Page 70 of Hometown Touchdown
“Good.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft. “Are we going to bed?”
“Unless you want to wash the glasses again.”
She smirks. “Not unless you’ve got something else to seduce me with in the kitchen.”
I kiss her once, slow and deep, then step back and take her hand.
We head upstairs, quiet except for the soft sound of our steps and the shuffle of Priscilla circling her bed in the living room. When we reach my bedroom door, I pause, pressing my hand to the frame before looking back at her.
“You sure?” I ask.
Her answer is simple, certain. “Yeah. I want to be with you tonight.”
And as she walks past me, sweater slipping off one bare shoulder, her hips swaying in those snug jeans, I know I’ve never wanted anything more.
Chapter thirty-six
Brynn
Weclimbthestairsslowly. There’s no mad dash for the bed, no frantic tugging at clothes. Just the steady sound of our footsteps, the warm weight of anticipation in my chest, and the occasional swish of Priscilla’s tail against the wall downstairs.
Knox’s hand brushes mine and I hook my pinky through his instinctively.
He flicks on a small lamp in the bedroom, and soft golden light spills across the room, catching the curve of his jaw and thewarm wood of the headboard. Everything smells like him and it lights up every nerve in my body.
I reach for the hem of my sweater, suddenly aware of the heat climbing my neck. I pull it over my head and lay it in the chair in the corner.
“I want to try something,” I whisper, my voice soft, a little breathless. There’s a flicker of nerves in my chest, but it’s nothing compared to the fire curling low in my core.
Knox’s brow lifts. Just a little. “Yeah?”
I nod and step in closer, hands on his chest. “Trust me?”
That’s all it takes.
“Always,” he says, voice quiet but absolute.
God. That one word wrecks me. I rise onto my toes and kiss him. It’s not rushed, not sweet, but simmering, like I’m sealing every unsaid thing between us with the press of my mouth against his.
His hands settle at my waist, strong and steady, but he doesn't take over. He waits.
I peel his shirt off first, dragging my hands across his chest like I have all night to memorize the shape of him. The way he shudders when my nails rake lightly down his abs—it’s everything. Then I drop to my knees.
He swears under his breath. His hips jerk the tiniest bit like his body’s already anticipating what’s coming.
When I unbutton his jeans, I do it slowly. My fingers tease over the growing bulge until he hisses, his stomach flexing tight. I free him, thick and gorgeous and already hard. I wrap my hand around the base before taking just the tip of him into my mouth.
I don’t move.
I just hold him there. Warm. Wet. Still. My lips seal around him, tongue barely shifting underneath, and I feel the tremor that rolls through his thighs like a live wire.
“Fuck—” His voice is hoarse. Like he’s barely holding it together. “Brynn, what are you doing to me?”
My hands anchor on his hips, not restricting—just grounding. I stay still, just feeling the weight of his cock against my tongue. I let the moment stretch and smolder. His cock pulses against my tongue, desperate for friction, but I don’t give in.
I feel him fight it—feel the restraint shaking through his entire frame. One of his hands fists in my hair, not pulling, just holding like he might fall apart if he lets go.
