Chapter Seven

Knox

What the fuck am I doing?

“What the hell are you doing?” Eden’s demand coincides with the growled question ringing in my head.

And the answer to both? I have no damn clue.

This is what I get for acting on impulse. But lately, that seems to be my default with Eden. And it’s done nothing but get my tongue around her nipple, my finger in her pussy, and a fuckload of guilt crushing my chest. Control is a thing of the past with her. And that’s not good. At all. More than any other person, she’s the one I need to be most disciplined around. Hell, she needs me to be.

Frustration gathers inside me, shoving at my rib cage, and I clench my jaw, locking down the curses swarming up my throat. Dragging a hand down my face, I palm my keys. I should’ve just followed Jude and Simon out of the apartment.

Maybe that hadn’t been panic or fear I glimpsed in her eyes as my brothers and I headed out the door. And maybe those telltale signs of nerves were due to being alone with me. Not that I can blame her.

But still, something nags at me. Insists that those nerves aren’t because of me, but from being alone in a new place after the constant company of family for years.

And even suspecting she’s going to be sitting here in this apartment, lonely and nervous, has me making decisions that both of us will probably come to regret.

“Look, I’ll…” But as I consider starting toward the door, something flickers over her face. Lights up the depths of those dark chocolate eyes. Relief. The vise grip around my chest loosens, and I drop my keys on the small table she set next to the door. “I’ll take the couch.”

She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t recall—what? That couch is way too short for you,” she mutters, almost to herself.

The corner of my mouth twitches, but I stride past her before she can catch it. She might fight my staying, but she’s already agreed.

“I’ve slept on worse,” I reply with a shrug of a shoulder.

“I bet,” comes her low grumble behind me. Hold up. What the fuck does that mean? “Speaking of sleeping in other places,” she continues. “Shouldn’t you be headed to one of them? I’m sure your plans for the night didn’t include planting your Tormund Giantsbane body on my brand-new couch.”

I turn, scanning and taking in her irritated frown, the defensive cross of her arms…and her feet in third position. Returning my gaze to hers, I blink. “Lord of the Rings?”

Heaving a loud, world-weary sigh, she throws her arms up. “Seriously? Game of Thrones, you plebian.”

“Same thing.” I watch her. And wait.

Her eyes narrow, and fists finding her hips, she leans forward, the corner of her fuck-me mouth curling up in a sneer. There it is.

“No, it’s not the same thing,” she snaps. “Seven Kingdoms, Middle Earth. White Walkers, Orcs. Dragons—”

“Dragons,” I finish, arching an eyebrow.

“That was The Hobbit, not Lord of the Rings,” she mumbles. Then her chin jerks up, and she studies me for several long seconds before her lips twist into a small, wry smile. “Nicely done.”

I don’t reply; using the show to distract her was child’s play. Besides family, there’s one thing Eden is obsessively passionate about—Game of Thrones. In the past, I’ve tried to watch a few episodes of the first season with her. Couldn’t do it. Tapped out after Aquaman died.

I drop to the couch—and am now vividly aware of how much of it I take up. Where the hell did she get this thing? Little People ‘R’ Us?

“Why?” she quietly asks. “Why did you stay?”

The note of vulnerability in her voice has my fingers curling into my palms. I can’t touch her. Can’t smooth my thumb over the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Can’t trace the tempting dent above her top lip.

“Because you wouldn’t ask me to.” I give her back almost the same words she said in my apartment weeks ago. It’s stupid, mentioning that night, because I can’t think of that selfless, sweet, completely Eden embrace without remembering what came after it. And as I stare into her eyes, and they darken from brown to nearly black, I see the memories there. Whether she wants to recall them or not, she’s thinking about grinding on my thigh and then my cock.

When she turns away, rubbing her palms up and down her arms, I wonder if maybe her mind switched to when she froze after coming on my finger. And why.

“Do you want another beer?” she offers, heading toward the kitchen.

I doubt it’s a sudden thirst that propels her out of the room and away from me. But I don’t call her on it, because I need that space, too. Space and a couple of minutes to remind myself of why I’m here instead of at the bar with Jude and Simon, finding someone who can help me try to fuck Eden out of my system. It hasn’t happened yet. But who knows? Tonight could be the night.

Keep hope alive ‘n’ all that shit.

“Yeah, thanks,” I agree, picking up the remote off the coffee table in front of me. Out of habit, I search for the Cartoon Network. Many a night when insomnia has me in its grip, I’ve watched Japanese anime on this channel and my DVDs until dawn breaks. And now, as Sasuke Uchiha fills the screen, I lean forward, propping my arms on my thighs, and am immediately drawn into one of my favorites. The rogue ninja is in the middle of a fierce battle with his brother Itachi. I’ve seen the episode before, and this fight is one of the most epic in the entire Naruto series.

“I should’ve known better than to leave you alone with the television,” Eden drawls, reappearing next to the couch. I glance away from the screen long enough to accept the beer she extends toward me. “You’re lucky you helped me move. Or else I’d confiscate that remote.”

“It’s cute that you think you could,” I murmur as the battle and the episode comes to its conclusion on the screen. I click the guide button to see if another one is scheduled. Damn. No, but Hunter X Hunter is. Hunter Gon Freeces searching for his missing father is my next favorite show. Settling in, I stretch my arms along the arm and the back of the couch.

“Holy shit. Did you just”—she releases a loud, exaggerated gasp—“tease me?” She sets her own beer on the table—on top of a coaster—and runs to the window that looks out on West Newport Ave. What the fuck?

