Chapter 17 #2
Our bedroom. Not mine. Ours. Because somewhere in the last few weeks, everything that was mine became ours without me even noticing.
I push the door open with my shoulder and carry Emma inside and gently lay her down on the bed like she’s something precious. Because she is. She’s the most wonderful, amazing thing I’ve ever had, and I almost lost her three days ago to a bomb that could have torn her apart.
The thought makes my hands shake as I reach for her. I start undressing her slowly, carefully, like I’m unwrapping a gift. Emma’s watching me with those green eyes that are still wet with tears, and when I pull her shirt—my shirt—over her head she reaches for me.
Her hands are gentle on my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones, and I lean into the touch.
“I love you,” she says again, quieter this time, and I lean down to kiss her instead of responding with words.
The kiss is soft and gentle, nothing like the desperate passion of the last few weeks. This is different. This is us laying ourselves bare, admitting what we feel and accepting it.
I pull back long enough to strip off my own clothes, and then I’m covering Emma’s body with mine, skin to skin, heart to heart. She’s soft and warm beneath me, her hands running over my back, my shoulders, my face.
“Leo,” she whispers, and my name on her lips is the most beautiful sound in the world.
“I’m here,” I murmur, kissing down her throat. “I’m right here.”
“Make love to me, Leo,” she moans, tilting her head up to give me more access. “Please.”
My cock is so unbearably hard it nearly aches. I grip myself, pumping once, twice before I line myself up and press the head of it against her slick entrance, teasing and dragging it through her folds.
Emma whimpers, her hips jerking back, trying to take me in. I exhale sharply, gripping her hips and holding her still. Then, I sink into her. We both moan.
“Fuck, Emma,” I groan, my voice rough and raw. I don’t care how many times I’ve had sex with her—it never gets old. This feeling never gets old.
Slow, deep, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her, watching as her slim fingers curl around the bedsheets as she takes me. I shudder violently, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, my hands trembling on her hips as I hold myself still to savor this one beautiful moment.
“You’re perfect,” I mutter, pressing a lingering kiss to her neck. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”
“Stop talking and move,” Emma says, but her voice is breathless and fond, and I can see the smile in her eyes.
I grit my teeth, my control fraying as I thrust into her deep and slow, savoring the way she clenches around me, the wet heat of her drawing me in like she is made for me.
Emma moans and gasps at every twitch of my hips and it turns me on even more.
I pull her flush against me, my cock grinding impossibly deep inside her, as she writhes against me and my mouth covers hers.
My stomach tightens, a shudder runs down my spine.
She’s so tight, so warm, soaking my cock with every roll of her hips.
My other hand snakes down between us, sliding over her stomach, dipping between her thighs.
She tenses, a muffled moan breaking free as my fingers find her clit. I rub slow, tight circles, reveling in the way she twitches, the way her legs scrabble for purchase.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her mouth. “Come for me, Emma.”
I can feel how close she is—the way her body tenses, how her breathing hitches, the frantic way she rocks against me.
Fuck, she’s so fucking close. Her walls flutter around me, gripping me tighter, desperate for release.
My own control is hanging by a thread, my cock throbbing inside her, the slick heat of her utterly ruining me.
Emma’s entire body seizes, her orgasm slamming into her, a sharp, desperate cry muffled by my mouth as I catch her lips, swallowing every sound.
Her walls clamp down on me, pulsing, milking me, and my hips jerk violently, my cock throbbing as I spill inside her with a long, guttural groan,.
My knees nearly buckle, my vision whiting out, pleasure crashing over me in waves so intense it leaves me shaking.
When I collapse beside her, pulling her against my chest, we’re both breathing hard. Emma’s crying again—I can feel the wetness of her tears against my chest—and I just hold her, one hand stroking through her hair, the other wrapped around her waist.
“I love you,” she whispers against my skin.
“I know,” I reply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you too.”
We lie there in the comfortable silence, wrapped around each other, neither of us willing to move or break the moment. I can feel Emma’s heart beating against my chest and she holds onto me like I’m the only solid thing in her world.
After what feels like hours but is probably minutes, Emma speaks.
“Leo?”
“Yeah?” My hand is stroking up and down her spine, a soothing rhythm I can’t seem to stop.
“So that’s what happens when we actually say the words out loud,” Emma says thoughtfully. “We have incredibly emotional sex and cry all over each other. Good to know. Should’ve done this weeks ago.”
I bark out a laugh, surprised by the comment, and I can feel Emma’s smile against my chest. “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”
“I’m coping,” Emma rebuts, and I can hear both the teasing and the genuine emotion in her voice. “If I don’t make a joke I’m going to start crying again, and I’ve already soaked your chest. I’m trying to be considerate here.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I’m grinning against her hair.
“You love it,” Emma shoots back, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her eyes are still red from crying but they’re bright now, full of that spark that makes her Emma. “Admit it. You love that I make inappropriate jokes during serious emotional moments.”
“I do,” I admit, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I really fucking do.”
Emma’s smile softens into something more genuine, less teasing, and she leans down to gently kiss me.
When she pulls back and settles against my chest again, her voice is quieter but steady.
“When my father comes—and we both know he’s coming—I’m choosing you. Not him. Not my family. You.”
My arms tighten around her involuntarily at her words, unable to believe what she just said. “Emma,” I manage to choke out, my heart beating a thousand miles a minute, “that choice is going to cost you everything. Your family, your father, your old life—”
“I know,” she says simply. “But I’ll have you. And that’s enough.”
I hold her tighter, pressing my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her. I want to tell her not to do it, that she needs to choose her family when the time comes because losing them will break her.
But I’m also selfish and love her desperately enough to accept her choice. I’m so unbelievably grateful for it even as I know what it will cost her.
“Okay,” I say quietly, because that’s all I can offer. That and a silent vow that I will protect her, no matter what comes.
Whatever happens with Connor, whatever war is coming, I will keep her safe.
Even if it means facing down her father with a gun and becoming the monster she once called me.
Because I love her.
And love, I’m learning, makes monsters of us all.