Chapter 26 Knox #2
She steps closer, reaching out to adjust my collar. It’s a intimate gesture, practiced and easy. “You look tired, Knox. Did you sleep?”
“I slept.” I catch her wrist, my thumb pressing over her pulse. It beats fast, a frantic little bird against my skin. “And I dreamed.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Yeah? Me too.”
She rises up on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
It’s not a deep kiss. It’s a soft, sweet press of mouths, a hello. But it snaps something inside me. The carefully constructed wall of control I built this morning—cleaned the table, organized the inventory—crumbles.
I need more.
I drop her wrist to grip her waist, hauling her against me. The wool of her sweater is rough against my hands.
I deepen the kiss, sweeping my tongue into her mouth. She tastes like mint toothpaste and the underlying sweetness that is just her.
She gasps, her hands clutching my biceps, but she melts into me.
“Knox,” she murmurs against my lips. “The kitchen...”
“We’re not open yet,” I say. “Nobody is coming in.”
I walk her backward, my grip on her waist iron-tight. I steer her away from the prep stations, toward the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“My office.”
I kick the door open and maneuver her inside. I slam it shut with my heel and flip the deadbolt. The click is loud in the quiet room.
The office smells like old paper, toner cartridges, and the cedar polish I use on the furniture. I back her up to the heavy mahogany desk.
“I really did just come for my checkbook,” she says, but she’s giggling, her hands playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. “I have to rush to the bank before work.”
“You can spare a few minutes.” I reach down, gripping the back of her thighs, and lift her onto the desk. She squeaks, her weight settling on the polished wood.
I push her knees apart, stepping between them. The skirt rides up, exposing her thighs. They’re pale, soft, and I want to mark them with my hands, my mouth.
“Knox...”
“Shh.”
I drop to my knees. The floor is hard, unforgiving, but I don’t care. I lean in and press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, right above her knee.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“I like this skirt,” I rumble against her skin. “But I like what’s under it better.”
I bite the soft flesh of her inner thigh, soothing it with a lick. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling, not pushing me away.
I reach up, hooking my fingers in the edge of her panties, and drag them down. She lifts her hips to help me, kicking the lace aside.
She’s wet. She must have been thinking about this on the drive over.
“Look at you,” I say, my voice rough.
I don’t wait for an answer. I lean in and lick a long, slow stripe up her center, from her entrance to her clit. She tastes like salt and honey, a flavor that goes straight to my head.
She whimpers, her head falling back. “Oh, god. Knox.”
I eat her out with single-minded focus. I use my thumbs to spread her open, exposing the tight, hidden bud of her nerves. I suck it into my mouth, flicking my tongue over the tip in a rapid rhythm.
Her thighs shake against my ears. Her breathing turns ragged. The giggling is gone, replaced by desperate and needy sounds.
I slide two fingers inside her, crooking them to find that spot. She arches off the desk, a cry tearing from her throat.
I pin her hips down with my free hand, holding her still while I fuck her with my fingers and my mouth.
“Knox, please. I’m...”
I pull my mouth back just enough to speak. “You know I like you, Amber?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “I know.”
“Remember that,” I say, curling my fingers harder. “Because I’m about to fuck you a little rough.”
She looks down at me, her eyes glazed and dark. “Do it.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I stand up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I unbuckle my belt, the metal clinking, and shove my slacks and boxers down just enough to free myself.
My cock springs out, heavy and leaking.
She’s wet enough from my mouth, but I spit into my palm anyway, slicking myself up. I want to slide in easy.
I step between her legs, gripping her hips. I line up and thrust in.
She’s tight. Hot. Incredible.
I don’t give her time to adjust. I establish a rhythm immediately—hard, deep thrusts that make the desk scrape against the floor. Her heels dig into my lower back.
I wrap one hand around her neck, my thumb pressing against her pulse point. Not to choke her, but to hold her. To possess her.
“Look at me,” I command.
She forces her eyes open, locking them onto mine. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen.
“You feel so good,” she breathes. “Knox.”
I grind my pelvis against her clit on every thrust, watching her eyes roll back. She’s so responsive. Every shift of my hips drags a sound out of her.
“I could stay in here all day,” I tell her. “Just buried in you.”
“Do it,” she challenges, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I pick up the pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin is obscene in the quiet office. The smell of sex rises, mixing with the cedar polish.
It’s feral. It’s right.
I feel the base of my cock start to swell. The instinct to knot is overwhelming, a biological demand to lock us together, to fill her up until she can’t move.
I grit my teeth, sweat breaking out on my forehead. I want to. God, I want to knot her. I want to feel her pulse around that knot, knowing she can’t leave.
But not here. Not like this. Not on a desk in the office when we have a restaurant to prep.
I fight the swelling down, forcing my body to obey my mind. It’s a war, a painful clenching of muscles that want to let go.
“Knox?” She whimpers, sensing the change. “Are you...?”
“I’m close,” I grind out. “Are you?”
“Yes! Don’t stop!”
I slam into her one last time, grinding deep. Her back bows, her inner walls clamping down on me like a vice. She cries out, her whole body shaking as she comes.
The sight of her undone, the feel of her pulsing around me—it pushes me over the edge.
I pull out at the last second.
I wrap my hand around my cock, stroking hard, once, twice. I groan, my head tipping back as I spill over her thighs.
Ropes of come coat her pale skin, marking her with heat.
My breath saws in and out, loud in the quiet room. I look down at her.
She’s a mess. Sweating, wrecked, her skirt hiked up, her thighs painted with me. She looks beautiful.
“Good morning,” she laughs, the sound breathless and happy. She reaches up, pulling my mouth down to hers.
“Good morning, Amber,” I murmur against her lips.