She jerks back the curtains and peers outside, her head swinging from left to right.

“What’s wrong? What’re you looking for?” I push up from the couch, halfway to my feet when she spins around to face me.

“I was looking for the rainbow-pooping unicorn and the pig with wings riding on its back. Because if you’re making jokes, they can’t be far behind.”

I stare at her, my brain taking a moment to catch up with her words. Laughter rolls up my chest, warm and a little unfamiliar. A chuckle escapes me, and shaking my head, I return to the sofa. A smile curves her lips, brightening her eyes until they’re soft like melted chocolate. God, that smile. It was the first thing about her that seized my attention five years ago.

Like some cliché romance movie shit, I’d glanced across the VIP section of the club where we’d gone after my fight and seen her. Standing uncertainly by the door with a friend, shoulders drawn back and tense, delicate chin lifted, body poised as if caught halfway between staying and bolting. All the people packed into that room, and it’d been her who had captured my attention.

Nah, that didn’t accurately describe what’d happened that night. She’d grabbed every sense, every heartbeat, every organ, every brain cell that made existing possible by the throat and forced them to function just for her. And all because of that smile of shy innocence tinged with the hint, the promise of untapped sensuality. And fuck, had I wanted to be the one to explore it, introduce her to it. Before I could reason with myself that this wasn’t some John Hughes ’80s movie, my feet had unglued themselves from the floor, and I’d headed across the room. Mine. The word—the claim—had echoed in my head like a hammer striking an anvil. Loud. Strident. And over and over.

Then Connor had stepped to her. Blocking my view.

Blocking me.

I blink, the memory shattering like glass but leaving behind just enough shards to remind me that like that night, I can’t have her now. Contrary to what my primitive mind had roared back then, she isn’t mine. Never has been.

Never will be.

“I need to sit down,” Eden says, retracing her steps and dropping onto the chair next to the end of the couch where I’m seated. She smirks, curling her legs under her. “I think you just smiled, and that could herald anything from a patch of the sky plummeting to a zombie apocalypse.”

Shaking my head, I take another sip of my beer. “I’m not that bad, Eden.”

Actually, I probably am. And from the arch of her eyebrow, she agrees with my inner-me.

“Umm, okay.” She snickers, reaching out and snagging the bottle she’d set on the coffee table. If God Himself beamed down on a highway paved in gold bricks and punched the shit out of me, I still couldn’t have stopped myself from staring at the gape in her V-neck T-shirt as she leans forward. Blood thunders in my veins. Yeah, the glimpse of sun-warmed sandy skin cupped by black lace would be worth that celestial haymaker.

“I can remember each and every time I’ve seen you smile,” she continues, tilting her head to the side. Peering at me with a scalpel-like perception that has me fighting not to gather up my shit and break the door down trying to get out.

I’m used to MMA fans recognizing me, ogling me, mentally weighing me. In the gym, in the ring, during an interview, and now, from a tattoo chair—they don’t bother me. I’ve become accustomed to it.

But sitting here, one-on-one in a small apartment with only feet of space between us, I feel exposed in a way standing in an Octagon with just a pair of shorts on and cameras and thousands of eyes focused on me never has.

And yet, I keep my ass on the cushion, pinned there by her admission. Why the fuck would she bother counting my smiles? Why would she care? My hungry curiosity trumps my sense of self-preservation.

“Three times.” She holds up two fingers. “When Connor graduated college and when Simon graduated high school.” Another finger pops up. “And when you won your last championship match.”

Shock snaps inside me like a plucked rubber band. Three times in the five years I’ve known her? I’ve never been gregarious like Simon, a flirt like Connor, or a charmer like Jude; I’ve always been intense, even before Dad died. And I know I can be a bit…stoic, but damn, that can’t be right.

“I’m not talking about casual grins or laughter like in the shop,” she explains, her gaze steady and unwavering on my face. “I’ve seen you do both more often, but even those aren’t a daily thing. I’m referring to the genuine, joy-filled, light-up-your-eyes smiles that remind me of the boy in that picture of you and your father hanging in your mother’s hallway.”

“Why remember at all?” I ask, resenting the gravel-rough quality to my voice. Resenting that inside my head I’m perched on this couch, arms propped on my thighs, leaning toward her and craving her answer.

She chuckles, the sound wry with the faintest trace of humor. “It’s hard to forget when you feel like you’ve been whacked on the back of your head with a two-by-four.” She gives another of those puffs of laughter. “I can usually recall why I was initially intimidated by you, but then there are moments like those and…” She shrugs. “Well, I clearly see that charisma is a Gordon family trait.”

I don’t know which revelation hits me hardest—that I intimidated her or that she finds me charismatic. And I do mean hit me. If I wasn’t already sitting, she would’ve knocked me on my ass.

“I’ve scared you?” So I guess I’m tackling the first. Maybe because the thought of her being frightened by me disgusts me. “When?” And why? What did I do? Swallowing down the need to pepper her with questions like an automatic weapon, I wait, tension damn near vibrating over my skin.

“The first time I saw you. You probably don’t remember,” she says, propping an elbow on the arm of the chair and cupping her chin. Like fuck. Every second of that night is etched into my memory. “My college roommate invited me along with her to the BFC event. Her boyfriend at the time was one of the fighters. We went to the afterparty at some club and were allowed in the VIP section. As soon as we entered, I noticed you. I mean, it would’ve been next to impossible not to. Everyone surrounded you or was trying to get closer. And you were…”

She shakes her head, the corner of her mouth quirking. “You. Huge, towering over almost everyone there. Hard. Impassive. But so damn intense. I remember thinking, please, God, don’t let him notice me. Because if you did, I would’ve hated to humiliate myself in front of all those people by fainting.” This time her chuckle possesses amusement. “You can be”—she pauses, slightly squints—“a lot to take in. To handle. It’s like you shrink the size of any room you enter, suck the air right out of it. That kind of intensity can be, uh, daunting.”

