She pushes up against the headboard, grimacing with the movement. I’m swift to get to her side. A sleepy grin crosses her lips. “Yeah, well, they’re sore beyond measure, so don’t get any ideas. I don’t know if I’ll ever let anyone touch them ever again.”
I groan. Just the thought of caressing her breasts turns me on. I bite back my arousal, pressing my face into her neck, allowing my warm breath to graze along her skin. She tenses beneath me, so instead of lingering, I bring my lips to her ear. “No one except for me will ever touch you again.”
Her breath hitches as the declaration hangs in the air between us. I want to see her, to read her expression. But I don’t act on it. I want Amelia to make the first move.
And fuck me. She does.
When she turns her face to me, liquid green eyes greet mine. She blinks slowly, as if each one helps her decipher exactly what I mean. The delicious blush on her cheeks lets me know she’s not as unaffected as she’s tried to pretend. “Knox.”
Her melodic whisper is music to my ears and thrilling to my cock. I cup her chin, my lips brushing against her forehead. She doesn’t fight me. Not this time. Masculine pride swells at the evident shiver running through her body.
We’ll call that a win.
I could stay in this moment forever. Amelia, soft and pliant, not pushing me away. Not telling me to go. But I don’t want her getting into her head and throwing me out.
Though my brain and my cock scream at me not to do it, I untangle myself from her.
I rise from the bed, and as I’m about to head towards the bassinet to check on our son, Amelia’s hand catches my wrist. Swallowing my surprise, I turn back to her.
She’s already shifted off the headboard, her mass of golden hair spread out along the pillow. Her soft eyes watch me, her lids fluttering as she struggles to keep them open. Poor girl. She’s been through so goddamn much the past two days. The past nine months.
“Get some sleep, Melia. I’ve got him.”
“I know you do,” she murmurs, a yawn consuming her. “I always knew you would.”
Thank fuck.
I don’t know if it’s the sleep or the delirium from lack of sleep. I don’t care. I’ll take it.
“I always will.”
A sleepy, dreamy smile spreads across her face. “I’m glad you’re here, Knox.”
“Yeah, Melia. So am I.”
As much as I wanted to ask about his last name, fucking beg or plead if I had to, that expression of contented happiness on Amelia’s face tells me now’s not the time.
Why poke the momma bear when it’s unnecessary?
My boy’s going to have my name.
I just have to win his mom over first.
AFTER THE NIGHT I, SLEEPY and susceptible, stupidly began to let Knox back in, he acted like nothing had happened. I’m not sure what I wanted. Heck, I was half asleep, my body ached in ways I’d never imagined were possible, and I was in love with the father of my child. I had no idea how he felt about me.
Okay, so maybe that’s a total lie. But who can a girl lie to if she can’t lie to herself? More like I didn’t want to examine how he felt because then I’d have to delve into my own emotions, and I’m just not ready for that.
He took Branson on as I imagine he takes everything on: with full measure, complete attention, and undeniable purpose.
I’d be lying if I said that having Knox around turned out to be a hardship. In fact, it’s anything but. I never imagined he’d be such a doting father—or partner—and it’s growing increasingly more challenging for me to resist him. I’m not even sure why I want to anymore.
Even though he could’ve slept in the guest bedroom or on the couch, he insisted on sleeping in my bedroom in case Branson needed him during the middle of the night. He didn’t even try sleeping in my bed. Instead, he set up a few blankets and pillows on the floor next to the bassinet. It couldn’t have been comfortable for anyone, let alone a guy as large as Knox. So, after a few hours of him tossing and turning and my own restlessness, I insisted he join me on the bed.
The whole time he slept beside me, he barely touched me. Oh sure, we’d wake up sometimes with his arm wrapped around my waist or my leg hitched up over his. But never, not once, did he make a move. Even when the doctor gave me the all clear—not that he knew that—he treated me like a delicate flower.
It’s driving me bonkers.
For nearly three months straight, I had my fill of Knox last summer. Now, it’s been two months of pent-up desperation and longing and I don’t know how much longer I can take his hesitation.
Last year, I waited in agonizing frustration for him to make the first move. Not this time. It’s my turn to pounce. I’m just not sure when.
He’s in the shower when I put Branson down for the night and realize we’re out of diapers. There’s no way my baby boy won’t wake up in the middle of the night needing a change. Though I’m exhausted—two-month-olds will do that to you—I decide to run out to the grocery story to get some.
The last thing I want to do is interrupt Knox’s shower.
Okay, I totally want to interrupt his shower. So I do.
I’m just not prepared for the sight before me when I open the door. They say resistance is futile, and I’ve been trying my damnedest to prove that old adage false.
But as I watch him lather up in the shower, I’m hit with the truth. Resistance is futile, and tonight, there’s no way I can deny myself any longer.
Call it hormones, lust, craze, need—whatever you want. I crave him. And for the first time since he’s been back, he’s going to get his way. He’s finally going to take what he’s been wanting for weeks, even if he pretends not to for my sake.
No. He’s not going to take. The ball’s in my court, as it’s been since he reappeared in my life, and I’m the one who’s taking the reins.
I rake my eyes over the rippling, muscular planes of his chest and sigh in pleasure at the sight of his smooth, taut stomach, which I suddenly wish to run my tongue over. This is why I haven’t gone to the lake with him. Why I haven’t wanted to see him in all his shirtless glory.
For weeks, I had the crutch of doctor’s orders. No sex. But that time is up, and my lady parts know it.
Especially as my eyes rake over his nude body for the first time in nearly a year. God, how is it possible that he’s even more enticing than he was before? The delicious six-pack that has me wanting to recite the alphabet until my tongue is tracing over his spectacular V. The V that reminds me of a flashing neon ON sign directing me to my next favorite ride: his cock. Considering what that did to me last time, I should run away. Yet I find myself moving a step forward inside the bathroom instead.
And when turns the water off and Knox calls my name, I stop in my tracks. He’s watching me with an amused expression on his face.
“Need something?” he asks.
You.
I hate it. I hate the way I want him. Or more pointedly, I actually hate that I don’t hate it or him at all. The way I’ve done nothing but dream of him. The way I’m still so desperately in love with him, and the way I should so desperately stay away before he breaks my heart again.
But I can’t. I don’t want to. What I want is to trust him. Let him back in. Take the leap and deal with the consequences later on.