Chapter Sixteen
Knox stomped up the last few steps to Darya’s apartment, shifted the sack of ingredients he’d pilfered from his and Beckett’s pantry to one hip and knocked on the front door.
Darya’s muffled voice sounded through the thick wooden door. “It’s open.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” he said under his breath and curled his hand around the knob. Sure enough, the damned thing twisted smooth as butter and whisked open without a sound. Even the POS security system he’d had Danny put in was silent.
He shut the door behind him, threw the bolt and punched in the code. “You want to tell me why your front door’s unlocked?”
The rush of running water sounded from her bathroom, but no answer came.
Knox stomped toward the open bathroom door. “Darya?”
The water stopped. “What?”
“Why the hell did you leave your front door unlocked?”
She stepped into view, not a stitch on except a fluffy white towel wrapped around her chest. “Because I just got out of the shower and I still needed to brush my teeth.” Her hair was wet, but combed through and swept to one side so it spilled over one breast and her face was completely void of makeup.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Stunning just the way God made her. He clenched his hand tighter against the brown paper bag filled with food and fought the need to toss the lot of it to the ground. To rip the offensive towel away, plant her ass on the sink behind her and sink his dick inside her right now.
“You’re running from someone,” he said instead.
The easy smile on her face disappeared, replaced with caution. “Was running.”
“What if whoever it is is still looking? I changed those locks and put that system in for a reason. You think it’s a good idea to just leave yourself exposed?”
She cocked her head and lowered her voice. “I saw you pull up in the parking lot. It was only unlocked from the time you got out until the time you walked through the door.” She gripped the top of the towel and shifted it as though making sure it was properly in place. “I wouldn’t take unnecessary risks.”
Of course, she wouldn’t. She was too smart for that. But he’d sure shown his ass storming in and jumping her shit. He dipped his chin and stepped away. It was either that or pull her against him and hold her there until his heart stopped its angry tantrum. “I’ll get the stuff set up.”
Not waiting for a response, he strode to the kitchen. He had everything unpacked and a skillet and casserole dish ready to go by the time Darya strolled toward the counter. He dumped the ground beef into the skillet, watching her from the corner of his eye.
She tilted the jar of spaghetti sauce back enough to check the label then shifted her attention to the crumpled and food-stained piece of paper beside it. Gently tracing one side, she said, “Whose recipe is this?”
“Momma McKee’s.”
Her head snapped up. “Who’s Momma McKee?”
He put the lid on the skillet and forced himself to face her. The full-on experience sucker punched him hard. Her feet were still bare, but she’d put on pale gray leggings that looked as soft as his down comforter at home and a worn oversize button-down that begged a man to unbutton it. Slowly. And it was thin. So much so, the light behind her just barely outlined the lower swell of one breast.
He cleared his throat and forced his brain back online. He’d just jumped all over her ass without even a hint of provocation, and here he was planning out how and when to get her undressed. “Axel’s mom.”
She smiled, the genuineness of it so open and sweet it moved through him like a cleansing rain, forgiving him and luring back out into the sunshine all in one sweep. “I’m not sure what is more surprising. That Axel has the type of mother to share recipes, or that you actually use them.”
He laughed at that, all the tension that had gripped him the last five minutes melting away along with it. “Actually, Sylvie almost never shares her recipes. She’d rather cook for us than make us self-sufficient, but she knows I’ve got a thing for fat and cheese.” He nodded to the piece of paper loosely pinched between her fingers. “She calls that one Bachelor Lasagna.”
Her mouth twitched. “So, you’ve actually made it?”
“Several times.” He backed away from the stove and motioned her into his place. “You think you can finish up while I work?”
She scanned the counter and glanced at the recipe. “I don’t see why not.”
He nodded and started to amble back to the living room and his backpack, but hesitated before he got more than three steps in. “Darya?”
She looked up from the stove, a spatula in one hand and the skillet lid in the other.
“I’m sorry I jumped your shit. I just...” Didn’t like the thought of some asshole getting his hands on her. Hell, he didn’t like the thought of anyone’s hands on her. Which was precisely what had driven him here tonight in the first place. “You need to be careful.”