Hearing her initial impression of me stuns me into absolute stillness. It couldn’t be more different from mine of her if we’d planned it in advance. Shock filtered with veins of anger sits inside me like a block of ice. Is that really how she saw me? Sees me still?

Well, fuck, no wonder she fell for Connor. I’m the icy planet Neptune to his burning Venus. The moon to his sun.

“I’d have never hurt you,” I reply, forcing a calm into my voice that in no way reflects the tightness squeezing the hell out of my chest. “Then or now.”

“Of course not.” She frowns. “I knew that about five seconds after meeting you. Maybe I’ve been saying this wrong. You’re intense, and that’s not a bad thing. I’ve always felt safe with you. Protected,” she murmurs. “I just doubted my ability to not lose my mind if you actually turned that intensity on me.”

A serrated crack of laughter scrapes my throat, but at the last minute, I lock it down. Truth, I’d annihilate any motherfucker who dared to hurt her. But the joke’s on her, because I’m the biggest threat to her; I’m the wolf wrapped in a slightly less dangerous wolf’s pelt. I’d never physically harm her. Hell no. But I could tear her safe, familiar world apart. I could cost her the ones she loves, who love her. I could rip her from that existence of light and extinguish it with the darkness that coats me like thick, dirty oil. That’s what my lust would do if anyone ever found out how much I want her. Or, God forbid, believed she ever returned it.

“I’ve never been frightened of you,” she stresses in that same soft voice. It carries a hint of reluctance, of hesitancy as she adds, “At least, not in that way.”

The air in my lungs evaporates in the blast of heat that surges through me on a soundless, powerful roar. Every muscle tightens, except for my dick, which swells, thickens, blood pounding in it like the bass in a big-ass speaker. I don’t need her to explain that last cryptic remark. I decipher it clearly; if I harbored any doubts, the flush suddenly staining her cheekbones, and how she glances away from me, unable to meet my eyes when she hasn’t had any trouble until this moment, verifies my guess.

Yet, I still ask. Because masochistic, dirty bastard that I am, I need to hear it from her own mouth.

“How, then?” That’s all I get out, but it’s enough.

Her gaze flicks back to mine even as her elegant, long fingers toy with the label on the beer bottle. With how she’s tearing up the damp paper, I almost take pity on her and rescind the question. Almost. Add selfish to masochistic and dirty.

“The other night…” She falters, swallows. Begins again. “The other night at your apartment, was—”

“Forget it,” I grind out, interrupting her. “You don’t have to explain it to me.” I was wrong. I don’t want to hear her explain how my pushing her into that orgasm, manipulating her body so she didn’t think about my brother, scared her. I’ve beat myself bloody for it.

“Yes, I do.” Straightening, she bows her head, and her hair falls forward, partially concealing her face from me. My fingers tighten around my beer bottle, holding on. Either that or I’ll push them through those brown-almost-black strands, fist them, and drag her head back so she can’t hide from me. Which is completely hypocritical since all I’ve done from the moment we met is hide. “I should’ve said something that night, or at least the next day, but…”

She inhales, tilts her chin up, and meets my gaze. It’s steady, but I can read regret in the small crease between her eyebrows, the gathering shadows in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

Deliberately, I set the beer on the coffee table and settle my arms on my thighs. No way I heard her right. “What are you apologizing for?” I demand, my voice sharper than I intend.

“That I left, let you walk away from me believing that you were responsible for my reaction. That you’d done something wrong to cause it. When that’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

I’m shaking my head before she finishes talking. “Eden, you don’t have to say anything else. I didn’t—”

“Do anything I didn’t ask—no, beg for.” She cuts me short this time. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, and the need to stroke my thumb over the tender flesh, trace and smooth it with my tongue, has me scrubbing my hands down my thighs. “I started that, Knox, not you. And I wanted it. You didn’t force me into anything, didn’t take advantage, and I’m so sorry that I made you carry that burden. It’s just… It’s been two years since I’ve had sex. You might not know this, but Connor was my first—and my last. I wasn’t prepared for that to change. I had started to think I was. Especially since, in the past few months, I’ve stopped feeling so dead inside. Physically, I might’ve been ready, but mentally, emotionally? It caught me by surprise, and I had no defense. The grief, the anger of losing him, the guilt over another man touching me just crashed down, and I…” She trails off, lifting her hands, palms up. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Loving Connor? Missing him?” Her apology is absurd and unwarranted. Still… Jealousy stirs in my chest, a green-tinged spark I hate to admit is there, even while I love and miss my brother, too. “Eden, it’s not strange you would regret being with someone else.” If I hadn’t been so blinded my own lust and satisfaction at having my hands on her, in her, I might’ve predicted her reaction and avoided it by sending her home the moment she showed up on my doorstep. Vulnerable is not a word in my vocabulary—except when it comes to her.

Christ. The woman is my Bathsheba, my Delilah, my Mary all rolled into one. My weakness, my damnation…my strength.

“No,” she immediately objects. “I don’t regret it. As much as I might’ve wanted to close my eyes and not wake up when Connor died, I’m not dead.” Her low, hoarse words are daggers slicing through flesh and bone. The thought of losing her forever… I inhale. Deliberately push the breath out through my nose. Focus on her, because she’s the only thing chaining me to this couch.

