Page 55 of If He Hadn't Cheated
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Knox takes me to a quiet wine bar on Friday night, the kind that feels like a secret. There’s a tiny table in the back, candlelight flickering between us. His jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms.
I spend half the night trying not to stare.
But he notices.
“Lana,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “you keep looking at me like that and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”
Heat pools in my stomach. I look down. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
My breath catches. The conversation slips into something deeper, fears, regrets, old wounds. I tell him things I haven’t told anyone. He listens like each word matters.
When I mention how hard it was rebuilding myself after Sebastian, Knox’s expression darkens.
“He didn’t deserve you,” he says.
“I didn’t deserve that pain.”
“You deserved someone who saw you.”
I look up. His gaze is unwavering.
“I see you,” he whispers.
Something inside me cracks open.
After wine, we walk back to my building. The night is warm. The streetlights cast a soft glow over everything. Knox’s hand brushes mine once. Twice. Then he takes it. Not hesitantly. Not cautiously.
He weaves his fingers with mine like he’s been waiting years to do it. My heart stutters.
When we reach my door, he cups my jaw, pulling me close. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.
“I want this.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
The sound he makes is quiet, almost pained. His mouth meets mine, slow, deep, reverent. He walks me backward into my apartment without breaking the kiss. The door closes behind us.
Clothing falls. His hands roam my skin like he needs to memorize me. But the hunger is layered with something softer, something I don’t have a name for yet.
“Lana,” he whispers against my neck, “look at me.”
I do. And what I see in his eyes steals the air from my lungs. It’s not lust. Not just desire. It’s something deeper. Warmer. Something I’m terrified to believe in.
When he pushes inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, he whispers my name like a vow. Lifting me in the air, pressing me against the wall. He fucks me slow with deep strokes. My legs wrapped around his waist. His strong arms holding me in place like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
Afterward, he holds me against his chest, fingers tracing slow circles over my hip. We breathe together. Settle together. Exist together.
For the first time in a long time, my heart feels full.
Too full. And that terrifies me more than anything.
He doesn’t pull away the next morning. He wakes me with soft kisses down my shoulder. Makes coffee in my kitchen like he belongs there. Sits beside me on the couch, thigh pressed to mine, his hand resting on my knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
