Page 17 of The Chains that Bind
Her hands fist in my shirt, whether to push me away or pull me closer, I suspect even she doesn't know. I deepen the kiss gradually, my tongue stroking against hers in a rhythm that mimics how I want to move inside her. When her body melts against mine, when her resistance transforms into participation, I know I've won the first battle.
"Knox," she gasps when I finally release her mouth, her eyes dazed, lips swollen. "We shouldn't?—"
"We should," I counter, my fingers finally tugging at the knot of her towel. It falls open, revealing the body I've dreamed about for eighteen months. Fuller breasts, already showing the earliest signs of pregnancy. The slight curve of her stomach, still flat but soon to round with my child. The slender legs that I want wrapped around my waist, my shoulders, any part of me she can reach.
"Beautiful," I murmur, and mean it with every fiber of my being. "Even more beautiful knowing you're carrying my baby."
She flushes deeper, moving to cover herself, but I catch her wrists gently.
"Don't hide from me," I urge, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Never from me."
"This doesn't change anything," she insists, but there's no conviction in her voice anymore. Just desire, thick and honeyed, in every syllable.
"It changes everything," I correct her, bending to press my lips to the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse race against my mouth. "Or rather, it reminds you of what never changed in the first place."
My hands map her body with deliberate thoroughness, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot, every place that makes her breath catch or her body arch. I trace the undersides of her breasts, slightly heavier now, more sensitive if her reaction is any indication. When my thumbs brush across her nipples, she actually whimpers, the sound going straight to my groin.
"More sensitive now," I observe, filing the information away as I replace one hand with my mouth, drawing the hardened peak between my lips.
"Knox!" Her fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing me away but holding me closer, her body betraying her with every response.
I lavish attention on her breasts, knowing from her increasingly desperate sounds that pregnancy has heightenened her sensitivity. When I finally lift my head, her eyes are half-closed, her breathing ragged.
"Still want to tell me this doesn't mean anything?" I challenge, my hand sliding down her stomach to the apex of her thighs. "Still want to pretend your body doesn't know exactly who it belongs to?"
"Don't—" But her protest turns into a moan as my fingers find her center, already slick with arousal. So ready for me. So honest in its response when her words still try to deny the inevitable.
"You're soaking wet," I murmur against her neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin. "From just a kiss and some attention to your breasts. Tell me, did he ever get you this wet, this fast? Did his touch make you tremble like this?"
"S-stop comparing," she manages, her hips moving unconsciously against my hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. "It's not…it's not fair."
"Life isn't fair, angel." I slide one finger inside her, feeling her inner muscles clench around me. "If it were, you never would have left me in the first place."
Before she can respond, I add a second finger, curling them to stroke against the spot that always makes her lose control. Her head falls back, a strangled cry escaping her lips. I catch her weight as her knees buckle, backing her against the dresser for support as I work her body with practiced precision.
"I know every inch of you," I remind her, my voice low and intent against her ear. "Every secret place. Every response. The exact pressure to use here—" I press my thumb against her clit, circling slowly, "—to make you come apart. The perfect rhythm to drive you to the edge without pushing you over."
Her nails dig into my shoulders, her body caught between trying to escape the overwhelming sensation and press closer for more. I keep her balanced on that knife's edge of pleasure, building her need systematically, ruthlessly.
"Knox, please," she finally breaks, the words a desperate plea. "Please."
"Please what?" I press, needing her to acknowledge what she's asking for. What she needs. Who she needs it from.
"Make me come," she whispers, shame and desire warring in her expression. "I need to—I need?—"
"Say my name," I demand, slowing my movements to an excruciating tease. "Say who's making you feel this way. Who's always made you feel this way."
Her eyes flash with the last embers of resistance before surrender washes it away. "Knox. Please, Knox."
Victory tastes sweet on my tongue as I capture her mouth again, swallowing her cries as I increase the pace and pressure of my fingers. Her body tightens around me, trembling on the precipice of release.
"No one else will ever make you feel like this," I promise against her lips. "No one else will ever know your body like I do. No one else will ever satisfy you the way I can."
She comes with a broken sob, my name a prayer on her lips, her body clenching rhythmically around my fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her. I hold her through it, supporting her weight, prolonging her release until she collapses against me, utterly spent.
When her breathing begins to return to normal, I lift her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her gently on the cool sheets. She looks up at me with dazed eyes, confusion and satisfaction warring in her expression.
"This doesn't mean—" she begins weakly.
