Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One month later
Xavier
“Careful,” I warn as Zach tries to lift the box of my medical journals. “You’re still healing.”
He gives me that look, the one that’s equal parts amusement and stubbornness, and proceeds to pick up the box anyway. “I’m fine, X. The doctor cleared me for normal activity last week.”
I bite my tongue, watching him for any signs of discomfort.
The scar on his side is still pink and tender, a permanent reminder of how close I came to losing him.
But he’s right, his recovery has been nothing short of miraculous.
The doctors called it determination; Butcher called it Kennedy stubbornness.
“Normal activity doesn’t mean moving your boyfriend into your apartment,” I point out, following him into the bedroom of our place above the garage.
“Pretty sure it does,” he counters, setting the box down with barely a wince. “Besides, your lease was up, and this makes more sense.”
I can’t argue with his logic. After spending every night at the hospital during his recovery, then every day at the clubhouse helping with his physical therapy, the thought of returning to my empty apartment lost all appeal.
When Zach suggested I move in, it felt like the most natural progression in the world.
“That’s the last of it,” I say, looking around at the boxes stacked neatly against the wall. My life, condensed into cardboard containers, now merging with his.
Zach moves toward me, his movements still slightly careful but gaining fluidity each day. His hands find my waist, pulling me against him with gentle insistence. “So,” he says, voice dropping to that register that still sends shivers down my spine, “officially moved in.”
“Officially,” I agree, my hands automatically sliding up his chest, careful to avoid the left side where the bullet tore through him.
His eyes darken as he watches my cautious touch. “I’m not going to break, Xavier.”
“I know,” I say, though we both hear the uncertainty in my voice. Since his release from the hospital, I’ve been treating him like glass, terrified of causing him pain, of reopening wounds barely healed.
“Do you?” he challenges softly, his hands tightening on my waist. “Because I’m starting to think you’ve forgotten what it feels like when I’m inside you.”
Heat rushes through me at his words, pooling low in my belly. It’s been a month, a month of chaste kisses and careful touches, of sleeping beside him without really touching him. A month of wanting and denying and worrying.
“Zach,” I start, not even sure what I’m going to say.
He doesn’t give me the chance to figure it out. His mouth claims mine with none of the hesitation I’ve shown, his kiss demanding and hungry in a way that instantly awakens every nerve ending in my body. I respond instinctively, arms wrapping around his neck as I press closer.
“That’s it,” he whispers against my lips when we break for air. “Stop treating me like I’m dying and start treating me like I’m yours.”
The words strike a chord deep within me. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, seeing the familiar heat there, but also a vulnerability he rarely shows. “I’m scared,” I admit, the confession leaving me in a rush. “Every time I close my eyes, I see you bleeding out in my arms.”
His expression softens, one hand coming up to cup my face. “I’m right here, X. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t promise that,” I whisper, the fear that’s been my constant companion since that day finally finding a voice. “Nobody can.”
“No,” he agrees, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. “But I can promise you right now. This moment. And I want this moment to include you naked and underneath me.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, the blunt declaration so perfectly Zach that it cuts through my anxiety. “Romantic as always, Slaughter.”
His answering smile is slow and full of promise. “You want romance, Doc? I can do romance.”
Before I can respond, he’s lifting me, a smooth motion that belies his recent injury, and carrying me the few steps to our bed. He sets me down gently, following suit until he’s hovering over me, his weight supported on his arms.
“Is this okay?” he asks, suddenly serious. “We can wait if you’re not ready.”
The concern in his eyes, the care he’s taking despite his own obvious desire, makes something in my chest expand until I can barely breathe. This man, this fierce, protective, gentle man, is mine. And I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length out of fear.
“It’s more than okay,” I tell him, reaching up to pull him closer. “I need you, Zach. I’ve needed you for weeks.”
Something flares in his eyes, relief, desire, something deeper that neither of us has named yet. He lowers himself until his body covers mine, the familiar weight of him both comforting and arousing. His lips find my own once more, the kiss slower this time but no less intense.