“I need to know that I’m healing, that all parts of me are coming alive again,” she continues. “And you did that for me. It was just…a little overwhelming. A little scary.” She emits a breathless chuckle that smacks of self-deprecation, shrugging a shoulder. “I should’ve been prepared. I’ve seen how you…”

I slowly straighten, stiffening. And not just my erection. Tension invades my shoulders, my spine, my stomach. Every sense is tuned into her. I notice the slash of scarlet over her ripened-wheat skin. Hear the slight catch in her breath before she glances away from me. I even imagine I can detect the sharp scent of her embarrassment, as well as the arousal that has the pulse at the base of her neck working double time.

“Eden,” I rumble, her name a tumble of ragged edges in my chest. “You’ve seen what?” When she gives her head one hard shake, I call her again, not bothering—or able—to keep the razor edge from it. “Eden. You’ve. Seen. What?”

Slowly, she swings her gaze back to me, and there are nerves in those umber depths, nerves and mortification. And lust. Dark and bright at the same time. Shy and bold. The perfect dichotomy that is her.

“Tell me,” I order, lowering my voice but not eliminating the steel threading through it.

Fingers twist together in her lap. Shoulders draw back. “The night we went out to the bar to celebrate my new promotion, I saw you. In the storeroom. With a girl.” She swallows, and a very fine shiver runs over her. If every bit of my attention wasn’t focused on her, I might’ve missed it. But I don’t. And coupled with the flare of heat in her eyes, I can guess the origin of that shudder. It’s the same thing that has me so damn hard, my dick could be a newly discovered type of metal. “She was blowing you. Or you were holding her steady while you fucked her mouth. I’m still not sure which one.”

God. Damn. I remember the woman and the blow job she’s talking about. It’s all kinds of screwed up, but that wasn’t the first time I got head from a woman at a bar, club, or hell, even the gym. The women—we give each other pleasure. But we have a clear understanding that it’s only for those moments, that night and nothing beyond. The ugly, asshole-ish truth? None of them are memorable. Because none of them were Eden.

Yet, the thought of her watching me fuck a woman’s mouth, take her throat. The knowledge that she stood there and stared at me come…

A violent electrical storm barrels into the room and plows into me, lighting me up, setting me on fire, transforming me into a living, charged lightning rod.

Now is when I need to get to my feet, mutter a goodbye, and haul ass out of the apartment. Away from her. From the temptation of sin and guilt-ridden-but-dick-breaking sex. If I had any sense, any self-respect, any morals, any concern for other people rather than just myself, I would.

But I’m a stupid, contemptuous, depraved, self-serving fuck because I narrow my gaze on her and murmur, “But you want to find out, don’t you?”

Her eyes widen slightly, her nude, plump lips parting. I’ve caught her off guard, but, in seconds, arousal eclipses surprise in that deep, liquid stare. Still, it’s several long moments before she dips her head in a nod and breathes, “Yes.”

The force of the surging need and lust is a blinking, neon, billboard-sized clue that, again, I should leave. But right now, with her pulse dancing wildly in that dip above her collarbone, and when I can already feel those soft, explosive pants of hers against my lips, I’m willing to shove the consequences into the cross-that-bridge-when-I-come-to-it vault and lock the door.

“Tell me what you saw,” I demand, grit scouring my throat and voice.

“I-I already did…” she stammers.

“In detail. Tell me.”

Her lids briefly lower, and maybe I’ve pushed her too far. Shit, I’m probably—what was the word she used?—overwhelming her again.

I should pull back, grant her space and mercy.

Instead, I wait.

“She was on her knees in front of you,” she begins in a whisper-soft, halting voice. The tip of her tongue peeks out and sweeps the sensual curve of her bottom lip. I pull a submission hold on the growl churning in my chest and heading for my throat. But goddamn, I can practically feel that delicate caress, that puff of warm breath. “Your hand was wrapped around her hair, tugging her head back, and she…”

Eden shifts on the chair. Trying to get pressure on that pretty, fluttering clit? Attempting to ease the empty ache deep inside her? The questions—the answers—send another blast of heat streaming through my veins at warp speed.

“She, what?” I push, unable not to. Hearing her narrate this tale in that husky, low voice full of innocence and heavy with lust is ripping a hole in my gut.

“She was sucking you off. Hard. Deep. And you—” She pauses, and her gaze briefly dips before lifting to mine again. “And you were at her mercy. I saw your eyes, your face. She was kneeling, but your pleasure was hers. But at the same time, you were in control, your hold on her deciding how fast or slow. How much of you she took.” In a gesture that had to be unconscious, that was both seductive as hell and sweet, she brushes three of her fingers over her mouth. As if she’s feeling the stretch of her lips around my cock. “Even when she choked a little, she remained on her knees. Taking it.”

“Did she like it?” I press, the question barely audible to my own ears through the filter of dark, thick lust pounding in my head, my body.

“No,” she whispers without the slightest hesitation. “She loved it.” Her hand drops from her face and settles on her thigh, curling into a tight fist. “And I hated her,” she admits, her gaze entrapping me now. Fuck if I’m not a willing prisoner. It’s too late to look away, to leave. Much too late for that. “I hated her because I wanted to be her.”

I wanted to be her.

Her confession, though hushed, echoes in the room like a roar in a baseball stadium filled to maximum capacity.

I wanted to be her.

The irony of it all is, in my head, it probably was her.