Her gaze slid back to the stove, but not before he caught the surprise in her eyes. “Believe me. I’m very, very careful.”
Before things could dive any deeper into awkward, he snatched his backpack off the living room floor and unpacked his tools. As televisions went, hers wasn’t very big, but at least it wasn’t ancient. It was also lightweight, making sliding it and the ebony particleboard stand it sat on a breeze.
“What are you doing?” Darya said from behind him.
He froze for a second, considered tossing her some bullshit excuse then decided against it. “Fixing your lackluster cable selection.”
“But I can’t afford anything more than basic.”
She might not, but he could. And while he’d tried like hell to fight it the last seven days, he’d be blowing sunshine up his own ass if he didn’t admit he had every intention of spending at least a few more nights here. “You’re not going to pay a dime. Consider it a job perk,” he said to the now exposed connection. “Payback for putting up with my attitude this week.”
Her presence behind him stayed locked in place, but she kept her silence. At least at first. Then she nearly knocked him from his crouch to his knees with her soft voice. “You’re who you are and you’re taking a chance on me. That is benefit enough.” Her footsteps padded away a second later, leaving him alone with his swirling thoughts.
He really had been an ass. Cold. Insanely distant. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? He didn’t dare give in and make himself available for the same affection she gave everyone else. Let alone reciprocate it. That path spelled a hard ending that would kill him because he actually liked this woman. Respected the hell out of her intellect and her wit. Not to mention wanting to lock her up in a room, curl around her and indulge himself on her body.
Shaking off the round-and-round in his head, he screwed the faceplate back in place, gathered up his tools and put her furniture and TV back to rights. By the time he’d stowed things away and ambled into the kitchen to wash his hands, she’d already stowed the six pack of beer he’d brought, started building the layers in the casserole dish and had the skillet soaking in the sink. “Oven pre-heated?”
Her gaze slid to his hands under the cold water and her lips twitched. “Yes.”
What? She thought he had the manners of an oaf or something?
Well, okay. Maybe that had been the case the first few times he’d walked into Ninette and Sylvie’s kitchen, but they’d fixed that shit in short order. He killed the water and dried his hands. From this angle, her shirt didn’t give so much as a glimpse of what lay hidden beneath, but the hem danced around her mid-thigh with every move. He cocked his head, a dangerous but oh-so delicious idea blossoming in his head.
He snatched the foil she’d left on the opposite counter, slid it next to the casserole dish and moved in close behind her. “Thought you might need that.”
“Thank you.” So breathless. Very aware of his presence.
That was the best part, especially with Darya. The anticipation. The snap and burn that fired every time he so much as looked at her. He smoothed his hands down her hips then gathered the shirt up inch-by-inch.
Her back-and-forth as she spread the sauce on her last layer slowed, the spoon quivering in her grip. “What are you doing?”
Grazing his lips along the bared side of her neck, he inhaled deep. Her scent was stronger today. Must be the soap she used that gave her that winter rose smell. Or maybe her shampoo. Whatever it was was addictive. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings and eased them down, taking her panties with them. “Keep working.”
“Knox—” Her spoon clattered to the Formica, pasta sauce and cheese splattering the otherwise pristine surface. She gripped the counter’s edge tight and let out a shaky breath.
Dragging the plush fabric along her skin, he slowly crouched behind her. “Focus.”
“But you’re—”
“You get the food ready. I’ll get you ready. That simple.” He tapped one ankle. “Lift.”
She did as he asked then repeated the process for the other leg. God he loved her legs. Had ogled them in her insanely fuckable shoes every day at work, but seeing her barefoot like this—her delicate feet and bubblegum-painted toenails—he needed them wrapped around him, her heels digging into his ass. He smoothed his hands up the outside of her legs then teased the inside of her knees with his thumbs. “You’re not cooking.”
“I can’t...” Her hips tilted just a fraction, an innocent invitation he had no intention of taking. Yet. “It’s hard to think.”
