Page 19
Chapter Eighteen
Viktor
Our next road trip is only three days long, but I’m desperate to get home. Things are finally going well with Knova, and I’m not about to screw it up by staying out late with the boys and missing a text that might start with “hey” and end in sex.
About an hour before we touch down, I get a message over the plane’s onboard Wi-Fi.
SuperKnova: ETA?
No1Viktor: An hour to the airport, and then I have to get home…
SuperKnova: Perfect. Don’t go out with the guys after, okay? I have plans for you
My heart does a triple axel. There’s no period at the end of her message, but I’m 99 percent sure it ends with an implied wink emoji and nudity.
SuperKnova: And text after you’re parked but BEFORE you come inside. Got it?
No1Viktor: Yes, ma’am.
“Hey.” Lenyx jabs his elbow into my ribs. “What’s with the goofy grin?”
I put my phone away before he can see who I’m talking to. “Cat videos,” I tell him. “I fucking love cats.”
It’s a throwaway excuse. One that immediately explodes in my face.
These guys don’t just like cats. They’re deep in the trenches of animal TikTok. Suddenly, I’m in a round table of grown men passionately debating the aesthetic merits of furry influencers, and I’m too far in to admit I was lying.
Walter. Milo the Chonk. Waffles. Nimbus. Veronica and the Baby Boo.
Lenyx’s eyes widen. “Me, too. What’s your favorite account? Do you follow Chubby Newton?”
“Chubby… Newton?” I repeat.
Camden’s head pops up over the seat behind me. “I love Chubby Newton. Did you see that his humans finally got him a cat tree? Watching that little chunker trying to climb it was hilarious.”
Ahead of us, Tristan pops his head over the back of the seat. “Chubby Newton’s fine, but have you seen the account with that hairless chihuahua?”
Lenyx rolls his eyes. “Narrow it down, man. There are a million of those.”
Camden, however, is already nodding. “You mean Buggy’s Outfit of the Week, right?”
Lenyx sucks in a breath. “I love Buggy. Best ‘fit?”
“Shark Week,” Camden and Tristan say in unison.
“I loved his little shark hat,” Tristan explains.
“It was the tiny shark booties for me,” Camden coos. “There’s just something about those widdle feet…”
I blink at them like I’ve accidentally wandered into an alternate universe where professional athletes worship frog fashion and dog booties. “What the actual hell are any of you talking about?”
“The best pet accounts on the ‘Gram,” Tristan says. “Duh.” He pivots in his chair. “Hey, Coach Grady! What’s your favorite animal account on socials?”
Across the aisle, Coach Grady rises to his feet. He purses his lips and rests his elbows on the back of the chair. “Let me get this straight. Are you asking me who my favorite animal celebrity is?”
“You have one, right?” Lenyx prompts.
Coach stares at us for a long moment. “Kermit,” he says at last.
“Like the Muppet?” Lenyx face-palms. “You’re so old, Coach. I meant—”
“Not the Muppet.”
Silence.
Coach pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times, then passes it to Tristan, who holds it up for the rest of us to see. On the screen, a tiny, fat desert rain frog is sitting at a frog-sized kitchen table in front of a toy tea set, wearing the world’s smallest bonnet.
“I gotta follow him,” Camden says at once.
Soon, all my teammates have their phones out so they can share their favorite cute animal videos. And here I was thinking that Lenyx wouldn’t fall for my offhand lie.
Camden’s completely right, by the way. Buggy’s Shark Week outfit is adorable. His bulging eyes and floppy, sideways tongue sticking out of his handmade shark hat are pretty darn cute, but it’s the tiny shark-shaped booties that bring the whole ensemble together.
Sometimes I am embarrassed to be the captain of this team, and it’s frog-loving leader.
But I still save the post. Not for me—okay, maybe a little for me—but mostly because I know Knova’s going to lose her shit when she sees it.
And yeah. That thought? That’s what really makes me smile like an idiot.
* * *
Just as Knova requested, I text as soon as I turn the car’s engine off. I gather all my travel crap out of the back seat like I’m in the last leg of an obstacle course, all adrenaline and tunnel vision. My body’s running on caffeine, plane pretzels, and the need to see her face. The car door slams shut just as my stomach rumbles loud enough to echo off the walls. I’m starving. I could murder a pizza right now.
The smell of beef, carrots, and herbs stops me in my tracks when I reach the front door. My stomach rumbles a second time in response. Did Knova… cook? I know she can—and sometimes, she doesn’t even burn the house down in the process—but other than simple breakfasts and the occasional hard-boiled egg, she hasn’t cooked much since she moved in. She certainly hasn’t cooked anything that smells like pot roast.
I drag my stuff inside and abandon it by the door, then follow my nose to the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Almost done,” Knova calls back. “Dinner will be ready in, hmm, ten minutes?”
