I stare at him.
Knox is sitting at the edge of the bed, his d**k hard and glistening, his eyes fixed on me.
I know what he wants me to do. I know what I want too—my body still aches with the emptiness he left in me, a slow, smoldering burn where his fingers and length had been.
“Can we talk about this afterwards?” I ask, trying to bargain the only way my faltering senses allow.
He smiles. “No.”
Then he bends and starts peeling his shoes off, letting each fall with a dull thud against the hardwood floor. His socks follow. His fingers go to his pants next, sliding them down, taking his boxers with them, never once standing. For the first time, I catch a glimpse of his thighs. Muscular, with veins mapping their way down to his calves. Once the pants and boxers are on the floor, he pinche