“You don’t cook, we don’t eat. We don’t eat, we don’t fuck.” He pushed upright, taking his time as he did and making sure she felt every inch. Pressing tight to her back, he nuzzled her ear and murmured, “And I’m very much looking forward to the fucking part.” Giving in to the hard edge buzzing beneath his skin, he smacked her hip just hard enough to rip a gasp from her then forced himself to the fridge.
Beer in hand, he didn’t look back. Didn’t dare for fear he’d give into the impulse and take her right then and there. She’d already had fast and furious from him. Tonight he’d take his time and build her up. Build them both up until it was either come or combust.
He powered up the TV, ditched his boots and socks, and tucked them neatly out of the way. Even with a host of stations to keep him occupied, his mind seemed more in tune with the sounds coming from the kitchen than any visual on the screen. The muted creak of the oven door. Running water as she washed the dishes and the soft patter of her feet on the cheap linoleum as she tidied up the countertops.
The cable box glowed 7:45 p.m. in soft neon blue. Fifteen minutes since she’d put the food in to bake. A long time for a woman as efficient as Darya.
He took a slow pull off his beer. Distance between them was smart. He’d been the one to insist on it all week and she’d easily followed suit, but right now it sucked. Too much to ignore. “You gonna come out here and sit with me, or hide in there the rest of the thirty minutes left for it to cook?”
Silence answered back from the kitchen.
“Darya?”
She glided around the corner, the same indifferent smile she’d kept in place while working firmly in place.
Oh, fuck no. At work yes, but not here. Not now. He crooked his fingers. “C’mere.”
Gauging his place dead center on the couch then the two empty spots on either side of him, she crept forward. “What are you watching?”
Hell if he knew. All he’d done was punch the up button about a thousand times. “Nothing worth stopping for.”
She reached for the throw pillow beside him and moved it, making extra room for her to sit beside him.
He snatched her wrist before she could land, set his beer on the coffee table and guided her in between his legs.
She tried to tug her hand free, for all the good it did her. “What are you doing?”
“Got time to play. I’m going to enjoy it.” He tugged harder.
“But there’s not enough room.”
Easy enough to fix. He snatched the huge pillow that served as the back couch cushion and tossed it and the smaller pillow still in her hand to the floor. “There is now.” He scooted back, turned her with hands at her hips and pulled her ass down right between his thighs.
Her back was still ramrod straight, hands splayed on his knees as if she’d bolt at any moment.
Smoothing his hands up her arms, he worked his thumbs along the muscles between her neck and shoulders and urged her to recline against him. “Just relax.”
Bit-by-bit she gave in, melting against him on a soft sigh but keeping her head lolled forward to give him better room to work.
He chuckled and deepened his strokes. “Beck’s a task master with the workouts, huh?”
“Mmm.” As if his touch had totally unplugged her mind and left her floating on some distant cloud.
Which was completely weird, considering he’d never once touched a woman this way in his life. Not unless there was an orgasm imminent and her ass, tits or clit were the objects getting his attention. “You look good.”
The second it was out he nearly bit his tongue in half.
She tried to twist toward him, but he held her in place and kept rubbing. “What do you mean?”
Well, to hell with it. He’d already shown his hand anyway. “With the self-defense. You look good doing it.”
Her fingers pushed and pulled against the denim on his thighs, a mix of nervousness and a kitten kneading its soft bed before she settled in. “When did you see me?”
Fess up, buddy boy. You are who you are. “Only four rooms that don’t have cameras at work—the bathrooms and mine and Beckett’s offices.” He dragged his thumbs along either side of her spine down to her shoulder blades. Oh, yeah. Definitely no bra. And didn’t that make his dick give a celebratory high-five.
“You watched me?”
All. The. Damned. Time. Probably a little too much information, though. Better to hedge. “I watch everything.”
She nodded, but it was more of a tacit agreement not to push any more than confirmation she understood.
He didn’t blame her. Sometimes his incessant need to watch over the people he loved didn’t even make sense to him. Not that he loved Darya. She was just a good person he felt compelled to look out for. No different than any of his other employees—except for his obsessive need to be inside her.
“You and Beckett seem very close,” she said.