“I thought you might be cooking, it smells ama—” I round the corner into the kitchen and flatline like I’ve been tasered. I trip over my own damn feet, catching the edge of the doorway to stay upright, breath stolen and brain fried. “—zing,” I finish weakly, because holy hell, what else am I supposed to say when my wife looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, cooked up in a fever dream?
She’s standing at the counter in nothing but a 1950s-style apron, the pale pink fabric trimmed with tiny white ruffles and tied in perfect bows—one at the back of her neck and another around her waist. That’s it. That’s the whole outfit. Her bare skin glows warm in the golden light of the kitchen, and when she glances back at me over her shoulder, she looks positively edible.
“Welcome home, honey,” she purrs.
“What is this?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again. “Not that I’m complaining—at all—but is there a special occasion? Are we celebrating? Did you win the lottery? Are you the lottery?”
Knova turns slowly, giving me a full view. The apron hangs just high enough to flash the curve of her hips and the shadowed cleft between her thighs. I catch a glint of moisture there—just the barest shimmer—and my brain flatlines again. My cock surges so fast it’s like it’s trying to break out of my pants to greet her.
Her perfect, pink nipples peek through the thin fabric, clearly visible. I’d swear her skin’s flushed a shade deeper, and I can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the oven or the fact that she likes that I’m looking at her like this. Like I want to fall to my knees and worship.
“This,” she says with a smirk, “is the wife experience. I went traditional.”
“I feel like you missed the part where wives used to wear dresses with heels, but I am so not mad about that.”
I walk toward her, mesmerized, and then suddenly freeze—because right behind her, I see sunlight pouring in through the living room’s giant windows.
“Jesus, Knova,” I whisper, eyes darting to the sheer nothingness that separates us from our neighbors. “We still don’t have curtains. You’re putting on a private show for the whole damn neighborhood.”
She arches an eyebrow and points with her spatula. “We do now. I installed blinds this morning. You just haven’t noticed yet because you only look at me.”
“Fair point.”
“Focus, Abbott. I made beef stew and angel food cake. You can either eat like a king, or get handsy and risk getting burned.”
I trail my hand up her thigh anyway, fingers grazing the edge of that glistening heat. “Can’t I do both?”
Her breath hitches, her eyes darkening.
“I’ve been cooking all day.” She wiggles as if she’s trying to get away from me, but her apron comes untied in the process, slipping lower until her breasts are almost bared.
The oven timer goes off, and Knova darts forward to retrieve a pair of oven mitts that match the frilly floral design of her apron. Watching her bend over to retrieve the hot cake tin from the oven is a revelation. She slides the cake tin onto the butcher block and shuts off the oven.
“Okay, that’s everything. Now we can—”
I pull her back against me, so that her bare skin meets the front of my body with only my clothes between us for once. “Now,” I say, “we can leave the kitchen without burning the house down.”
Knova groans. “Are you ever going let that go?”
“Mm.” I kiss the back of her neck and let my hands roam beneath her apron. “Doubtful. The statute of limitations hasn’t passed yet.”
Bit by bit, Knova relaxes backward against me. My body responds instantly to her touch. I know she can feel it, but I guess she’s not so eager to argue tonight. “Even if I asked nicely?”
“Tell you what.” I cup her right breast and caress her nipple with my thumb. “I’ll stop teasing you about the fire if you’ll stop teasing me about my mom’s chapped nipples.”
Knova lets out a small sigh. “Never.”
“That’s what I thought.” I kiss her neck, her shoulder, her back. “So, speaking of wifely duties…”
Knova’s eyes snap open. “If you don’t eat dinner, there will be no dessert.”
“I can live with that.”
She turns, nudging me back toward the table. Her eyes rove over my outfit, which is… not the sexiest thing I could be wearing, honestly. My t-shirt and gym shorts were comfortable on the plane, but they don’t scream ‘seductive.’
“Sit,” she says.
I stumble back into one of the dining room chairs and reach for her, hoping to pull her into my lap. Knova stays just out of reach, her lips pressed together and her eyes fixed on my groin. She licks her lips before whispering, “Pull your shorts down.”
My heart does some weird constriction-stutter thing that leaves my hands shaking and my vision blurry. I do as she asks, leaving my extremely curious dick exposed. Come to think of it, that’s probably why I feel lightheaded. All of my blood flow has been diverted to my lower regions.
Knova studies me for a moment. A wicked smile flits across her face. She bites her lip and hooks one thumb beneath the ribbon holding her apron up. Her eyes lock with mine as she sinks to her knees and crawls toward me. The top hem of her apron falls open, giving me a better view of her small, pale breasts with their dark areolas stark against her skin. My breath hitches as she settles between my spread legs, reaching up to take my cock in hand, and opens her mouth. I groan as she sucks me between her lips, bobbing her head to take me deeper with each thrust. I automatically reach out to tangle my fingers in her hair and roll my hips until I’m fucking her throat.
