Chapter 38
Cami
We’d had plenty of mind-blowing sex in Crystal Cove.
Kitchen counters. The beach. Moonlit nights in the outdoor shower.
But damn.
Nothing has ever felt like this, wild and wrecked and long overdue.
Distance, pain, and missing each other must’ve lit a fuse we couldn’t put out.
And considering all that’s happened—the silence, the fear I’d lost him, the heartbreak at the gala—of course, it felt different.
Deeper.
Because that pent-up desire we’d fought so hard to suppress was already spilling over, molten lava impossible to contain.
After our hot reunion, we stumbled into his shower and made love again. Slower. Quieter. Steamy. Breathless against tile.
Now, an hour later, I’m stretched out across his chest, cheek nestled beneath his collarbone, naked, warm.
His fingers drift lazily up and down my spine. My eyes flutter closed, and I feel more sated than I’ve ever been.
Who knows where we go from here, or even if we need to know yet.
It’s only been a little over two hours since our world imploded.
When I slid into Knox’s car, I didn’t know where I wanted to go, only that it needed to be far from that gala, far from what we’d lost.
Once Knox parked beside his Rover in the underground garage, I sent Dad a quick text. Made it home safe. Love you.
Not a full lie. Knox is home.
And right now, I want to linger in his arms, linger in us a little while longer.
The rain has thinned to a lazy rhythm against the windows as we lie in silence. If I could press pause on the universe, it would be now.
A pair of meows pierce the quiet: tiny, pitiful, and undeniably offended.
We’d shut Stripe and Shadow out before our shower, and apparently, the betrayal still stings.
I exhale a sleepy laugh. “We should probably let them know we’re alive.”
Knox chuckles. “Believe me”—his lips find my temple, slow and lingering—“after all those moans and groans? Yeah, they know.”
I hum in response, too content to move. “They won’t quit until we open that door. Relentless little monsters. Remind you of anyone?”
He laughs, the sound low and spent, vibrating against my cheek. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.” His hand curls around my hip, a soft caress idly wandering over bare skin. “You ruined me during round two.”
“Technically, that was round three.” I grin against the solid warmth of his chest. “Round two was in the shower.”
“Right.” He groans, palm still grazing my skin. “And I’m sure there’ll be more rounds ahead. We’re making up for lost time.”
Another chorus of meows slices through our chuckles, louder this time, scratchy and dramatic, as if tiny paws are body-slamming the door.
I lift my head, and our gazes lock. “We should get up.”
“Agreed.” He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “But once they’re fed and purring, you and I are staying right here. All night. And pretend the harsh outside world doesn’t exist.”
“You’ve got a deal.” I shift, easing on top of him, letting my hips roll with slow intention. His gaze skates over me, dark and heated, hard body already reacting to mine.
“Keep grinding, baby,” he says, rough as sin, “and I’ll make you purr louder than both of those kittens combined.”
“Ooh.” I bite my lip, fighting a grin as I move again, more deliberately. “Tribeca Knox talks even dirtier.”
“Oh, yeah?” A sinful smirk flashes as his hands travel from my breast to my hips. “So does Upper West Side Cami.”
Slowly, he guides me onto his beautiful, thick erection.
I gasp, body arching to take him in, a measured descent that steals my breath.
His grip tightens. Desire curls between us like fire.
He sits up, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me into a kiss that begins with a tease, then melts into a slow burn, tender and real.
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too,” I say, a thrum stirring beneath my ribs.
Slow and consuming, we move together, like we’ve got forever.
And maybe we do.
At least for tonight.
A blur of fur tears across the hardwood floor, then skids under the end table with a chirp that sounds suspiciously like victory.
Stripe. Then Shadow. Then a crash I’m not ready to investigate.
Knox chuckles from the stove, flipping something in the skillet. “Ten minutes before they take out a lamp.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the ache in core muscles I didn’t know I had.
These kittens have more energy than should be legal before 8 a.m. Or maybe I’m just out of shape. Emotionally. Physically. Intimately. Take your pick.
I’m sitting at the kitchen island, in Knox’s dress shirt, eyes pinned to the silk pajama bottoms slung low on his waist, muscles corded along his back with every movement.
How did I get so lucky to bump into this beautiful man on the beach three months ago? To think I told myself he’d only be a summer fling. Guys like him don’t happen twice. Hell, they barely happen at all. He’s a unicorn—one you don’t believe in until he’s standing right there, making you breakfast.
My unicorn turns, pushing a plate of pancakes and a bottle of water toward me, along with one of those electrolyte packs the nurse told me not to skip.
