Page 81 of Knot the Last Chapter

I shake my head slowly, cheeks flushed. “I thought I was. But…”

His hands still, resting flat against my lower back. “You’re safe,” he says softly. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You already are.”

He shifts closer, the warmth of his body seeping between us. “It’s hard not to want more,” he admits. “After hearing you like that. Knowing you’re mine too, even if you haven’t said it yet.”

I glance over my shoulder at him, meeting his eyes. They’re dark and full of something I can’t quite name—longing, maybe. Hunger. But also patience.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.

“That’s okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And with that, he leans in and presses a kiss to my shoulder—light, reverent, just enough to make my heart flutter.

His hands slide up once more, kneading the tension from my neck until my head tips back into his chest. I exhale softly, eyes fluttering closed.

The ache in my body begins to ease. The fire of my heat settles, just slightly, under his touch. And for the first time since the storm began, I feel like I can breathe.

Tyler's hands are still on me, but the massage has shifted into something slower, something more indulgent. It’s no longer about loosening knots or releasing tension—it’s about pleasurenow. Pure, languid pleasure. The kind that sinks into your bones and blooms under your skin like heat from a sun-warmed stone.

He kisses the back of my neck, lips barely brushing the spot just beneath my hairline. I shudder, pressing back into him without thinking. His hands slide down, not rushing, not claiming—just exploring, learning the shape of me with the kind of attention that makes my pulse flutter.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice a rasp.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”

His hands trail lower, skimming over my waist, my hips. When they slide beneath the hem of my oversized shirt, I gasp—but don’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him. My heat has coiled again, molten and hungry, and his scent only stokes it higher. It’s rich with need now, threaded with the sweet-spice edge of restraint. Like cinnamon held just above a flame.

He helps me shift so I’m lying on my back, eyes locked on his. The way he looks at me—like I’m something rare, something his—steals my breath. His hands never leave me, stroking my belly, stoking my heat, my skin tingling, desperate for more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, lowering himself over me.

I arch slightly, craving more. “Tyler—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

He kisses me then. Slow. Intentional. His mouth moves against mine like he’s savoring every second, like every brush of his lips is something to memorize. His hand slides to my wrist, then the other. He gently guides them above my head and pins them there with one strong hand.

“Still okay?” he asks.

I nod, breathless. “Yes.”

“I want to see you undone,” he says, eyes burning. “But I want to take my time.”

He kisses down my neck, then lower, slowly, like each inch of skin deserves his attention. My shirt is pushed up, baring mystomach, then my chest. His mouth follows, hot and soft, lips brushing across my breasts with torturous patience. I whimper, writhing beneath him.

He pauses, then murmurs, “I could tie you up, if you want, plot bunny. Give you something to press against.”

My pulse spikes. I nod, biting my lip. “Yes.”

He rises smoothly, rummaging through the dresser drawer, and returns with silk scarves—soft, strong. He looks at me, waiting for confirmation.

“I trust you,” I whisper.

That earns me another deep, searing kiss.

He binds me slowly, making sure the ties are snug but not harsh. My wrists are secured above me to the headboard, and he pauses to press a kiss to each one. Then he kneels between my legs, pulling my sleep shorts down with devastating care, as if unwrapping something sacred.