Chapter 27 #2
Remy chuckles against my mouth. “Guess we’re done for now.”
We end up on the rug in the middle of the library, Junie between us with a massive hardcover open on her lap. She’s so animated, reading aloud every other line, her little finger tracing the words as best she can.
Remy leans back on one hand, his thigh pressed against mine, the heat of him grounding me. I sneak a glance at him while Junie is reading, the strong line of his jaw, the way his mouth curves just a little when he watches her.
This man.
He catches me looking and smirks, mouthing, what?
Nothing, I mouth back, smiling.
He doesn’t look away for a long time.
When the story is over, Junie yawns so wide her jaw pops.
“Bedtime,” Remy says gently.
“Nooo,” Junie protests, flopping dramatically onto the rug. “I want to stay here with Ivy.”
I smooth her hair back from her face. “You will, bug. But you still need to sleep.”
“Fine,” she grumbles, climbing to her feet. She wraps her arms around my waist in a quick squeeze, then looks up at Remy. “Can Ivy tuck me in?”
He glances at me, and my chest goes warm.
“If she wants to,” he says.
“I do,” I say without hesitation.
Junie takes my hand and pulls me down the hall toward her room. I go through her routine with her and tuck her in under her quilt, and she looks up at me with sleepy eyes as she clutches Arnold, her narwhal.
“Are you really staying forever?” she whispers.
“Forever,” I promise.
“Good,” she murmurs, already drifting off. “I like when we’re all together.”
My throat feels tight as I brush a kiss across her hair and slip quietly out of the room.
When I turn back toward the library, Remy is leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching me with an expression that makes my knees feel loose.
“She loves you,” he says quietly.
I nod. “I love her, too.”
He straightens and comes closer, one step, then another, until my back finds the doorframe and my breath catches.
“You love me, too?” he asks, mouth tipping into that teasing half smile that always gets me.
“You know I do,” I whisper.
“Say it anyway.”
“I love you, Remington Bennett.”
His smile softens. He cups my face like it is something precious, and when he kisses me, it’s slow at first, a promise I can feel, then deeper, hotter, until the world narrows to the slide of his mouth and the careful way his hands anchor me. Home settles in my chest like a warm light.
“Come here,” he murmurs, and I nod because I don’t want to let him go. “I love you, Ivy Maren.”
He locks the door. The library is quiet and golden, the lamps casting pools of light across the stacks.
He backs me toward the reading nook by the window, hands skimming my waist, my hips, the curve of my back, remembering me again like he can’t help it.
I tug him closer by the collar, greedy for more, and he laughs under his breath, that deep, pleased sound that makes heat bloom under my skin.
We find each other by touch and memory. I taste winter on his mouth and the hint of coffee, and he tastes like the only place I want to be.
Here. With him. My sweater ends up on the arm of the chair.
His shirt falls to the floor. He lifts me easily, settling me on the wide window seat, and the glass fogs with our breath.
I hook my knees to bracket his hips. His palms span my thighs, warm and sure, and when he drags his mouth along my jaw to that spot beneath my ear, my head tips back on a sigh I cannot swallow.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, voice rough with it.
“You,” I breathe. “Just you.”
He gives me exactly that. No rush, no doubt, only the careful build of heat as his hands and his mouth follows, as my fingers map the breadth of his shoulders, the lines of his back, the steady thud of his heart under my palm.
I pull him closer, and he comes, meeting me in every place I ask, giving and taking equal measures until I’m shaking with it.
The world outside goes on. In here the only sound is our breathing and the soft creak of the window seat as we move together, slow and then not slow, careful and then not careful at all.
He holds my gaze when I unravel, eyes dark and tender, and I say his name on a gasp that feels like a prayer.
He follows me, head bowed to my shoulder, a quiet curse against my skin that turns into my name said like a vow.
After, he kisses my forehead and my cheeks and the corner of my mouth like he has time to trace every place I am smiling. Cool winter air radiates off of the window, making our hot bodies feel cooler. I tuck into him, legs still tangled with his, and let my hand rest over his heart.
“This is what home feels like,” I say, and it is not a thought, it is a truth. It is the hard weight of his body and the warm glow of the lamps and the way he looks at me like I’m where I belong.
He presses his mouth to my hair. “I love you so much, Ivy,” he says, as if I ever could doubt it again.
“I love you, Remy,” I answer, and I mean it with all of me.