Knox shrugged and refocused on soothing the tight muscles along her delts. “He’s my brother.”
“But you’ve known him longer than the others.”
He froze, the unexpected observation jolting him out of the languid place they’d settled into. No one at the office knew about his history. No one period, save his family. “What makes you say that?”
She let her head fall back against his shoulder and lifted her beautiful blue gaze to his. “I don’t know. Maybe because you act like you’ve always known him.”
There it was. The astuteness that always amazed him. That grabbed him by the nuts as sure as her own hand. “Since I was ten.”
Her lips curved in a small smile, sweet as if he’d just given her a thoughtful gift. Before he could fully enjoy it, she rolled her head forward again and closed her eyes. “Were your families close?”
The chuckle that slipped free sounded bitter even to his own ears. “We didn’t have families. Not really.”
“Then where did you live?” Completely conversational. As if they were doing a code review instead of dredging up the worst stretch of his life.
But this was good. Maybe if she understood where he came from, she’d understand his lines a little better. Would excuse some of the harsh boundaries he needed to survive. Surely he could give her that much.
He swallowed hard, eyes on the beer his throat desperately needed, but in absolutely no hurry to lose the weight of her torso against him. “Hung out at Beckett’s house a lot. His mom bailed before I met him. His dad was a nasty drunk, but so long as we stayed out of his way he left us alone.”
“So, you lived with him?”
“Not officially, no.”
“Then where?”
He ran his palms along her shoulders, her uber-soft cotton top tickling his hands. It wasn’t a big deal. Or at least it wouldn’t be if he didn’t make it one. He forced his voice to stay even. “Foster homes.”
With the back of her head resting easy against his shoulder and her eyes closed, he watched her. Waited for some kind of response. A flinch or a scowl.
Her serenity never slipped. Not so much as a blip. “What happened to your family?”
“Don’t know who my dad was. Mom died when I was three. Drug overdose.”
Her eyes snapped open, locking on to his almost as fast. “Is that why you don’t take anything to help you sleep?”
Oh, yeah. Very astute. Dangerously so. As in time to get her on a different topic altogether.
He pulled in a slow breath, dipped his hands along her sides and splayed one against her belly. “You want to talk, tell me about your family.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “My life was very simple growing up. Poor, but simple. I was an only child, but I knew much love when my parents were alive.”
“They’re both gone?” Back and forth, he skated his thumb just inches below her breasts.
Her shoulders pressed gently against his chest. She wanted more. Badly. But she was fighting it just as hard as he was. “My father worked as a machinist. He died when I was thirteen. My mother secured me schooling in St. Petersburg shortly after.”
“Secured how?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and a shudder worked through her, this one having nothing to do with pleasure.
He froze. “Darya?”
She rolled her lips together, swallowed and opened her eyes. She met his stare head on. “My mother was very beautiful. With my father gone and no money, she felt it was better to use her assets in a way that would benefit her daughter than keep her pride. She traded herself in exchange for my education and my keeping.”
Jesus Christ.
He’d never had a family. No one but Beckett until Axel and Jace found them. But at least he’d never lost one. He pressed his palm against her belly, doing his best to let her know he was there and that he understood without crossing more lines than he already had. “Sounds like she loved you very much.”
“It was a tremendous gift.” A ferocity lit behind her eyes, the power of it billowing up like some determined goddess. “One I will never let go to waste.”
His hand moved without conscious direction from his head, sliding up between her breasts until he clasped her throat. Beneath his fingers and thumb, her pulse pounded through her carotid. But all he could focus on were her lips. Could only remember what they felt like against his. Soft and yet firm.
He never kissed. Not without sex and this was most definitely not sex. This was intimacy. Landmine-ridden, terrifying intimacy.
And he still wanted to claim her mouth. Devour and get lost in her taste.
The kitchen timer buzzed, an angry zing that barely penetrated despite the dangerous terrain. His gaze slipped to his possessive grip at her neck. Amazing how dark his skin was compared to hers, how rough against her soft flesh.
“I should get that,” she whispered.
She should. Because after that all bets were off. “Oh, yeah. It’s time to eat.”