Page 104 of What We Bury

“Hey, you,” I say, stopping in front of him and craning my neck to look up at him.

Whatever he sees on my face makes his eyes darken. He takes my bag off my shoulder before I can argue, slings it over his own, and falls into step beside me without a word.

We move through the evening crowd, his bulk parting the foot traffic like a ship’s prow, and I study him sideways. The hard line of his jaw. The way his eyes never stop moving, cataloging threats I can’t see. The sheer size of him—he makes everyone else on the sidewalk look like children.

We walk in silence for a while, like neither of us wants to be the first to poke at it. Because there’s anitnow. Ever since yesterday. When he put his hand under my skirt in the alley behind the diner and gave me one of the most intense orgasms of my life.

And licked his fingers clean like he wanted me to watch exactly what I’d done to him.

My pulse kicks at the memory. Hard.

Knox glances down at me. “You’re quiet.”

“So are you.”

A rough sound leaves him—not quite a laugh, but close. “Thought you liked that.”

“I do.” I shove my hands in my jacket pockets. “Usually. Right now I’m trying to figure out if I should be embarrassed.”

“What for?”

Some people stare at him as we pass. It makes me proud in a way I can’t justify. I want to grab his arm and claim him on the open street just to see who’d dare look twice. I don’t. But I walk close enough to brush his sleeve, and every time I do, I swear he slows a little to keep me there.

“Yesterday.” I keep my eyes forward.

He doesn’t answer right away.

We pass a couple arguing outside a taco place, a woman in heels laughing too loudly into her phone, a guy on a bike who swerves when he clocks Knox and thinks better of mouthing off about it. Hunter Harbor at night is all salt air and neon and people pretending they aren’t a little feral after dark.

Finally, Knox says, “You asked for something. I gave it.”

That’s such a Knox answer I almost laugh.

“I know.” I glance up at him. “That’s sort of the problem.”

His brow dips. “Didn’t seem like a problem then.”

Heat floods my face so fast it feels violent.

“No,” I mutter. “It definitely did not.”

A tiny flicker of satisfaction moves through his expression. Barely there. But I catch it.

God. Him pleased with himself is unfairly hot.

“I just mean—” I exhale. “I don’t usually let men finger me in alleys behind my workplace. I’m trying to process the fact that apparently now I do.”

His mouth twitches.

“Funny?”

“A little.”

I elbow him. Or try to. It’s like elbowing a wall.

“That was a vulnerable confession, asshole.”

“You’re doing okay.”