Page 91 of Down Knot Out
I hum with contentment and brush my lips across his, tasting salt and sweetness and the lingering flavor of strawberries.
The pressure inside me eases as his knot releases, and he pulls out slowly, both of us hissing softly at the separation. The emptiness left behind aches before his hands smooth over my thighs in soothing strokes.
From beneath the counter, he produces a clean kitchen towel, the kind he keeps on hand for quick access during his baking. The soft cotton is warm as he cleans us both with gentle efficiency, the intimacy wrecking me all over again.
He presses the towel between my legs to catch any remaining dampness. “Better?”
“Much.” My throat feels rough from calling his name.
He drops the towel into what I assume is a hamper hidden beneath the counter and returns his attention to me with the same careful tenderness he just finished cleaning us up with. His palms cup my knees, thumbs tracing small circles over the bones.
“Want to finish the scone?” he asks, gesturing to the pastry sitting next to the bowl of whipped cream. “For quality control.”
The suggestion carries no real expectation. He’soffering because caring for others, feeding them, comes to him as naturally as breathing. But my body is heavy with satisfaction, muscles loose and warm, and even sitting upright takes effort.
“Only if you feed them to me in bed,” I respond, already knowing what his answer will be.
Joy brightens his features. The weight of his earlier fears, the terror that he couldn’t protect me, that his gentle nature means he's weak, won’t be resolved in one night, but we’ll get there. We have the time.
“Deal,” he says.
He helps me down from the counter, hands steady on my waist as my feet find the floor. My legs wobble for a moment, aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through sensitive muscles, but his solid presence beside me provides all the support I need.
While he gathers a selection of scones and strawberries into a small bowl, I retrieve my discarded clothes from the floor. The tank top goes back on easily enough, but the onesie takes more coordination. My fingers fumble with the zipper, still clumsy with satisfaction.
“Here.” He sets the bowl aside to help, hands gentle as they guide the zipper up my throat. Thegesture carries a different kind of intimacy, one rooted in quiet care.
“Thank you.”
His forehead touches mine. “Thank you for letting me take care of you.”
He picks up the bowl of strawberries and offers me his free hand. “Come on. Let’s get you properly fed and settled.”
I take his hand without hesitation, fingers intertwining with his as he leads me toward the door, leaving the worries of the night behind, for now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chloe
Three days ago, Holden made me come so hard I saw stars. Today, I made a dragon cry.
Well. Technically,Elena,the fairy queen heroine of my romantasy series, did when she confessed to her fire-breathing consort that she wanted to keep their surprise baby, even if it meant war, and he dropped to his knees, promising she’d never be alone again.
The words come fast. Faster than they have in weeks.
With afternoon sunlight spilling through the family room windows, and the laptop balanced on my thighs radiating heat through the soft fleece blanket draped across my legs, my fingers fly across the keys.
Quinn naps curled at the opposite end of the L-shaped sofa, her small body wrapped in the same blankets we used for our nest on movie night. Her breathing falls into a soft rhythm that blends with the distant sounds of construction drifting through the open windows.
Sprinkles lies stretched across the hardwood floor beneath her like a massive black rug, his thick fur gleaming where sunbeams touch it. His presence no longer sends anxiety skittering through me. Instead, he’s become part of the sanctuary we’ve built in this room, a gentle guardian settled into our afternoon quiet.
This is what I’d forgotten during all the chaos with my mother, Louie, Simon, and the Sinclairs. This pure joy of creation, of building worlds where happy endings become reality.
My phone buzzes once on the coffee table, the sharp vibration cutting through my peace. I ignore it, fingers already moving back to the keyboard where Elena waits to deliver a cutting remark to her counselors.
The phone buzzes again. Then again.
Quinn shifts in her sleep, a small frown creasing her forehead as the sound disturbs her rest. I reach for the device, prepared to silence whatever spamcalls or random notifications are trying to steal my creative momentum.
