Chapter Thirty-Five #2
His breath caught. A hitch in the darkness.
She dropped to her knees before him slowly, reverently, her hands trailing down his sides as she looked up at him—that impossibly beautiful, battered man who’d crawled through hell for her.
“Amara,” he warned, voice already hoarse, the muscles in his thighs tense beneath her palms.
She smiled. “Shh.”
She worked her fingers gently, undoing him with more than just her hands—with every touch, every look, every intention. She kissed the inside of his thigh, soft and slow, and felt him tremble. God, she loved that. That someone so strong could fall apart under her.
He reached for her—not to stop her, but because he didn’t know where else to put the aching need—and tangled his fingers in her hair.
But she didn’t rush.
She wanted to memorize this.
The way he groaned when her lips brushed him. The way his head dropped back. The way he whispered her name. And all the while, she murmured what she’d never quite said like this before.
“I love the way you protect me.” Another kiss. “I love how you smell like sweat and smoke and stubborn.” Another slow, sinful motion. “I love your laugh—the one you hide, but I always hear.”
His fingers tightened. His breath shattered.
“I love how you don’t give up. Not on anything. Not on me.”
And when she finally took all of him—fully, deeply—his hands fisted in her hair and he growled her name like it burned.
She worshipped him with her mouth, her hands, her heart. Every sound he made was seared into her. Every breath, every twitch, every gasp was hers.
And just when she had him close to the edge, he pulled his cock out of her mouth and rose to his feet. He pulled her up from her knees, slow and deliberate, towering over her with eyes gone dark with need—all green-gold wildfire and solemn vow.
She barely had time to register before he gripped her hips, spun her to face the bed, and bent her forward over it. He was already pushing her legs apart with his knee, already pressing in close.
“This what you’re offering me?” he asked, breath hot against her spine. “This what I’m comin’ home to every night, Mrs. Kane?”
She swallowed hard. “You haven’t even married me—”
“Don’t need to,” he said. “This is already mine.”
A gasp caught in her throat as his hands found her—warm, rough, reverent. He mapped every inch of her with his touch, every moan she gave him with a pleased murmur of his own.
“I’m gonna build you a house,” he rasped, body folding over hers, chest to her back, mouth at her neck. “Gonna make you a home. Gonna fill it with everything we never had. Peace. Firewood. Laughter. Babies in the damn bathtub.”
She shivered under him, arms braced against the mattress.
“And every time I walk through the door,” he continued, dragging his teeth along her skin, “I’m gonna take you just like this. Show you who you belong to.”
She arched under him—helpless, aching, already his.
“Say it,” he said.
“You,” she breathed. “Always you.”
And when he moved, it wasn’t slow.
It wasn’t tender.
It was homecoming.
It was claiming.
It was every goddamn promise they’d both been too afraid to say out loud.
His rhythm was fierce. His grip was punishing. And through every wave, every cry, every whispered I love you, I love you, I love you—she never once felt vulnerable.
His grip tightened on her hips, and she felt the shift. That dark, dangerous line in him that always surfaced when he’d gone too long without touching her.
Every movement was deliberate. Dominant. Devouring.
Her mouth dropped open. His name spilled out like a blessing and curse, tangled together. His rhythm was deep, merciless, maddening. Every thrust drove her forward, only for his hands to haul her back, keeping her exactly where he wanted her—on fire, undone, loved to the edge of her own name.
She keened. Clawed the covers. Moaned until it didn’t sound human.
And he was everywhere—voice rough in her ear, palm curved around her chest, hips unforgiving, mouth at her neck saying the filthiest, sweetest things she’d ever heard.
“Mine,” he bit out, over and over. “Say it again, Amara. Again.”
“Yours,” she cried. “I’m yours, I’ve always been—”
She never finished.
Because he pulled her upright, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and took her harder than he ever had—holding her together as she came apart, shaking, gasping, pleading his name.
And when he followed her into the dark, she knew she’d never belong to anyone else.
She didn’t remember falling, only the rush of his arms catching her, both of them collapsing sideways onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat and heartbeats that refused to settle.
Her cheek pressed to his chest, damp with sweat. She could feel the way his heart thundered, wild and relentless like hers. As if neither of them knew how to come down. As if they never would.
Still holding her. Still wrapped around her like he couldn’t let go.
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
“Jesus,” he rasped against her temple, voice cracked and wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”
She let out a breathless laugh, too ruined to tease. “You started it.”
“I’ll finish it, too.” He kissed her hair. “Every time.”
They lay there, tangled up, the mountain air cool on their skin but the space between them molten. His hand ran slowly down her spine, lazy now, like he was memorizing her all over again. Her back arched into his touch. Her hips curled closer to his, unwilling to give him up just yet.
Her throat burned, and not just from panting.
She buried her face in the curve of his neck. “I love you,” she whispered, raw and quiet. “I love you so much it hurts.”
He tightened his hold, wrapping both arms around her.
“I know,” he said into her hair. “I know, baby. I love you too.”
And when she finally tilted her head to meet his eyes—his pupils still blown, those green-gold irises ringed with emotion so thick it hurt—he kissed her, soft and deep and slow.
His mouth was warm. Deliberate. Tongue tracing hers like he wasn’t just kissing her—he was anchoring himself. Every soft press, every subtle shift of his lips, was a tether to something real. Something he hadn’t believed in until her.
She moaned into it, and his hands moved with purpose.
One large palm cradled her breast, thumb brushing her nipple in slow, lazy circles that made her thighs clench around his hips.
His other hand was splayed over the curve of her hip, holding her in place—needing to feel every inch of her pressed against him.
“You’re the only person I have,” he murmured into her mouth, his voice low and thick, almost broken. “And I’m so damn lucky you let me back in one last time. I’m some lucky idiot, and I’m never letting you go again.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything they’d survived. Everything they hadn’t said. Everything they were trying to build.
Her heart cracked open.
He didn’t say it for pity. Didn’t say it like he was lost.
He said it as a vow.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging gently, needing his mouth on hers again. And he gave it—open, hungry, reverent. He kissed her like she was the breath he’d been holding in for a lifetime.
She pulled back just enough to whisper, “Then hold on to me. Tight.”
He did.
God, he did.