Chapter 44 #3
Eventually, the laughter fades and is replaced with something softer. A quiet tension that hums in the air between us. Raw. Inevitable. Perfect.
His thumb brushes my cheek. I meet his eyes, and the world narrows to him. “I’m not going anywhere. As much as it scares me. I’m here because I want you. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want you with everything in me. Every version of you. Even the one who thinks I’m a swamp creature.”
Emotion tangles in my throat. I swallow, words lodged somewhere deep I can’t quite reach. I can’t resist reaching for him, tangling my fingers in his hair. “You can be my swamp creature.”
His smile isn’t cocky this time. It’s fragile. Tender in a way that knocks the air out of me. “God, baby.”
That word. Soft as a caress.
I pull him down, his lips a whisper against mine—soft, tempting. My pulse pounds in my ears, a feral drum.
“I want this.” I drag my teeth over his bottom lip. “You.”
He stills for a microsecond. His eyes squeeze shut, and he draws in a shaky breath. When they open, shivers crawl across my skin, igniting new flames within me.
He crushes his mouth against mine. Desperate. Pleading. Dominating. Everything between us—air, space, clothes—becomes an obstacle meant to be obliterated with that kiss.
I tug his shirt over his head, fingers trembling.
That familiar saltwater scent hits me in a new way—driftwood keeping me afloat, a coastal storm meant only to hold me as it rages.
He tears my jeans off like it’s the most natural, urgent thing in the world, dragging fabric out of his way with hands that know exactly where I need them.
Laughter and quiet curses tumble between us, punctuated by sharp gasps and desperate moans as we kiss and explore previously uncharted territory in between removing clothes.
We are a storm contained by these four walls.
Once we’re fully undressed, he looks over my body like it’s everything. All he’s ever dreamed of. All he’s ever wanted.
“Damn it…” he mutters. My chattery boy is suddenly at a loss for words. “Opal, I… This is… You are…”
“Yours,” I whisper against his neck, dragging him into me. “So take me.”
His hand moves down over my breasts and across my stomach, slowly, deliberately. Then his mouth, peppering my skin with soft kisses. He’s in no hurry at all. Instead, he’s mapping me. Memorizing. As if he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You okay?” he asks when he comes back to me, his mouth covering mine like he’s starving. His hand slips lower, voice rough.
“Yes.”
“Tell me if—”
“I will.” My hand tangles in his hair again. I just need to feel him. “You know me. So prove it.”
His grin goes determined. He catches my arm, pinning it to the mattress as his mouth claims my wrist with a kiss. His teeth graze the skin there right before he slides his hand between my legs. I hold his gaze desperately, locked on him as he slips two fingers inside me, mirroring my exhale.
I gasp, head rolling back. “Will. Jesus.”
His lips spread into a pleased smile as he presses another kiss to my collarbone. “I’m just getting started, baby.” His fingers curl inside me, like he already knows my body so well, every part of me. My hips roll.
Another kiss grazes the space just below my ear, and I melt into him, breath going still.
He notices. Like he notices everything else.
“I remembered this spot,” he murmurs, far too proud of himself.
I’m breathless, sweating. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
“Don’t stop.” My legs tighten around him, hands clutch his shoulders.
He lowers himself between my legs, breath hot between my hip bones. How is he so good at this? So good with me?
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, pressing a lingering, possessive kiss against my thigh. “But I need to…” Before his words can even fade, he replaces his fingers with his tongue. I see stars, entirely blind with heat.
“Will. Oh.”
“That’s my girl,” he growls against me. His mouth fits me so perfectly it’s impossible. I’m going to pass out.
I buck against him, waves and heat crashing through me all at once.
It’s the sweetest death.
Later, when we finally move together, it’s not about winning.
It’s not about who gets the last word. It’s about the years of almost. The nights spent furious with each other for wanting something neither of us was brave enough to put a name to.
It’s about making up for all the years we’ve missed out on. All the time we’ve lost.
As he slides inside me, his forehead presses to mine. For a moment, he stills, letting me adjust to him.
“Perfect,” he mutters, voice so low I’m not sure I’m meant to hear it.
I nod. I’m ready. Our breaths tangle, hands clasped as if either of us might vanish if we let go.
“You still with me?” he asks, just a touch louder this time.
“Always.” The word slips out before I can stop it, measure its weight.
His eyes flicker, fingers tightening around mine at the word, but he doesn’t tease me for it. He just kisses me again, sealing it like an oath.
And actually, I think that’s kind of perfect.
There’s no room for almost between us ever again.
At last, we’re on the other side of that.
Still us—still stubborn, still frustrating, still always half in battle—but finally, finally heads underwater, swimming out of the shallows together, no longer afraid of the darkest depths.