I blink. “Are these leftover packets from Crystal Cove?”
“Nope. I stocked the whole pantry. Sports drinks. Pickles. Decaf. Pretzels. All the things you need,” he says, all casual, but his eyes say something else. “Did it the day I moved in.”
My heart swells. “You didn’t think I’d ghosted you?”
“Of course I did,” he admits. “But I couldn’t make myself believe I’d never see you again.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But it is. And we both know it.
Before I can figure out how to say thank you without sounding like I might cry again, he drops onto the stool beside me, drowning his pancakes in Everette Hill Reserve. The same syrup his grandma stuck in our to-go bag of fresh biscuits when we left Vermont.
“That’s the same brand your grandma gave me…a half a dozen little bottles.”
He winks. “Good stuff.”
And, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, he slides over a shaker of powdered sugar.
“For you.”
My stomach does that flip-flop thing again, the one that only happens when he makes me feel completely seen.
I dust the sugar across my pancakes, beaming like a dork.
Sure, it’s only powdered sugar. But it’s also a love language I didn’t realize I’d been starving for.
This man remembers the tiniest things and turns them into proof that I matter.
Knox eats in that casually focused way that makes my insides hum. He could be savoring breakfast or cracking the stock market, and either way, he looks good doing it.
He chews, swallows, then glances sideways. “Hey.” I can’t help but melt when I notice he’s wearing that crooked half-smile. “Let’s go out tonight.”
I blink. “Out out?”
He nudges my chin with his knuckle, eyes dancing. “Our first real-life date. In New York. Just you and me. We can talk about all the things we haven’t yet…maybe even our future, if we’re feeling brave.”
I snort. “You want to talk about what comes next, like how we get around the huge Oliver Beaumont elephant in the room?”
“Only if you want to.”
I run my toe along his ankle beneath the barstool. “You realize I don’t have any date-night attire here.”
“Wear the shirt you’ve got on.” His gaze dips to where it hangs open at my thighs. “We can go for very casual.”
I laugh, nerves coiling beneath the sound. “I would suggest you take me home so I can grab a few things. But I can’t exactly have you dropping me off in last night’s gala dress, either. Doorman Vic will absolutely report me to my dad.”
Without missing a beat, Knox grabs his phone, taps a few buttons, and lifts it to his ear.
“Wait—who are you calling?”
He lifts a finger. “Hey, Pamela. Can you put together a few outfits for a woman, five-five, size four… Yes, evening and casual. Undergarments and shoes, too. 34C. Shoe size 7. Think date-night meets It girl. Send to my Tribeca address.”
My mouth drops open. “You know my size? Shoe and bra size, too?”
He covers the phone. “I paid attention. And I’ve done our laundry.”
I shake my head, fighting a smitten grin.
After a few more back-and-forths, and one suspiciously long pause, he ends the call. “She’ll have a full selection here in a few hours.”
I arch a brow. “Who’s Pamela?”
“My assistant. And don’t worry. She won’t say a word. I’ll explain at dinner.”
“Knox…” I narrow my eyes, arms folded, unsure if I should be suspicious or impressed.
He leans in, gaze warm, his thumb sweeping the curve of my lip. “Trust me.”
Lark & Harlow is tucked just off Hudson, hidden behind a nondescript facade that whispers exclusivity.
Inside, it’s all low light and hushed elegance. A playlist of moody acoustic covers curls around the clink of glassware, candlelight catching on aged brick and brushed-gold fixtures.
The hostess leads us past flickering tapers and quiet conversation, through a narrow corridor that opens into a tucked-away alcove near the windows. Knox’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk, his touch, while featherlight, an electric current.
Our table is nestled beneath a curved archway, draped in soft shadows and set with amber glassware and a single white orchid. Streetlamps glow through the arched bay window, haloing gum-stained sidewalks in gold. Tribeca hums just beyond the pane, but here, it feels like time has slowed for us.
I slide into the leather booth, my back to the room, and Knox slides in beside me. The curated menu, the starched linen, the elegance, all of it, dissolves under his smoldering gaze as though this isn’t just dinner. It’s a new beginning.
Knox picks up the drink menu but doesn’t really read it, his thigh brushing mine under the table, a subtle press that steals a beat from my pulse. Still.
“You look beautiful.” His eyes flick down to the silky hem of my blush-pink, thigh-skimming dress, a perfect complement to his ink-black suit and the faint shadow of stubble that should be illegal in all fifty states.
I arch a brow. “You’re the one who had this delivered.”