Page 11 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER TEN

Josie

The second his lips brush mine, it’s like my heart detonates. A quiet fuse that’s been hissing under the surface all day, finally surrendering to the spark.

It’s not a kiss. Not right away.

It’s a promise. A threat. A tease of the chaos he’s about to unleash.

And then…

It is a kiss.

Fierce and hungry. Tongue sliding against mine, lips claiming like he owns the air I breathe. Nothing soft. Nothing careful.

I gasp into it, but he doesn't give me a second to catch up. His mouth slams down over mine again, rough and insistent, stealing every thought I have left. My knees buckle. My spine arches into him like my body already knows he’s the only thing holding me upright.

His hands are everywhere, gripping my waist, palming my ass, sliding under the hem of my shirt to find bare skin. He drags one hand up my back, the other burying in my hair and fisting tight like he's afraid I might vanish if he lets go.

“Knox.” I pant his name like a prayer I forgot I knew.

He groans low in his throat, pure need vibrating out of him. One hand grips my jaw, tilting my face to kiss me deeper, harder, while the other grabs my hip, dragging me flush against him.

And damn, he’s already hard. Thick and straining against his jeans, pressing right where I need him.

The prep kitchen disappears, just stainless steel and spice, and the heat of his body pressed to mine.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls into my mouth, voice shredded with restraint.

But I don’t.

I won’t.

Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and yank, frustrated that it’s still between us. He strips it off in one fluid motion, and I stare, shameless and starving.

He’s broad and inked and built like temptation incarnate, like someone designed him to ruin me on sight.

And then his hands are back, tugging at the tie of my apron, pushing it aside. My shirt comes next, pulled up over my head, and then his fingers are at the waistband of my pants.

I shiver as he drags them down, underwear and all, baring me to the cool kitchen air and his blazing gaze.

He leans in again, and I manage to scramble up onto the counter without breaking the kiss, legs spreading instinctively to make room for him. My hands tangle in his hair, tugging him close, needing more… all of him.

His mouth trails fire down my throat, pausing at the hollow of my collarbones, then lower.

“You taste like tomatoes,” he says against my skin, smirking.

I laugh, breathless. “You complainin’?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

Then he drops to his knees.

Right there. In the middle of the kitchen.

My breath catches.

He kisses up the inside of my thigh, slow and sinful, watching me the whole time.

Tension builds in my gut as he takes his time, teasing his way closer to my aching center.

I grip the counter behind me, knuckles white as he licks a single, devastating line up my slit, tongue flattening at the end to flick my clit.

My whole body jerks.

“Holy shit ,” I gasp, thighs trembling around his head.

He groans against me, like the taste alone is driving him insane. Then he does it again. And again. Licking, teasing, sucking in rhythm until my hips are grinding against his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue.

“Knox.”

I cry out when he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right as his mouth works me in tandem. My head falls back, spine arching, every nerve singing.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, fingers still thrusting deep. “Want to feel you fall apart.”

And then he gives it to me.

Full pressure. Unrelenting. His tongue flicking my clit with ruthless focus, sucking and licking and owning me until that tightly coiled pressure inside me snaps.

I come with a cry, loud and raw, back bowing off the counter, thighs clamping around his head. My fingers yank hard in his hair, holding him there, needing him there as the orgasm crashes through me, fierce and wild.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going, licking through every pulse and twitch, fingers still sliding in and out, drawing it out until I’m shaking all over, a breathless, gasping mess, skin flushed and drenched in heat.

Only when I’m reduced to trembling limbs and broken moans does he finally rise, mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild with want.

And he smiles.

He kisses his way back up my body, slowly, lips dragging heat over every inch of skin. He lingers at my stomach, my ribs, the soft swell of my breasts, tasting, teasing, making sure I feel every second of it.

But I can’t stay still.

My hands, still shaky, roam down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, the ink that winds like temptation across his skin. Lower, past the ridges of his abs, until I reach the waistband of his jeans.

He groans the second I touch him there, my palm pressing over the thick length straining against denim.

“Josie,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“I need to feel you,” I whisper, fingers fumbling with the button, then the zipper, driven by a hunger that feels bigger than both of us.

He helps me, barely. Just enough to shove his jeans and boxers down far enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and thick and already slick at the tip.

