40. Mia
Chapter Forty
Mia
I’m still shaking after that ‘I love you’ and the way he is kissing me right now.
It feels way different from the ones we shared before, the passionate ones. This is softer, slower. They are not filled with want or sexual tension. They are filled with…love.
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, around his neck, pulling him closer and closer to me. He fits against me like the missing piece of a life that never quite sat right until now.
Until him.
I can't even imagine how he must've felt when he saw Monica after everything he's gone through.
Let alone having her find us in bed. On their bed.
I need to stop thinking like that. This is my bed now.
Our bed. Our home. She's no longer welcome here, not in this space, not between us.
And the fact that he made that abundantly clear, that he chose me without hesitation, did something to me I can't quite name.
The blanket slips from my shoulders and pools around our feet. His hands settle at my waist, gentle and careful, his thumbs brushing my skin. The touch sends electricity through me.
“Are you okay, sweetheart? he asks softly, pulling back just enough to see my face. “You disappeared on me a little.”
I lean into his touch instead of answering, kissing him again. The way he's looking at me makes my chest ache, like he sees every messy, complicated part of me and somehow likes what he finds.
“I’m here,” I whisper against his lips. “I’m right here.”
He kisses me again, and again, like he needs the reassurance as much as I do.
I slide my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing his warm skin.
He lifts the shirt slowly, and I'm just enjoying the view.
He still has a few very visible scars, but they're healing nicely.
I slide my hands across his chest, brushing over them briefly.
He doesn't react anymore. That's progress.
He reaches for my shirt, and my arms lift automatically. His gaze lingers afterward, and suddenly I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothes. Heat rushes into my face.
“Don't look at me like that,” I whisper.
His mouth curves slightly. “Like what?”
I swallow hard, struggling with the words. “Like I’m—” The insecurity sits heavy on my tongue. “Like I'm too much.”
Something shifts in his expression, something sweeter. “You're not too much, Mia.” He says, his hand finding my face, tilting it toward his. “You're exactly right. Exactly what I need.”
The words hit harder than they should. Hard enough that my eyes sting with tears I didn't expect.
“I don't know how to do this anymore,” I admit quietly. “I don't know how to be someone's person. Someone's choice.”
“Then let me show you,” he says, and there's no hesitation in his voice. “Let me keep choosing you. Every single day, I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”
My breath catches. “George…”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, lowering me onto the bed carefully, like I'm something precious. Like I'm something worth protecting.
His mouth follows the line of my jaw. The edge of my throat. I run my hands across his back, feeling the strength there, the scars, the proof that he's still here. With me.
“I truly love you so much,” I whisper into his shoulder.
“I love you too, Mia.” He moves closer, bracing himself above me. His eyes never leave mine. I can feel his hands roaming the rest of my body, my ribs, my stomach, and landing at the hem of my panties.
“What happens now?” I ask, a little scared of this answer, a lot scared of what comes next.
“Now?” He says as his thumb brushes my thigh. The corner of his mouth lifts, and there's something possessive in his smile, but not in a way that scares me. In a way that makes me feel seen, loved, cared for. “Now I make you mine.”
My heart swells, and his smile deepens.
“I want that,” I say, kissing him.
“Good,” he says softly. “Because now that I found you, I’m not letting you go.”
He slides my panties off slowly, taking his time, his eyes darkening as he positions himself between my thighs. I can feel the heat of him there, the anticipation coiling down in my stomach and between my legs. My hands find his shoulders, gripping, anchoring myself to him.
“Look at me,” he whispers, and I do. His gaze is locked on mine, intense, hungry, but tender all at once.
He moves closer to me, and my breath hitches. When his mouth finally finds me, a gasp tears from my throat. My head tilts back, but he makes a soft sound of protest.
“No,” he says, his voice rough. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. I want to see you.”
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intimacy of being watched, of being seen, while he's touching me like this is almost more intense than the physical sensation.
His tongue circles, then dips, and my hips move instinctively toward him. He presses his hand flat against my stomach, holding me there, controlling the pace.
This is the type of intimacy I didn't know existed. Even being in a six-year relationship before, there’s something about him, something about this moment that just makes sense. It makes everything feel exactly the way it's supposed to.
My legs tremble around him, and he wraps an arm around my thigh, holding me close, his other hand finding mine and threading our fingers together.
We're no longer strangers, and there’s no more fear between us.
For the first time in my life, I feel at home.
He is my home.