim financials.
Clear a few emails before Cami wakes.
Pretend my chest doesn’t feel heavier every time I leave her in my bed.
By the time I climb to the attic, coffee mug in hand, the horizon’s tinged with pink. I settle into Grandpa’s old wooden chair, my back to the window, legs stretched out, laptop open but mostly ignored.
The space still hums with echoes of my teenage summers, but now it pulls double duty as a makeshift office. Fewer Marvel comics, more merger reports.
And lately, those reports have started to feel more like clutter—drowned out by what this summer has stirred in me.
I used to think growing the bottom line was what mattered most: build the portfolio, scale the rentals, close the next deal. But lately, I’m not so sure. Something about this place, about waking up next to Cami, watching the tide shift with the sunrise, makes the clutter easier to ignore.
My phone buzzes.
Mont. Of course.
The man treats Sundays like Tuesdays and holidays like myths.
I answer with a groan. “Still the holiday weekend.”
“So I’ve heard. You sound like you need a transfusion. Don’t tell me you’re still pretending you’re on vacation.”
I smirk. “Depends on how you define rest and relaxation.”
“Knowing you? Probably more spreadsheets than sleep.” He pauses. “Try not to forget why you’re there.”
I don’t answer right away. Because lately, that reason’s feeling blurrier by the day.
“Trying my best not to,” I say, scrolling through a report I won’t remember. “Anyway, that Long Island asset looks clean. I’ll send a summary later this week.”
“Good,” he says. “No rush. Just keeping the gears warm until you’re back.”
I shift in my seat. “Hey, is Frankie still coming on board?”
“Yep. That’s the plan,” he says casually. “We’ll make the transition once you’re back from Crystal Cove.”
“So…September-ish?”
“Right around then. Give or take. Should be a good fit.”
I take a sip of coffee. “Cool. I could use the help.”
“Yeah, Frankie’s always had a strong head for numbers. Much better than me, in fact.”
“Well, that’s what we need right now,” I say, picturing some younger, buttoned-up version of Mont. Hopefully not some know-it-all pain in the ass. But if he’s solid, maybe I can finally start thinking about an exit plan.
Not too long ago, I used to measure success in square footage and press features. Jenna loved a good headline. Probably still does.
But now? I want something that doesn’t get applause.
Quiet mornings. Earned trust.
My name on something that lasts.
“Enough about work,” Mont says. “You still playing house with the hottie next door?”
I smile. “It’s been nothing short of amazing.”
“Bet you’ll be the first to catch feelings.”
“Hope not,” I say though the words taste like a lie.
Mont chuckles. “Might be hard not to, now that she’s basically moved in.” A beat drifts by. “You want my advice?”
I don’t say yes, but I don’t stop him either.
“Let yourself be in love,” he says. “Doesn’t matter if it’s temporary. Doesn’t matter if it ends. Most people are so damn scared of the ending, they miss the good part.”
I don’t answer, but something in my chest tightens.
“Doesn’t have to be forever to be worth it,” he says, then, with a wry edge, adds, “But if it does end up being forever? You can thank me later. I’m the one who dared you to hook up with her.”
I laugh quietly even though part of me wants to groan. “That’s not exactly how I’d frame your influence.”
Mont’s grin comes through the phone. “Hey, just trying to keep life interesting. Figured a little hot-girl-next-door action might unglue you from that post-divorce sulk.”
We trade a few quick updates, some loose ends, nothing urgent, before he signs off for a breakfast meeting.
When the line goes dead, I sit back, thumb tapping the side of my mug.
Morning light sharpens into focus: a brighter sky, calmer water.
Here, inside the attic, I’m not so sure.
That last thing Mont said simmers in my mind, a kettle left forgotten, gathering steam until something gives.
Let yourself be in love. Doesn’t have to be forever to be worth it.
Sounds so damn simple.
But love doesn’t live in a bubble.
It seeps into real life. Rewrites the rules.
Demands more than we said we’d give.
And eventually, it asks what happens when summer ends.
I drain the rest of my coffee and force my focus back to the screen.
But the weight in my chest hasn’t gone anywhere.