“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.
Myunicornturns, 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.”