I let my hands wander, relearning the contours of his body, the broad shoulders, the strong back, the narrow waist. When my fingers brush against his scar, I feel him tense slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Does it hurt?” I ask against his lips.
“No.” He presses a trail of kisses along my jaw. “Just sensitive.”
I explore it carefully, feeling the raised tissue, mapping the physical reminder of what we survived. He watches me with hooded eyes, letting me process this in my own way.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “Every part of you.”
Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability that takes my breath away. “I love you,” he says, the words simple but carrying the weight of everything we’ve been through. “I should have told you before. In the ambulance, I tried, but…”
“I know,” I assure him, my heart so full it feels like it might burst. “I love you too. So much.”
His kiss is fierce now, possessive in a way that makes heat surge through me. His hands make quick work of my shirt, pushing it up and over my head before returning to explore the newly exposed skin. I arch into his touch, suddenly desperate for more after weeks of restraint.
“Take this off,” I demand, tugging at his Henley. “I want to feel you.”
He complies, sitting back on his heels to pull the shirt over his head. I drink in the sight of him, the tattoos snaking across his chest and arms, the toned muscle, and, yes, the scar that marks where he nearly died. It’s still angry and red against his tanned skin, but it’s healing well.
I reach out, tracing it with gentle fingers. “Does it make me a bad doctor if I think your scar is kind of hot?”
He laughs, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Makes you perfect for me.” He captures my hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss my palm. “Now stop stalling and get those pants off.”
I comply eagerly, shimmying out of my jeans while he does the same. When we come back together, skin against skin, the sensation is almost overwhelming after so long. I gasp as his hand finds me, stroking with confident familiarity that has me arching off the bed.
“Missed this.” His lips trail down my chest. “Missed you. Missed the sounds you make when I touch you just right.”
As if to prove his point, his fingers tighten around me, thumb sliding over the tip in a way that pulls a moan from deep in my throat. He smiles against my skin, pleased with my response.
He reaches over, retrieving a bottle of lube and returning to kneel between my legs. His eyes never leave mine as he slicks his fingers, the intensity of his gaze making my breath catch.
The first press inside is careful, gentle in a way that makes my heart ache even as pleasure spirals through me. He watches my face closely, reading my reactions as he adds a second finger alongside the first.
“Okay?” he asks, his free hand stroking my thigh.
“More than okay,” I assure him, pushing against his hand to take him deeper. “I’m not going to break either, Zach.”
A smile curves his lips, that dangerous half smirk that first caught my attention all those years ago. “No,” he agrees, curling his fingers. “But I might make you beg.”
I gasp as he does it again, the pleasure sharp and intense. “Bastard,” I manage, though there’s no heat in the word.
His laugh is low and knowing. “You love it,” he says, adding a third finger, stretching me with careful attention. “Love when I take my time with you.”
He’s right, and we both know it. But after a month of waiting, of worrying, of wanting, my patience is nonexistent. “I need you,” I tell him, reaching for him. “Now, Zach. Please.”
The plea in my voice must reach him, because he withdraws his fingers and reaches for a condom. I watch through half-lidded eyes as he rolls it on.
Then he’s positioning himself between my legs, the blunt pressure of him against my entrance making me tense with anticipation. He pauses, eyes finding mine.
“I love you,” he says again, the words still new enough to make my heart skip. “Never forget that.”
Before I can respond, he’s pushing forward, the initial stretch making me gasp despite his careful preparation. He stills immediately, concern flashing across his features.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I warn, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him deeper.
He smiles a real smile, not the smirk, something soft and private that I’ve only seen directed at me. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc.”
Then he’s moving, setting a rhythm that starts slow and deliberate before building to something more urgent. I match him thrust for thrust, losing myself in the pleasure of being claimed so completely by this man who has become my whole world.
His hand slides between our bodies, wrapping around me with perfect pressure, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing me rapidly toward the edge.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice strained with the effort of control. “Want to see your face when you come for me.”