37. Chapter 37
Chapter 37
T he light in the kitchen was golden and soft, late afternoon sun filtering through the window over the sink. Rosie stood barefoot on the tile floor, humming to herself as she stirred a pan of garlicky cherry tomatoes and herbs. The kitchen smelled like summer—basil, lemon zest, toasted pine nuts. She’d even bought fresh pasta from the Italian place down the block because Isaac had mentioned once, offhandedly, that it reminded him of Sicily.
She glanced over at the clock.
Any minute now.
As if on cue, the front door opened with that familiar creak, followed by the heavy, booted steps of a man who never walked quietly.
Rosie smiled to herself and called, “Hey, hottie.”
Isaac’s voice was low, a little scratchy. “Hey, chef.”
She turned just in time to see him drop his keys in the bowl by the door and tug off the black ball cap he always wore to base. His hair was longer now, a little messy, still damp at the ends from a post-appointment shower. He looked good—broad shoulders in a plain gray tee, the edge of a fresh bandage beneath the fabric where the bullet wound on his ribs was still healing.
More importantly, he looked alive.
“Looks yum,” he said, already crossing the room to her. “So do you.”
She let him kiss her cheek, and then her neck, and then—okay, yeah, she had to gently swat him with the wooden spoon before he got tomato sauce in her hair.
“I’m trying to cook,” she teased.
“I’m trying to make out with my girlfriend,” he muttered into her skin, before pulling back with a small grin.
She softened, brushing a curl behind her ear. “How was the appointment?”
Isaac let out a breath, grabbing a cold can from the fridge and cracking it open. “Cleared to go back next week. Light duty for the first two, no diving, no training, just desk bullshit.”
Rosie glanced over her shoulder at him. “That’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, taking a long sip. “It’s good. I mean… I hate being off. Hate feeling useless.”
He leaned back against the counter, watching her now. Quiet for a second. Then: “But also…”
Rosie raised an eyebrow. “But also?”
He looked down into his drink, then back at her—serious, a little stunned by himself. “This was the longest I’ve been still in my whole damn life. And… I don’t know. It was hell, yeah. But it was also the only time I’ve ever actually built something that wasn’t mission-based.”
She stilled, wooden spoon in hand.
Isaac tilted his head. “I mean it. I’ve got a house that doesn’t feel like a hotel anymore. A hot bitch in my kitchen. Paintings on the wall. Groceries in the fridge. Laundry that smells like lemons.” He gave a soft, rough laugh. “I’ve got someone to call when I’m in pain. I’ve got someone to come home to. I’ve never had that.”
Rosie blinked, swallowing.
Isaac stepped toward her, took the spoon out of her hand, and set it gently in the pot.
Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his mouth to her hair. “You were my best friend. My only crush growing up. And now you’re just… my life. You’re it.”
She looked up at him, the kitchen lights warming the gold in her eyes.
“I’m happy as hell, finally,” he said, voice lower now. “And I don’t wanna waste any more time pretending I don’t know exactly what I want.”
She narrowed her eyes, suddenly nervous. “Isaac…”
He kissed her. Slow. Careful. Meaningful.
When he pulled back, he said it.
“I’m gonna marry you, baby.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“I’m gonna marry you,” he repeated, like it wasn’t a question. “Gonna have kids with you. Gonna annoy the shit out of you every day for the rest of our lives.”
She was blinking fast now. “You can’t just say that while I’m stirring sauce.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll cry into it and ruin the meal, you psycho.”
He laughed and picked her up with an arm under her thighs, ignoring the twinge of pain in his ribs, and planted her on the kitchen counter beside the stovetop. “Then let’s burn the sauce and start our life.”
Rosie leaned in, hands on his face, her chest aching in the best possible way.
“You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life.”
And in that small San Diego kitchen, with sauce simmering and the world softening around her, Rosie realized—he meant every word.
And she’d say yes.
Eventually.
Just maybe not tonight.
Tonight, they’d eat dinner barefoot on the couch.
Tonight, they’d laugh.