That’s my MO. Close my eyes and imagine it’s Eden’s mouth sucking me dry. Her pussy I’m pounding into. Her ass I’m sliding in. Her screams assaulting my ears.

A shudder ripples through me, and maybe she sees it. Maybe she can peer beneath the quickly crumbling shields of my control and see the ever-present, always-hungry need to get my hands on her. Because seconds later, she’s off the chair and sinking to her knees in front of the couch. Between my legs.

“Let me be her,” she whispers.

The last charred vestiges of my conscience are screaming about my impending road trip to hell, but I still slide back on the couch until my spine hits the cushion and lower my hands to my belt. Unbuckle it. Unfasten the button at the waist of my jeans and tug down the zipper. The movements are perfunctory, deliberate. But Eden—her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling as if struggling to drag in air—contemplates me as if it’s some Magic Mike striptease.

Dipping inside my boxer briefs, I fist my erection. The rush of relief at squeezing my throbbing, hard-as-hell, hurting flesh has a groan scrabbling its way up my throat and rumbling out of me. And having her as my captive audience, having her pretty brown eyes fixated on my pumping hand only jacks the pleasure-with-a-bit-of-pain higher.

“Show me,” she says. And it’s not a plea. It’s a softly uttered order. And goddamn if that doesn’t stroke over me like an eager, warm tongue. Hers.

I shove the cotton and denim down, needing her to see all of me just as she’s demanded. Needing her to crave me with the same gnawing, unyielding greed that has been my normal for years.

Staring into those eyes that have both teased and tortured me, I stroke my fist over my length, slower, harder, letting her discover for herself how I like it. How I fuck my hand in the dead of night when only darkness and the image of her crowd into my head. How I squeeze my cock as if it’s her slick, tight flesh I’m barreling through.

Her short, harsh pants punctuate the air like small blasts. Her gaze flicks from my face to my dick, back to my face, then down again. Like she can’t decide which to stare at—can’t decide which she enjoys watching more. If I had her spread wide on my couch, jeans and underwear gone, I might have the same dilemma.

No, I wouldn’t. Her soft mouth, bold cheekbones, sprinkling of freckles, and expressive eyes would ensnare my rapt attention any day. But her naked, wet, swollen folds… Yeah, those would ride a damn close second.

Damn. I briefly close my eyes at the image of what she would look like vulnerable and exposed, offering that perfect sex to be claimed, corrupted, branded. Another groan rolls out of me as I enclose the tip, twisting.

“C’mere, Eden,” I beckon, curling the fingers of the hand not wrapped around my dick. “Touch me.”

Her long, elegant fingers with their bare, short nails splay on my jean-covered thighs, and the muscles involuntarily contract under her palms. Goddamn, I could come just from that light touch.

Clenching my jaw, I stare down at her, part of me reeling. After five years of secretly lusting after and longing for my brother’s wife, she’s kneeling before me, hunger darkening her gaze, her hands and mouth only inches from my dick. It’s as if I’m trapped in an alternate universe. Or caught in that murky place between deep sleep and awareness, where dreams and reality blend. And I’ll kill the motherfucker who dares to shake me awake.

“What do you want?” I ask her, surrendering to the pull of one of my guilty pleasures and burrowing my hand in her hair. The thick, heavy strands slide over my palm, in between my fingers, and my imagination starts to run amok. Picturing them gliding over my bare skin. Wrapping around my dick. My grip tightens at the vivid, dirty visuals, and her breath catches. Her lashes flutter, and a small whimper echoes between us. I harden even more at the obvious signs of pleasure. Because I can, I twist her hair around my hand, tugging again at her scalp. With another of those sweet, utterly sexy sounds, she leans into my hold. God, she’s perfect. “Tell me, Eden.” When her lashes lift but she hesitates, I urge, “Be brave.”

Yeah, I’m a hypocrite, since I’ve been a coward around this woman from day one. Moment one.

“I want—” She pauses. Drags in a breath and continues. “I want what you gave that other woman. You, in my mouth, your hand in my hair, guiding me, showing me what you need from me. No,” she says, her fingers curling into my thighs. “Taking what you need from me. Don’t be gentle. Don’t go easy because of who I am. Use me.”

Her words ran into one another the longer she spoke, as if she had to hurry and get them out. Didn’t matter; I heard each and every one of them. Damn. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. My control is slipping, like delicate tissue paper that is steadily tearing right down the middle. Only she could do this to me with just a whispered plea.

I rub my thumb across her bottom lip, tracing the curve, dipping the tip inside. The edge of her teeth grazes my flesh, and the sensation ripples over my erection. Anticipation rides me, drumming deep inside me, sizzling under my skin. A part of me wants to hold out a little longer, but damn that. I can’t. Not when I’ve been holding out for years.

Taking what you need… Don’t go easy… Use me.

The litany plays in my head, a filthy little jingle that’s quickly becoming my favorite tune.

I, again, wrap my fingers around the bottom half of my length, and draw her head down, down, down, until… Oh fuck.

Her lips kiss the head for a chest-squeezing moment before parting, opening, and I’m sinking into the wet heat of her mouth. My body goes as rigid as a statue. Christ. Our moans saturate the air, and as hers vibrates over my flesh, I can believe that she’s been waiting for this—wanting this—as much as I have. At least, with my dick encased in the sweetest suction, I don’t have to imagine it any longer.

She doesn’t wait for me to instruct her; her tongue slides over the swollen tip, smoothing, exploring. I don’t stop her. That would require moving. And paralyzed by such sharp pain-edged pleasure, I’m a willing prisoner of her mouth. She dips her head, taking more of me, that agile tongue torturing me with its long, greedy strokes. Only when she withdraws and the cool air whispers over my damp skin does my stupor shatter. With a growl that sounds too damn animalistic, I press her head lower, not easing until her lips bump my fist.

