Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 150

I swear, in all my life, I’ve never been this hungry to kiss someone. It’s like the oxygen in my body is burning up just from holding back. I want her mouth. Her skin. All of her.

But I have to control myself and wait.

“I feel like you thought I was going to say no,” Sloane says. “You have this strange look in your eyes.”

“You’re unpredictable.”

“Really?”

“I don’t always know what’s running through that pretty head of yours.”

She grins. “You’re right. Because at this moment, I’m wondering why this behemoth of a man that I love is holding a ring before me and isn’t on his knees yet.”

That earns a laugh from me.

And I don’t waste another second.

Without taking my eyes off her, I lower myself down on one knee.

“Sloane Mercer,” I say. “My dearest bunny. The love of my life. Will you marry me?”

She screams.

It’s not a delicate sound. Not a whimper. A full-on scream that echoes against the water. Then she starts jumping—literally jumping up and down like her feet can’t stay on the ground.

I laugh. I can't help it.

“Yes, yes, yes!” she says, finally stopping to catch her breath. “I’ll marry you, Knox Hartley. Put that damn ring on me!”

I rise to my feet, take the ring from the box, and slide it onto her finger.

It fits her just as I knew it would.

The moment it’s in place, I don’t think. I just move. One arm goes around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. The other tangles in her hair, gripping it so tightly I’m probably pulling at the scalp. But she doesn’t care.

Neither do I.

I crush my mouth to hers, and it’s the hungriest kiss we’ve ever had. All teeth and tongue and need. She matches me perfectly, always does. Her arms fly around my neck, legs lock around my waist, and she’s clinging to me like she never wants to let go.

She moans into my mouth, and I swallow the sound, groaning back. Our tongues tangle together, desperate and messy. We’re barely stopping to breathe, just panting against each other’s lips before diving back in.

Her taste, her sounds, the way she feels pressed against me—it’s driving me crazy. I could kiss her like this forever. Would, if we weren’t standing on a public street.

When we break apart, she doesn’t try to get down. Just slumps against me, face buried in my neck. Her breath is hot on my skin, and she fits right there.

I start walking us back toward the car, holding her in my arms.

“Those aren’t vows,” I correct her. “They’re facts.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, facts don’t need faith. They just are. Vows are promises about the future, things you hope you’ll be able to keep. But what I just said? That’s not hope. That’s certainty. I have all the faith in the world in my ability to keep loving you no matter what life throws at us.”

She’s quiet for a second, then mutters, “Damn. Who knew my future husband was a Gandhi?”

I laugh out loud. “You have uncovered my secret ancestry.”

And because I can’t help myself—because I’m high on her yes and drunk on her laughter and feeling more alive than I have in years—I break into the most ridiculous, off-key imitation of an Indian song I can manage, complete with a terrible accent that would probably offend half the subcontinent.

Sloane’s entire body shakes as she laughs, and I swear I could bottle that sound. Keep it with me forever. Her warmth. Her joy. Her whole body vibrating against mine.

I almost don’t want to put her down when we get to the car. For a moment, I seriously consider the logistics of just driving home with her still clinging to me and straddling my lap like she’s the seatbelt.

That’s the kind of reckless, selfish thinking that gets people crashing into streetlights.

So I force myself to let go, to unhook her legs and guide her into the passenger seat as a sane, responsible adult. She’s still smiling as I lean in and press a soft kiss to her lips. Just one more, because I can’t not. Then I bend a little further and kiss her ring finger, sealing that promise the old-fashioned way.

I shut the door gently and circle around to the driver’s side, already itching to get us home.