Page 167 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

Somewhere across town Cade is finishing his shift, or maybe already done and still choosing the bar over this bed.

That’s his problem to solve.

I’m a team player by nature—always have been—but opportunities like this one don’t come twice.

I’m not losing it. Not again.

“Come up here,” I tell her. The words come out low, rough, an order more than a request. “Sit on my lap. I want to taste myself on your mouth.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

She never does when I use that voice. The obedience of it—the way she simply rises onto her knees and climbs over me like it’s the most natural thing in the world—sends a fresh surge of blood south.

My cock twitches hard against my stomach as she settles astride my thighs, naked and warm and still a little shaky from the last two rounds.

My eyes take the long way down her body.

Five years and she hasn’t let a single soft edge go to waste. The outline of her abs shows when she breathes, the kind of quiet strength that comes from hauling chairs and climbing ladders and never sitting still long enough for anyone to notice.

But the curve of her hips is still there, generous and familiar, the same place my hands used to settle when we danced in the kitchen of the old apartment. I don’t know when she finds the hours to keep herself like this between eleven weddings, a celebrity clientele, and the whole impossible schedule she’s been running.

I only know I’m grateful for every inch of it.

“Look at you,” I murmur, palms sliding up the outside of her thighs until they rest at her waist. “Still the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. Want to watch you bounce on my cock, Sweet Apricot. Want to feel you take every inch again.”

She giggles—low, throaty, pure seduction—and leans forward so her breasts brush my chest.

“Is that what you want, Mr. Shaw?”

“Fuck yeah.” My hands tighten on her hips. “Can’t get enough of our Sweetness.”

She reaches between us, wraps her fingers around me, and guides the head to her entrance.

She’s still slick from earlier, still open and soft, and the first slow inch of her sliding down draws a sound out of both of us that the walls of this rented house have never heard before. She takes her time, sinking lower in tiny increments, milking the throbbing shaft with the tight, rhythmic flutter of her walls until I’m buried to the root and my forehead is pressed to her collarbone.

“Fuck,” I groan against her skin. “Never fucking up again. You hear me? Never.”

She leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispers,

“Do you mean it?”

“Fuck yeah.” The words are half a growl, half a vow. “Every damn syllable.”

That’s all the permission she needs.

She starts to move—slow rolls of her hips at first, then longer rises and drops that let me watch every inch of my cock disappear inside her.

The wet sound of it fills the quiet room. Her scent blooms thicker with every bounce: apricot going sun-ripe and sweet, roses opening under heat, the soft vanilla undertone that always meant she was close.

Mine answers it—cedar and woodsmoke and black tea steeped strong—until the whole bedroom smells like the two of us tangled together again after too many years of empty air.

She works me higher, faster, her palms braced on my shoulders for leverage.

I last longer than I have any right to, given the night we’ve already had, but the sight of her above me—head tipped back, mouth open, that faint sheen of sweat catching the lamplight on the slope of her breasts—starts to unravel the last of my control.

When I feel the knot begin to swell again, I grip her ass with both hands, lift her just enough that I can meet every downward stroke with an upward thrust of my own.

“That’s it,” I grit out. “Take it. Use me.”