Shit. The sight of her stretched wide around my dick… No fantasy, no porno, none of my reality can compare to it. The dense fringe of her lashes fan against her skin, hiding her eyes from me, but the eager working of her tongue, the flush across her cheekbones, the bite of her nails through denim telegraph her pleasure. And then there are the moans adding another caress up and down my flesh. It’s so good.

I can’t tear my gaze away from her. Watching her slip and slide over me is hotter than the dirtiest sex I’ve ever had. I’ve never been closer to heaven than I am now. She’s further shredding my control, and it’s only been moments since she slid that beautiful, mind-bending mouth on me. Back and forth, she bobs over me, sucking, licking, goddamn worshipping. And fuck if she doesn’t make me feel like a god.

Electrical currents race and pop down my spine, culminating in a crackling pool at the base, in my balls. I grit my teeth, fighting the signal that orgasm is much closer than I want. Releasing my flesh, I thrust the other hand in her hair, both cradling her head and firmly holding her steady. Her eyes flicker to mine, and the lust raging through me rockets from consuming to combustible. Pleasure darkens her gaze so it appears black. A spark of impatience flashes in the depths, and in spite of the need digging its claws low in my gut, a corner of my mouth quirks into a tight smile as feral satisfaction curls in my chest.

“Open,” I order, not waiting for her obedience but rolling my hips up and nudging her lips. I press inside, pushing deeper, sinking more than half of my length inside her. She flattens her tongue, offering me a runway straight to the back of her throat. A groan tears from me, a reflection of my control ripping at the seams. “That’s it, baby. Let me in.” It’s a demand, a guttural plea.

Raising higher on her knees, she bends lower over me, and grateful, I lean down, press a kiss to her damp forehead. Then, straightening, I slowly guide her down my cock.

“Fuck,” I snap as the head bumps the entrance to her throat. She freezes, and I immediately pause. This can’t be the first time she’s deep-throated a man…can it? A visceral, primitive approval roars through me, reverberating in my head. I’m seconds from pounding on my chest like the caveman she’s transformed me into. “Easy,” I murmur, running a knuckle up and down the front of her neck. “Relax, baby. Breathe through your nose and relax. You can take me.”

Precious seconds pass as she visibly loosens under my hands, and only when she dips her head, do I stroke inside her again. And slip a little into that tight-as-fuck channel. I grunt, the only sound I’m capable of uttering. My lungs seize as I withdraw then press forward once more, taking another increment of her throat. Feeling it spasm and flutter around my tip.

“Goddamn,” I snarl. The last remnants of my control disintegrate, and my dick pistons in and out of her, fucking her. Use me. Use me. The words spur me on, and I take her at her word. Her nails pinch my thighs, but she doesn’t protest. No, she’s sucking at me like she can’t get enough, like her entire world has narrowed down to my flesh in her mouth.

Lightning snaps through me, and I hurtle toward an orgasm that might fucking kill me. My balls tighten and draw up, and if unclenching my teeth were a possibility, I would warn Eden about coming. About pouring down her throat. Ask if she’s okay with it. But I can’t, and I don’t.

It nails me, and I explode, growling through it like the beast I’ve called myself. From my brain to the hot, burning soles of my feet inside my boots, I’m land-locked by pleasure so keen, so sharp, it borders on pain. And I come so violently, a part of me recoils at what I’ve become. Some feral animal gripping his female tight as he pours into her over and over.

When I’m finally, finally spent, I release her head and fall against the back of the couch, harsh bellows bolting from my chest, residual pulses tripping over my skin, down my spine.

Eden places an absurdly gentle kiss on the tip, then lifts her head. With her flushed skin, swollen mouth, gleaming eyes, and tangled hair, she looks like a thoroughly defiled angel. Shame should be crawling in any second now, but I still reach down, ball her T-shirt in my fist, and drag her up my body. She willingly clambers onto my lap, straddling it. Even though I’ve just come hard enough to forget my own name, my dick thumps. And I can’t blame it. Her jeans may separate us, but I swear the heat of her penetrates the denim.

Tipping my head back, I tunnel my fingers through her hair once more. I can’t help myself. It’s fast becoming my new obsession. I want to see it tumbling down, draped over her shoulders and chest, playing hide-and-seek with her beautiful breasts, stuck to her sweat-dampened skin. I’m hungry to wrap the heavy weight of it around my fist and wrist, drag her head back, exposing that slender throat as I fuck her from behind. Yeah, obsession might not be strong enough of a word.

“Kiss me,” I rasp, fully aware the last time the words were spoken between us, it was me who turned tail and ran. Now could be the time when she decides to issue a little payback, and she would be in the right. But since only seconds ago she was tonguing my dick, I’m hoping she won’t. “Give me what my dick just had.”

She studies me, her gaze dropping to my mouth, then lower to my chest and my semi-hard flesh. When she returns her scrutiny to my face, I’m ready to take the kiss. Suddenly, I’m so starved for it, my gut clenches, going concave. Fuck it, I’m ready to beg.

Lowering her head, she puts her lips on me. But not on my mouth. On my chin. My jaw. My temple. She brushes a caress over the faded, decades-old scar right above my right eyebrow. My heart pounds at the tenderness, the affection in the light touches. Stop this shit, part of me barks. Hot, frenzied, filthy. That’s what I need, because I can’t afford to trick myself into believing she could care for me as more than her brother-in-law and a substitute for her vibrator. But the other part—that part that’s like a barren, parched, cracked wasteland—craves each soft sweep. Craves it like a man crawling through that wasteland, palms and feet bleeding, dying of thirst.

