Free

Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

Charlie

Contentment isn’t a word I truly understood until now. I’ve used it before, imagined it, even convinced myself I’d felt it in fleeting moments. But here, in this quiet, sacred space where time feels suspended—Nick stretched out beside me, his body warm and steady under my touch—I know its truth.

It settles over me like sitting near the water on a cool afternoon, gentle and unassuming, wrapping around my soul in an unspoken embrace. Contentment isn’t loud or fleeting; it’s the soft exhale after holding your breath too long, the kind of peace that hums quietly in your chest, steady and sure. It’s the fullness of the moment, the way the heart feels when it stops searching, a quiet knowing that this—right here, right now—is enough.

I close my eyes and nestle closer into Nick’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat syncing with mine. The first light of dawn filters through the blinds, painting soft streaks of silver across the room. Sunshine shifts at the foot of the bed, her warmth grounding me as much as the man beside me. The air is thick with the musk of him—clean and earthy, with the faint scent of sleep and something achingly familiar. It’s a scent I never want to be without.

In this stillness, I am untouched by the weight of the world. The shoulds and coulds, the expectations I carry, they all feel so distant. Right now, there’s only him. Only us.

Nick stirs, his fingers brushing featherlight across my lower back, and a shiver races through me. My shirt has ridden up, baring my skin to his touch. That simple connection, his touch on me, ignites a spark that feels as though it’s been waiting for this exact moment to catch fire.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, soft and gravelly.

“Morning,” I whisper back, the word a quiet breath against his ear.

He pulls me closer, tucking me snugly into the curve of his body. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in an easy rhythm, one that lulls me into a sense of safety I never want to leave. For a moment, it feels like we could drift back into the haze of sleep, wrapped in the cocoon of each other. But then I lift my face to his, our noses brushing, the touch so delicate it feels like a secret passed between us.

I don’t resist the pull. I can’t. I brush my lips against his, teasing, and his breath hitches—deep and unsteady. His hands flatten against my back, their warmth a grounding force that anchors me in this moment, in the realness of him. Of us.

His lips find mine with certainty, and the world tilts beneath us, as if this kiss has shifted something I didn’t realize was out of place. Nick’s hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers threading gently through my hair as my leg drapes over his, bringing us impossibly closer. The sheets whisper softly around us, a conspiratorial sound that blends with the pale morning light and the quiet yearning that’s been simmering between us for far too long.

He kisses a line down my jaw, his lips trailing the length of my throat, igniting something primal in me. His touch, his heat—it fills every empty space inside me, knitting together all the fragments of who I was before him, who I am now with him.

His room, his scent, his shirt on my body, his skin beneath my fingertips. This isn’t just a moment. It’s a lifetime in the making. For the first time, I truly understand—feel it in my marrow—that we were always meant to arrive here. Every twist, every turn, every moment apart… they weren’t detours. They were steps. All of it leading to this.

To him.

To us.

It feels as inevitable as the pull of the ocean to the shore, as unyielding as gravity. As certain as the snowflakes that fall with silent grace each winter.

I was meant to be his.

He was meant to be mine.

We were meant to be together.

The thought settles, steady and unshakable, even as my body hums with need. I press closer, the warmth of him grounding me, the feel of his lips drawing me deeper. His name spills from my lips like a prayer, unbidden and sacred. When he whispers mine in return—low and thick, a promise wrapped in raw desire—the sound floods through me, igniting something visceral, something ancient and consuming.

I kiss him again, because I can. Because I need to. Because I’ve waited too long for this.

For him.

Nick’s fingers blaze a trail under my shirt, cupping a breast, kneading. A low groan rumbles in his throat and then he yanks the fabric over my head, nipping and sucking the tender flesh. I arch my back—more, Nick, more!—closing my eyes and inhaling deeply.

My fingers thread into his hair—yes, Nick, yes!—and his hands grip my waist.

He kisses down my body, my ribs, my belly. His fingers hook into my panties and he pulls them down, spreading my thighs and burying his face in my cleft.

I watch, greedy, hungry. His dark locks hanging over his face and then he sucks my clit into his mouth, fingers exploring, and starlight bursts through the edge of my vision like fireflies on a humid summer night. I arch and moan and—fuck, Nick, fuck!—my body clenches in sublime pleasure.

I’m panting.

I’m writhing.

I’m undone.

A woman I’ve never met before clenching Nick’s sheets in her fists.

“I need you,” I murmur. “All of you. I want you inside me.”

He lifts his face, dragging a hand along his mouth. He steps out of his sweats, his muscles flexing and bunching, his erection—thick and weighty—springing free. He stares down at me, eyes burning as the aftershocks of my orgasm shatter me.

“My God, you’re beautiful, Charlie.” He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between my legs. “This ankle,” he says, kissing the bone. “This calf. This thigh. This pussy.”

Each gets a kiss.

“This belly. These breasts. These lips.”

Nick pauses, hovering above me. “This face.” His eyes meet mine and something unlocks inside me, between us, an almost audible click shifting everything that happened leading up to this moment into before while everything yet to come is after . A delineation. A moment of great importance.

And here we are, in his bed on a perfect Sunday morning, anchored between it all.

“This heart,” he says, pressing a hand to my chest.

“This mind,” he says before kissing my forehead. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever met.”

He brushes a hand through my hair, then presses his forehead to mine, noses grazing as he reaches between us and guides himself into me.

His breath catches.

As does mine.

He glides along my inner walls, slowly, achingly slow. The world narrows to this single moment—his hips meeting mine, the press of skin against skin, our breath mingling in the charged air. Hearts hammering. Bodies trembling. The lines between us blurred until there is no him, no me, only us.

And then he moves.

A rhythm as old as time, his hips rolling with purpose, his lips seeking mine like a man starved. Gasps and moans fill the room, mingling with whispered names of deities and curses grinding past gritted teeth. My chest rises and falls, each breath catching, as waves of pleasure crash through me. They break me apart, only to rebuild me stronger, more whole than I ever imagined.

I cling to him, my fingers gripping his arms, the muscles taut and straining beneath my palms. His name is a litany on my lips, my anchor as the world tilts on its axis. His face twists in exquisite ecstasy, the raw intensity in his eyes holding mine captive, grounding me in the storm as I tumble over the edge once again.