Chapter 8 #2
“Deal.” I cup her face gently. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Even if you’re an idiot who was going to give up your family legacy.”
“It’s just a building.”
“It’s home,” she corrects. “Our home. And we’re going to save it. Together.”
“I love you too,” she breathes against my mouth, the words tasting like surrender and homecoming. “Even if you’re an idiot who was going to give up your family legacy.”
“It’s just a building,” I murmur, but she’s already shaking her head.
“It’s home,” she corrects, her fingers tightening in my shirt. “Our home.”
The space between us ignites. This isn’t the careful, desperate passion of the boathouse, nor the tentative discovery of the first time. This is something different. A recognition. A certainty that has been ten years in the making.
Her mouth finds mine again, and this time it’s not soft, not questioning.
It’s a claiming. Her tongue sweeps in, tasting of salt from her tears and something that is uniquely Audra.
I back her against the wall of her pristine apartment, the cool paint a shocking contrast to the heat building between us.
My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me, and she makes a sound low in her throat that vibrates straight through my chest.
“Reese,” she gasps as my mouth moves to her neck, to that sensitive spot just below her ear that makes her shiver. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.”
I answer by nipping at her skin, just hard enough to make her gasp. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
Her hands are everywhere, tearing at my shirt, buttons flying in her haste.
I’m barely aware of the fabric ripping, only of the relief of her palms on my bare skin, her nails scraping lightly down my back.
My own hands fumble with the tie of her silk pajama pants, and then they’re pooling at her feet, leaving her in just a thin camisole and panties.
“You’re still overdressed,” I growl, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively as I carry her toward the bedroom, my mouth never leaving hers. We crash through the doorway, a tangle of limbs and frantic need.
Her bed is as pristine as the rest of the apartment, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.
I lower her onto the dark gray duvet, my body covering hers.
She arches up against me, a silent invitation, and I take it.
My mouth closes over her breast through the thin fabric of her camisole, my tongue teasing the peak until it’s a hard, sensitive nub.
Her hands twist in my hair, holding me in place, her breath coming in ragged pants.
“More,” she demands. “I need more.”
I oblige, pulling the camisole over her head and tossing it aside. Her skin is pale in the dim light of her apartment, and I take a moment to just look at her. To memorize the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
“You’re staring,” she says, her voice husky.
“I’m worshiping,” I correct, lowering my head to take a nipple into my mouth.
She cries out, her back arching off the bed as I suckle, my tongue doing wicked things that make her toes curl.
I lavish the same attention on her other breast, my hand tracing down her stomach, to the lace edge of her panties.
I slide my fingers beneath the fabric, finding her wet and ready for me. She moans as I explore her, circling her clit with my thumb while I slide a finger inside her. Her inner muscles clench around me, and I add a second finger, curling them just so to hit that spot that makes her see stars.
“Reese,” she gasps, her hips moving in rhythm with my strokes. “Don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of stopping,” I murmur, capturing her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”
I can feel her building toward release, her movements becoming more frantic, her breaths coming in ragged pants. Just as she’s about to fall over the edge, I pull away.
“Reese,” she whines in protest. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing,” I say, shedding my jeans and boxers in one fluid motion. Protection comes next. “I’m savoring.”
I settle between her legs, positioning myself at her entrance. “Look at me, Audra.”
Her eyes open, dark with desire, and lock with mine. “I’m looking.”
“Good,” I say, and then I’m sliding into her, inch by delicious inch. I’ve been inside her before, but this feels different. More intimate. More real.
Because it is real.
This isn’t about saving the lodge or fulfilling some will’s conditions. This is about us. About the love we’ve been denying for a decade, the connection that’s been waiting for the right moment to bloom. And this is it.
I move slowly at first, savoring the feel of her around me, the way her body responds to mine. This isn’t frantic, desperate sex. This is something more—a conversation we should have had years ago, conducted through touch and motion.
She meets my pace, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. Every thrust hits something inside her that makes her gasp, makes her dig her nails into my back. Her name is a whisper on my lips, a prayer, a promise.
“Faster,” she demands, her voice rough with passion. “Harder.”
I oblige, increasing my pace until the bed is creaking in protest, until the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. I’m watching her face, loving the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part in ecstasy. She’s beautiful like this, lost in pleasure, completely uninhibited.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, my voice rough with emotion.
“Reese,” she gasps, her inner muscles clenching around me. “I’m—”
“I know,” I say. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And she does. Her orgasm crashes over her, waves of pleasure that make her cry out my name. I follow her over the edge a moment later, my release shuddering through me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
After I take care of the condom in the bathroom, I return to bed and pull her to me. I trace patterns on her stomach, memorizing the texture of her skin.
“Oh,” I say, reaching for my jeans on the floor and pulling out the ring. “You forgot this.”
“I didn’t forget it. I left it.”
“Well, I’m giving it back.” I slide it onto her finger. “And this time, you’re keeping it.”
She looks at the ring, then at me, and I see our whole future in her eyes—the lodge, the city, the life we’ll build together.
“I love you,” she says again, like she’s testing the words.
“I love you too. Really love you. No pretense, no arrangement, no fake anything.”
“Just us?”
“Just us.”
And for the first time since this all started, everything feels simple. Complicated and messy and uncertain, yes—but also simple.
Because she loves me. Because I love her. Because sometimes the fake thing becomes the real thing. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, it was real all along.