My eyelids receive the same gentle, but sensual, treatment. So does the small bump along the bridge of my nose. I hold my breath—literally hold my goddamn breath like some smitten teenager—when those lips hover above mine. And when that first sweet rub of her mouth to mine comes, a shudder ripples through my body, like a fucking earthquake, and as unmanning, as revealing as it is, I remain still, aching for another.

I’ve never had a kiss like this; I don’t think I’ve ever been innocent enough for one. This is the kind that curious, nervous strangers on a first date would share. The kind that says, I like you. I want to discover more about you. One, I’ve rarely been on a date, unless you count buying a woman a drink at a bar or club. And most of the women I’ve fucked could care less about finding out my likes, dislikes, favorite foods or movies. They liked my fame and loved my dick. And I didn’t care. Didn’t need anything more from them.

But Eden…

With a growl that generates from the swirling and ever-tightening knot in my chest, I jerk her head down. Desperate to banish that need for something more than this moment of lust-fueled insanity, I open my mouth under hers and drive my tongue between her lips. Hard. The growl rumbles into a groan at my first hit of her sweet, sultry taste. It’s instantly addictive, and though I’m licking the roof of her mouth and curling my tongue around hers, I’m already hurting for the next time, the next high.

There’s enough awareness, enough reason remaining in my head that if she had pulled back or resisted, I would’ve freed her. But no, God no, she’s all in. She meets me, thrusts, sucks, laps, nips—giving as good as I’m dishing out. And all with a sexy little whimper that I swallow and take as my due. Fingers tangled in my hair, her lips part wider, and she tilts her head to the side, deepening this mouth-fucking innocuously labeled a kiss. ’Cause we’re definitely fucking. Screwing. Getting wet, nasty, wild. Tongues glide, coil, and dance. Teeth clack. Lips slide and mate.

And below… Below, she’s rubbing that hot, no-doubt soaked sex over my thickening cock.

Dropping both hands to her ass, I cup the firm, rounded flesh and urge her on, helping her find a rhythm that has me gritting my teeth and rolling my hips to meet every downward stroke. I don’t give a damn that the denim is chafing my dick. The ball-tightening pleasure renders that small detail incidental.

“Touch me,” she whispers against my mouth on the tail end of a moan. “Please.”

I can’t resist her request or the ache throbbing in it.

Quickly unfastening her jeans and tugging them down a little, I slip one hand inside the denim and glide it over silken flesh. No way in hell can I resist not squeezing her pretty ass before sliding down until my fingertips tease the entrance to her sex. I circle the hole, eliciting a gasp from the woman twisting and bucking on my thighs.

That soft, hungry sound quivers between us, and it goads me on. I dip my other hand between the front of her jeans and lower belly, not stopping until I brush her sweet little clit. She jerks as if electrocuted, her back arching so hard she resembles a tightly drawn bow. Her fingernails dent my shoulders through my T-shirt, and I grunt at the slight sting. Savoring it. Hoping when I look in the mirror tomorrow, there are marks decorating my skin.

Not enough. Not enough. The words chant through my head, gaining volume and speed until it’s an erotic drumbeat against my skull. And I surrender to that call without putting up any fight.

I remove my hands from her, and her disappointed, frustrated whimper ends on a shocked note as I wrench her from my lap and swiftly switch positions with her. Settling her in the corner of the couch, I kneel on the floor and yank her jeans and panties down and off. She looses a strangled cry and tries to close her legs, tries to hide her bare sex from me. Tries. Because I don’t allow it.

Palming the insides of her thighs, I push them apart, widen them so I have an unhindered, front-seat view to the prettiest, lushest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever seen. Maybe because the dark curls and petal soft, swollen folds are drenched with evidence of the desire I’ve stirred in her. Maybe because her clit is engorged and pulsing, peeking out from between her lips.

Maybe because it’s Eden.

Bending my head, I trail my lips up her leg, nuzzling the crease where the limb and torso connect. Inhaling, I drag her heady, delicious scent into my lungs. Yeah, like I suspected. That peaches and summer heat is the same, just more condensed, muskier. Addictive. I haven’t even tasted her yet, but I know it will be. And I’m willing to die from the habit.

Growling, I dive in.

And lose myself.

Long licks up her slit. Thirsty pulls at the pink nub. Hard, insistent sucks at the folds several shades darker than her tan skin. Plunging thrusts of my tongue in her sex. Tilting her hips up and back, I angle my head and bury myself inside her. So good. So fucking good. I can’t get enough. God, I’m an animal. A ravenous, insatiable animal who can’t help but eat, feed, devour.

Her nails scrape over my scalp, score my shoulders. She undulates and writhes beneath my mouth—trying to get closer or escape me, shit, I don’t know. But since her choking screams pepper my ears, and she’s grinding her flesh against my mouth, I’m going with getting closer.

“Knox, oh God, please. Please. Harder. More,” she begs in a hoarse, almost broken voice.

Definitely getting closer.

I give her what she’s pleading for.

Without hesitation, I drive two fingers deep. And damn near howl at the immediate vise-grip of her slick, smooth, muscular walls. My cock, fully recovered and stiff against my lower stomach, pounds in jealousy. It wants in this snug, hot embrace. Yeah, can’t blame it.

