Chapter 30
Saif bit and nibbled gently on her lower lip until she finally opened for him with a soft, trembling gasp.
The kiss deepened—hot, desperate, edged with the hunger of too many sleepless nights.
He had her. Finally. Right here in his arms. Everything he’d longed for, imagined, craved—she was kissing him back with that same ferocity, like she needed this as badly as he did.
And damn, she had to need this.
One arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand tangled in her hair, as if letting go would unravel him completely.
The moment pulsed between them, thick with memory and heat.
He couldn’t stop kissing her, even if he wanted to.
He’d meant to say something persuasive, something logical.
He was supposed to convince her to say yes—to his offer, to his house, to the life he wanted to build with her.
But her lips were soft and parted, her mouth tasted like cinnamon and hope, and all his carefully planned arguments scattered like dust.
The way she clung to him…
The way she pressed herself closer, like she couldn’t get enough of him…
It wrecked him.
For a full year, he'd been filled with anger—at her, at the world, at himself. When she left, he'd been furious. Not just because of the abandonment, but because he hadn’t understood why. She’d walked away, and he’d been left in a whirlwind of confusion and pain.
Now, with the truth between them, something inside him clicked into place.
The world made sense again.
But Jemma didn’t know that yet. She didn’t know how deep his feelings ran. She didn’t realize that this wasn’t just lust clawing its way to the surface—it was grief, hope, love, and everything in between, bleeding into his touch.
He needed her to see that.
He pulled his mouth from hers, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers for a beat. “Tell me you want this,” he rasped, his voice raw as his lips trailed down her neck. He found the sensitive spot just below her ear—the place that had always made her melt—and nipped at it gently.
Her gasp turned into a moan. “Yes,” she breathed, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if to anchor herself. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he staggered back a step, stunned by how right it felt to hold her like this again.
He caught himself, holding her tight, and carried her toward the stairs.
Each step was a reminder of everything he thought he’d lost.
He kicked the bedroom door shut behind them, his heart thundering as if it had something to prove.
For so long, he’d ached to have her back in his arms. Not just for the physical pleasure—though the sight of her flushed cheeks and parted lips made him wild—but for the rightness of it. She was his. She had always been his, even when she ran.
Now that she was here, touching him like this, looking at him like she still saw the man she once loved… he could barely breathe.
“Jemma,” he growled, his hands moving over her body with reverent urgency. He peeled off her shirt, as if fabric had suddenly become offensive to the skin. His hands trembled, not with nerves, but with the unbearable pressure of finally.
She reached for him, her hands just as eager, her breath ragged.
And as the last of her clothes fell away and he pulled her down into the bed with him, his only thought was: Please, let this be the beginning again—not the end.