Page 183 of What We Bury

“What, um . . . what time was that?” I inch closer again, heart hammering in my chest.

“If you’re asking if I’m aware you have guests, the answer is yes. I heard.”

Heat creeps up my neck as I think about him sitting out here listening. To the sounds I made. The things Milo and Holden said to me. The way the bed frame complained like it was filing a noise violation.

I take a step closer, into the thin spill of moonlight separating the kitchen from the living room. Knox watches me, gaze unwavering. The intensity of it does things—complicated, embarrassing things—somewhere deep in my chest.

“Did I embarrass myself?” I ask, half-joking, half-hoping he’ll say no. That he didn’t hear every sordid, needy sound that left my throat. That maybe the couch is soundproof and this whole conversation is unnecessary.

But Knox isn’t the kind of man who blinks away a hard truth.

“No.”

“Did it bother you?”

He considers that, silence stretching so long I start to feel like an idiot for asking.

“No.”

“Did it turn you on?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. But his thumb drags once over the inside of his wrist, slow and punishing, like he’s locking something down before it can show on his face.

“Go back to bed,” he says quietly. “They’ll be missing you.”

I take a step toward the couch. Then another. Knox watches me approach.

“What about me?” I say, stopping in front of him. Close enough to touch. “Maybe I’m missing you.”

Knox doesn’t answer me. Not with words.

He reaches up, fingers closing around my wrist, a gentle manacle, and pulls me in until I’m standing between his knees, cradled in the bracket of his body on the too-small couch.

“I haven’t seen you much lately.”

“Been busy. You have been too.”

I look at him for a long time. “Does it make you jealous?” I ask. “When I’m with them?” I incline my head toward my bedroom, where Milo and Holden are still asleep.

He shakes his head. “No.”

His grip stays on my wrist, thumb circling the skin there. Heavy, but not holding me hostage.

“You think it should,” he adds.

“No,” I say. “Not with us.”

His eyes hold mine, dark and steady. “They’re yours. So am I. Doesn’t make you less mine.”

“I’ve missed you,” I admit, surprised at how easy it is to say, even though it burns on my tongue. “You pulled away. I wanted to call, but I . . .” I pause as my mouth tugs into a smile. “Did the camera show have anything to do with you coming inside this time?”

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Might have played a role.”

I bite back a grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

His hands go to my hips, one on each side, huge and steady. The heat from his palms bleeds right through the thin cotton, burning into my skin. I feel it everywhere, all at once—the solid wall of his chest, the controlled power in his arms, the absolute stillness that makes every tiny movement feel seismic.