My hands go to her ponytail, but instead of tugging, I take my time. I find the ribbon, pull it loose, and watch her hair spill free like a dark waterfall. My breath catches as I run my fingers through it, reverent at first—then rougher, hungrier. I fist a handful at the nape of her neck, anchoring her there while she sucks me deeper. My hips move on instinct, a slow, grinding roll as I fuck her throat with helpless devotion.
“Fuck, Knova.” My voice breaks on her name. “You feel so fucking amazing. You’re so good to me.”
My hands tremble in her hair. It’s not just the pleasure—though, holy hell, there’s plenty of that. It’s the way she looks up at me while she does it. Like she’s choosing this. Choosing me. She hums around my dick, and I shudder, already too close to the edge. Her touch ignites me every time, but having her mouth on me, watching her swallow me, all while staring into my eyes… It’s better than anything I’ve ever fantasized about. Then she trails one finger down behind my balls, stroking gently along my taint, and I nearly lose my goddamn mind.
I don’t just want Knova. I want her to stop pretending I’m not hers.
“That’s enough, babe,” I murmur. When she doesn’t let up, I pull her hair until she releases me from her mouth with a wet pop. “You’re so good at that. Let me be good to you, too.”
Knova licks her lips and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. “Is that part of the wife experience? Rumors led me to believe that sex was supposed to be all about a man’s pleasure. Did the ladies at my knitting circle mislead me?”
“You’re such a smartass,” I grumble. “Besides, getting you off gets me off. So let me taste you, wife.”
Knova’s eyes widen. She gets to her feet. “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”
“Nah. I don’t have the patience for that.”
“What do you—?”
I scoop her up and settle her on the edge of the kitchen table, spread her legs wide, and immediately bury my face between her thighs. Knova tangles her fingers in my hair. A few quick tugs make my brain short-circuit. I bury my tongue in her with a hunger that surprises both of us.
“Oh, fuck, Viktor,” Knova whines. Her cries intensify as I add my fingers, sliding them into her slick entrance while I lick and suck her clit. She’s so delicious. So fucking good, I can’t…
Knova comes hard, her muscles going so limp that if I weren’t holding her up, I’m pretty sure she’d slide right off the table. I pant against her cunt, still teasing her with my tongue, still licking into her even as she gradually relaxes above me.
Her fingers relax from their fists to pet my hair instead, and I let out a pained noise before I realize what’s happening. It’s just that she so rarely treats me with kindness, with affection, with love, that I’m a long way from taking it for granted.
She’s petting my hair like I’m something precious, like I matter, and my whole body goes tight with the effort not to fall apart. No one’s ever touched me like this—not with heat and softness braided together.
“Viktor,” she whispers, “I need you.”
I rise to my feet and push her backward so she lies flat. I lift her legs so that her ankles rest on my shoulders and enter her in a single firm thrust. Her hair falls all around her, and that damn apron covers nothing at all. I want to make this last, but as usual, I can barely control myself around her. With the color high in her cheeks and her swollen lips parted in pleasure, I’m already holding myself back.
She’s so fucking beautiful, and the feel of her, tight and hot around me, is almost too much to bear. I turn my head to the side and kiss her ankle, caressing her leg with one hand.
I don’t know if I can live without her.
Her body grips me like she doesn’t want to let go. And God, I don’t want her to. I want to freeze this exact moment in time, lock it inside me like a memory I can revisit when the world inevitably falls apart again.
The thought of losing her slams into me like a bodycheck from the universe. What if this is fleeting? What if she changes her mind? What if this isn’t real to her the way it’s becoming real to me? I have to grab the edge of the table to support myself. My distress must show in my face, because Knova makes a soft sound in the back of her throat and reaches up to cup my cheek. “Hey,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft, grounding. Her palm is even softer. “Stay with me.”
I move again, harder this time, rocking into her while she cradles my face in one palm. I look into her eyes when I come, and we feel so connected, I wonder if she can read my mind. This moment feels so perfect, like we’ve become more than two individuals. We’re something bigger now.
But I’m not done until she is.
Still buried deep, I shift my grip, one hand bracing her thigh as I slide the other down between us. My fingers find her clit, slick and swollen, and I start to circle. She gasps, legs tightening around me, and I keep going—steady, relentless. Her jaw drops. Her eyes flutter. She whispers my name like a prayer she’s too proud to say out loud.
I watch her come undone, right there on the kitchen table, body arching into mine, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. That’s when I know.
We’re not just a matched set.
We’re inevitable.