Lowering my head, I trail the tip of my tongue along the path at the back of her pussy, following the smooth patch to the puckered hole hidden between her ass. She stiffens, displaying the first signs of uncertainty since I put my mouth on her. Doesn’t stop me from tracing the back entrance, from dipping just inside.

“Knox,” she objects, pushing at my head, and I lift my mouth but replace it with my finger. Not entering but tapping it, delicately circling it. Teasing her with the knowledge that I want in that forbidden tight channel I suspect no one has breached. The realization roars through me with a primal surge that should be a warning I’m headed too far, too deep into this…whatever it is between us.

Rearing up, I latch onto her clit, flick and stab the flesh with the stiffened point of my tongue. Abandoning her ass—for now—I shift my touch back to her sex and drive inside. Finger-fuck her. Goddamn. I could do this all night. Screw that. Forever. Just set up camp and establish a frontier town right here between her slender, toned thighs. But her steady stream of cries, her desperate clutching of my head and frantic thrusts of her hips telegraph she’s close and isn’t going to last. And no matter what I crave, she comes first. Besides, I long to feel that bruising, orgasmic grip again. Want to hear that keening wail. Am hungry to witness the flush and swell of her folds while in the middle of a release.

I capture her clit between my lips, graze it with my teeth. Lightly bite it. Just hard enough to inflict the edge of pain while my fingertips press against and massage that place high up in her core that will set her off like a bomb.

It does. She detonates. And it’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful.

I don’t let up on her, ensuring she receives every last shudder and shake. Only then do I reluctantly straighten, knowing surrender to the urge to continue licking and sucking might be too much for her sensitive flesh. The thought of her discomfort is the one thing that can curb this lust ripping at me.

Standing, I stare down at her. Half-naked, legs still sprawled wide, chest rising and falling on deep, loud breaths… Hair tousled and tangled around her shoulders, neck, and face… Eyes closed as she drifts off to sleep, lashes a dark fringe… For years, I’ve imagined how she’d looked after having my face between her legs, her taste in my mouth, on my tongue. Nothing my mind conjured can compare with reality. Those past images are blurred, black and white photos, while she is cast in such vivid color and HD clarity, it hurts my eyes.

Unease and a fuck load of What the hell am I doing? floods me in a roaring deluge.

Promise me. You promise me, Knox.

The words, the demand sneaks inside my head and refuses to be evicted. Tipping my head back, I wipe my palm across my lips and chin, smelling her on my skin, and it’s both a gift and an indictment. The roots of my disquiet and guilt burrow deeper, the gnarled vines twining around my rib cage, my heart, every organ. Because as pleasure and satisfaction ebb, I can’t block out the voice that whispers I had no business, no right touching her, enjoying her. That if she had any idea of the truth, there’s no way in hell she would’ve put her mouth on me. Let me put mine on her.

Eden, Jude, Simon, Jake—they’ve all assured me I shouldn’t carry the burden of Connor’s death. But none of them know I could’ve stopped that last fight, but I didn’t. Connor had been a good fighter; though he’d chosen to attend college, he’d always trained alongside me. And when he’d entered the BFC, he’d been more skilled than most rookies. But he hadn’t been ready for that match. Two years of fighting professionally hadn’t been long enough to face light heavyweight champion Jordan McNamara. But the powers that be had wanted to promote an event that included both Gordon brothers. Initially, I’d tried to talk Connor out of it, but he’d been stubborn, a trait all of us had inherited from Dad. The truth is, I’d had enough pull at the time that I could’ve had them cancel his match. Especially if I’d refused to fight.

But I hadn’t.

Several reasons had halted me from pulling that trigger: Connor would’ve been pissed, and that’s putting it lightly; I’d liked the idea of us fighting together in the same event for the first time; and preventing his fight from happening would’ve meant canceling mine. I hadn’t wanted to forfeit the match against Israel Clarkson, three-time former BFC heavyweight champion. Beating him would’ve helped solidify my reputation and career as one of the best in the sport.

Well, I had defeated Clarkson, and my brother had died.

Because of my ambition, I saved my title but lost one of the people I loved most.

And now, here I stand over his wife—the woman I’ve secretly coveted for five years—being selfish again.

I grind my teeth together so hard a twinge of discomfort echoes along my jaw.

If Eden had the full truth available to her—how I failed Connor, failed her, failed my family—would she have knelt so eagerly between my legs? Let me fill her mouth, take her throat? Allowed me to spread her open and fuck her with my tongue?

Or would she have leveled me with the grief, betrayal, and hate in her eyes that jerked me awake, sweating and heart hammering, in the middle of the night?

I don’t know.

But it doesn’t matter because there’s one certain thing that can’t be denied. I do know the truth. And I should’ve kept my distance from her. Maintained a brother-and-sister-in-law relationship. I don’t deserve to try and grab for more, even if it’s just realizing the fantasy of touching her.

Even if it means forcing distance, physical and emotional, between us, I have to—because indulging in this again isn’t an option.

Ignoring the aching clench in my chest, I bend down and slide my arms under her thighs and shoulders. She doesn’t lift her lashes but cuddles closer to me as I pick her up. The pinch tightens, but I head toward the short hallway off the living room. Seconds later, I enter her bedroom door and lay her on the bed Jude and I put together only an hour earlier.

She doesn’t wake as I slip the sheet over her and close the door behind me.

When she awakens, she’s probably going to feel abandoned and hurt that I left. And it’s a dick move considering what went down between us. But the alternative, dropping onto the mattress and wrapping my body around hers so my face is the first thing she sees in the morning, isn’t possible.

Not with a ghost and my guilt an indestructible wall between us.