Page 65 of Knot So Fast
She makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a purr, and before I can even finish wiping the flour and cum off the counter, she’s already asleep.
I stand there for a minute, just watching her—her chest rising and falling, the pink flush on her cheeks, the way her lips stay parted even in dreams. I memorize every detail, because no matter how many times I’ve seen her like this, I’m always afraid it’ll be the last.
She’s everything I ever wanted, and the only thing I can’t bear to lose.
I go back to cleaning the mess, still hard, still aching, but somehow more whole than I’ve felt in years.
When the kitchen is as clean as I can make it without a full demolition, I go back to her.
She’s still passed out on the counter, mouth open, a little drool pooling beneath her cheekbone. It’s ridiculous how beautiful she is, even like this—ruined and vulnerable and completely unselfconscious.
I run my fingers through her hair and she murmurs something, a protest or maybe a plea for more, but she doesn’t wake.
I scoop her up as gently as I can, cradling her against my chest. She feels weightless, bones and sinew and exhaustion, but she molds herself to me on instinct, curling into my warmth.
I carry her up the stairs to the master suite, nudging the bathroom door open with my shoulder.
I set her on the heated floor, propped up against the wall, while I draw a bath. I use the oils I know she likes, because I remember every goddamn thing about her, from the way she takes her coffee to the exact number of seconds she can tolerate the water being too hot before she starts to swear.
I check the temperature twice, then three times, and when I’m satisfied, I peel the sticky jersey from her body and lower her into the tub.
She shivers as the water closes around her, and for a moment I think she’s going to wake. But she only sighs and slumps, head lolling to one side, arms floating bonelessly at her sides.
I kneel beside the tub and begin to clean her.
I take my time, careful with every touch, using soft washcloths and gentle hands to wipe away the sweat, the evidence of our insanity, the mess we made of each other. She’s got bruises already forming on her hips, little red welts where I held her too hard, and I kiss each one in apology. She’ll give me hell for it when she wakes, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
When she’s clean, I lift her from the tub and wrap her in towels, blotting her skin dry without ever letting her get cold.
She stirs only once, when I brush a knot out of her hair, but settles again as soon as I hum the stupid lullaby I made up for her years ago, the one she always pretends to hate but falls asleep to anyway.
I dress her in the softest thing I can find—a ridiculous, fuzzy one-piece pajama she insisted on buying as a joke but now refuses to sleep without after a fuck that leaves her body aching. It’s covered in cartoon wolves.
She once told me it was the only way she could get the pack to behave, by out-wolfing the wolves. I zip it up, tuck her hands inside the oversized sleeves, and for a second I just kneel there, staring at her, trying to etch this image into my brain so I’ll have it forever.
She’s never been more mine.
I carry her back downstairs, because she hates waking up alone, and arrange her on the couch with a fortress of pillows. I lay a blanket over her and set a glass of water on the coffee table within arm’s reach.
As a final touch, I dig out one of my old racing jerseys—a real one, not the knockoff she stole from my closet—and lay it next to her. She’s barely conscious, but her hand snakes out and clutches it in her sleep, holding it tight to her chest like a security blanket.
I stand over her for a minute, just watching.
I want to crawl in beside her, to wrap myself around her and never move again, but the kitchen still smells like smoke and the bread won’t bake itself. I go back to work, rolling out the fresh dough, hands moving automatically while my eyes flick back to her every few seconds, making sure she’s still breathing, still dreaming, still here.
It’s only when the new loaf is in the oven and the kitchen is spotless again that I let myself think about the future.
About the fights that are coming, the walls her parents will put up, the world’s endless, grinding desire to keep us apart. I know they’ll try, know they’ll do everything in their power to rip her away from me.
But I also know I’ll never let that happen.
She’s my world, my obsession, my home.
I’ll fight for her with everything I have, every day, every fucking second.
I watch the steady rise and fall of her chest, the little smile that flits across her lips as she dreams. The promise I make in that moment is sacred, absolute.
I will never let her go again.
