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His cock fit perfectly against mine, the curve of his crown matching my own, sensitive shafts aligned. But it was his strength I loved the most, the flex of his biceps, the tension in his thighs, the quiver in his abs as he held himself above me. His mouth hovered maddeningly just out of reach.
“Kiss me,” I demanded, adding, “Please, please, please.”
“That’s a lot of please.” He chuckled warmly. “I love it.”
Love me. Love me, my brain demanded as he met my mouth with his, a deep, searching kiss. He kissed me like he owned me, and still, I wanted more. Love me. I wouldn’t ask that aloud, not ever. It wouldn’t be fair even if we weren’t in the middle of the most emotional sex I’d ever had. My feelings for him weren’t dependent on him returning the sentiment, no matter how much I wanted it.
“Oh. That’s…” I moaned as he again found the most perfect rhythm, ideal pressure, showy twist at the top, firm grip at the bottom.
“Monroe.” His breath hitched, the first sign he might be as affected as me. His eyes bored into mine, oceans’ worth of churning intensity.
“I’m here.”
“Tell me,” he ordered, and I didn’t bother playing dumb.
“I love you,” I said firmly. Simply. Truthfully. His eyes shut and his breathing sped up. “Are you getting off on those words?”
I’d meant it as a tease, but he groaned like he’d taken a fist to the stomach. “Yes. God, yes.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I chanted, waiting for the moment when his eyes fluttered open, wide and pleasured, face going slack as the rest of his body tensed. He came with a broken noise, cock erupting over his fist, making the slide against mine that much slicker and hotter. Only took a few more slippery strokes of his hand before I was coming too, moaning along with him. The climax hit, not like a peak or a wave, but like a grenade, clearing out any last resistance to Knox's hold over me.
I was his. That certainty was every bit as intense as the pleasure, and hell, the certainty of my feelings was the pleasure, and the pleasure was the certainty, an endless loop. He worked us both through the last shudders, finally releasing my cock right as it reached too-sensitive levels of post-orgasmic bliss.
“Lord, I do love you bossy.” I sagged against the mattress as he fetched his T-shirt to clean his hand and my stomach.
“You love me.” Knox gave a little shake of his head, voice mournful. “You really do.”
“I do. I love you, Knox.” I paused, not really expecting a reply but trying to read the kaleidoscope of emotions on his face. Jaw set, he studied me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. And even though I didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to make him say aloud what we both knew, I couldn’t keep quiet a second longer. “Why did that feel like goodbye?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Knox
“Maybe—never mind.” Sitting next to Monroe on the bed, I twisted a handful of the comforter. “You should sleep.”
“Sleep?” Monroe joined me in sitting up. “I’m supposed to sleep right now?”
“You could try.” My tone came out pouty like Monroe was the problem here. Taking a breath, I stroked a hand down his chest, trying to coax him to lie back down. “I didn’t mean to ruin our nap by getting all emotional.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. You couldn’t.” Monroe was so much nicer than I deserved, voice low and soothing. “But talk to me. Please.”
The please got to me. He was always so much more ready than me to confront the hard questions. I looked at him for another long moment, teeth digging into my lower lip. “You were right.”
He nodded, then, when I didn’t add anything else, he gave a nervous chuckle. “I generally am. Sorry. Not the time for humor. Can you be more specific?”
“You were right that my dad would flip out if we were dating.” I addressed the lines on the comforter rather than meet Monroe’s concerned gaze. “Like he went seriously worrisome levels of aggro at the tiniest joke. And Jessica might suspect something already.”
“Oh.” Monroe went still, a chill wind creeping between our bodies, summer heat be damned. His voice lowered, a wounded tone I hadn’t heard from him before. “You figured out you don’t want your dad knowing. I get it.”
“Not for me. For you.” The frosty air between us, a gulf that wasn’t there five minutes prior, had me reluctant to reach for him, but hell, how I wanted to. “You’ve been friends twenty years. And that means something.”
“And so do you.” Braver than me, he took my hand, squeezing tightly.
“Thank you.” I studied our linked hands, trying to memorize how perfectly they aligned. “But does it really matter when you’re leaving anyway?”