Damn, he’s beautiful.

I wrap my hand around him, and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward like he’s been waiting for this as badly as I have. He’s hot in my hand, heavy, the skin like velvet over steel, pulsing with need.

“You’ve been torturing me,” I murmur, stroking him slow, watching the way his breath catches, the way his jaw locks.

He growls low, hips thrusting into my grip. “That makes two of us.”

I tighten my hold, dragging my thumb over the head just to watch his eyes flutter shut. He’s undone. Completely.

And I did that.

A rush of power floods me. He’s always been in control. Always so steady. But here, now, he’s unraveling for me.

I stroke him again, slow at first, savoring the weight of him in my hand, the way he responds to every movement, every squeeze, every twist of my wrist, every pass of my thumb over that slick crown.

“Fuck, Josie,” he groans, bracing a hand against the counter, his body taut with restraint. “You’re gonna kill me. But first, I need to fuck you.”

My hand falls away, because fucking hell I need that too.

By the time his mouth is back on mine, I’m wrecked. Boneless. Floating somewhere between bliss and madness. But I kiss him like I’m still on fire, grasping, greedy, desperate for more.

I want to feel him. All of him. Inside me. Against me. I want to drown in this.

Even if it isn’t the best idea.

His mouth slants over mine again, deeper this time. Darker. I can taste myself on his lips, hot, slick, a little wild.

“No rush,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, threaded with pure sin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

The words hit like a live wire, sizzling through my blood.

He straightens, still panting, and glances around the kitchen. His gaze shifts, heat giving way to something even more dangerous: curiosity. Intention.

He scans the counters like he’s hunting.

“Stay there,” he says, and the command in his voice sends a fresh pulse straight between my legs.

I don’t move. Can’t.

I watch him stride over to the drawers like he owns me, and when he turns around holding a pastry brush, I blink.

My brows lift. “You’re not about to baste me like a roast chicken, are you?”

His grin is pure sin. Slow and wicked.

“Not unless you ask nicely.”

He dips the brush into a small ramekin on the counter, honey, I think, warm and golden, probably something we were going to glaze the pecan tart with, and my mouth goes dry.

Then he comes back to me, stepping between my open thighs, brush in hand, eyes locked on mine like I’m the dessert now.

“Trust me?” he asks, voice pitched low. Intimate.

I nod. I don’t even think.

The first stroke is barely there. A light, sensual glide of the warm brush just below my collarbone. Sticky and sweet and unexpected.

I shiver.

And then his mouth is on me again, tongue lapping it away with a low groan, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck, you taste better than anything I’ve ever made,” he mutters against my skin.

Then another line, lower this time. Between my breasts. He paints teasingly, watching the trail bead and drip just slightly before he bends to lick it clean.

I gasp, arching into him, every part of me strung tight with need.

He brushes again, over the swell of my breast this time, right above the nipple. And when he licks it off, his mouth lingers, lips dragging over sensitive skin before sucking the peak into his mouth, hot and wet.

I moan, loud and breathless, hips shifting against the counter.

“More?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked, the brush poised again in his hand like a paintbrush over canvas.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Fuck, yes.”

He paints a line down my stomach, slow and hot, watching my body react, my muscles flutter under the sensation.

And then… lower.

He meets my eyes as he dips the brush between my thighs, the bristles warm and slick as they stroke over swollen, sensitive flesh.

I suck in a breath so hard it feels like it might break me.

He watches every second, how I shake, how I spread wider for him without thinking, how wet I already am.

And then his mouth replaces the brush.

He licks the honey from my pussy like it’s the finest thing he’s ever tasted, slow and filthy and relentless. His tongue slides through me, swirling over my clit, then back down to fuck me with long, languid strokes.

The counter is digging into my spine, but I can’t care. I’m too far gone, a moaning, trembling mess under his mouth.

“Fuck, Knox.”

I’m gasping again, chest heaving, hips rolling on the cool steel countertop as he drags me through sensation after sensation.

The contrast of his warm tongue and the soft flick of the brush, sometimes featherlight, sometimes firm, is maddening. He alternates between pleasure and torment, between sweetness and heat, until I’m panting, moaning, pushing against the edge of sanity.