Tonight, they’d just be.
And that was more than enough.
* * * * *
Isaac flipped the stovetop off and the air between them shifted—dense and charged. Just the weight of his body between her legs, bracing her to the kitchen counter, and his eyes on her like she was prey he’d waited years to finally catch.
Isaac’s hands landed on her thighs, spreading them wider to let him in, anchoring her like he was staking claim. She gasped—just the friction of denim and his warmth between her legs had her pulse jumping.
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning. His fingers gripped her hips, pulling her flush against the hard lines of his body.
“You always look at me like that,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “Like you want me to pin you down and fuck your whole damn life.”
Rosie’s breath hitched. “Only when you look at me like that first.”
His hands were everywhere now—raking up her shirt, pressing into her ribs, dragging a moan from her mouth with nothing more than his grip and the heat in his eyes.
“The problem for you is I know what you like,” he said, his voice gone hoarse. “I know what gets you wild. You want to feel what I’ve been holding back, thinking about all day for you.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
One word. That was all it took.
Isaac leaned in, kissing her like it was a promise and a punishment all at once. It was deep, slow, devastating—the kind of kiss that made her toes curl and her body strain forward. Tongue sweeping hers. Teeth grazing her lower lip.
“Now” he demanded against her mouth. “Tell me you want me to lose control.”
“I want you,” she whispered, breathless. “All of you. Rough.”
The sound he made was somewhere between a growl and a groan.
His hands slid under her shirt—his shirt, really—and up her ribs. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t have to. He’d learned her body like a second language. Knew exactly how to undo her.
“You know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he rasped. “You on my counter. Begging me. Soaked through for me.”
Her head fell back when his mouth found her neck, hot and demanding, his stubble scraping just enough to make her whimper.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” he said. “Not just a girl I want to mess around with. Not just somewhere to bury my cock. I see a goddamn fire I’ve been burning in for twenty years.”
Rosie’s fingers curled in his shirt. She was dizzy. She was molten.
“Take this off,” Isaac growled, voice low, nearly a command as he tugged at the shirt she wore. His shirt. “I want to see you.”
Rosie lifted her arms. The cotton slipped away, and his gaze locked on her like she’d just answered a prayer.
He exhaled sharp. Then his hands were on her again—palming her bare waist, cupping her hips, keeping her pinned there on the counter like she might disappear if he let go.
Her breath caught.
Then he kissed her again—deeper this time. Hungrier. And when his hands slipped lower, dragging her even closer, she let him.
Dinner was forgotten.
The whole world was, too.
“You’re mine,” he muttered, mouth against her shoulder now, kissing down her collarbone. “Every inch of you. No sharing. No second guessing. Just mine.”
Rosie moaned, fingers threading into his hair as he bit gently at the curve of her shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
That only made him growl.
“You like that?” he rasped, lips dragging hot across her skin. “You like when I get rough with you?”
She nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
Isaac pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, his jaw tight, his breathing ragged.
“I think about this all day,” he said, thumb brushing over her lips. “Coming home to you. Putting you right here. Showing you who you belong to.”
Her thighs clenched instinctively. He noticed. That was all he needed.
His hand fisted in the back of her hair, tugging gently, guiding her gaze up to him. “You’re gonna be good for me. You’re gonna let me use you.”
God, she was fucking beautiful like this. She was flushed, eyes heavy, lips parted like she was already halfway gone. Her hair was down tonight—dark, silky, wild. He reached up and wrapped a fist in it, not yanking, just steady. Like a tether. Like a reminder.
Her breath caught as he pulled, tipping her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat.
“Open your mouth,” he said, low.
Her lips parted without hesitation.
Good girl.
He loved looking down on her with her mouth open, anticipating. The power thrummed through his veins, slow and thick. She trusted him—completely. Gave him everything. And that made him want to ruin her in the most reverent way possible.
He leaned in, and spat in her mouth—slow, dripping. Making her feel it. Taste it.
“Swallow,” he ordered, his voice rough silk.
She did. Of course she did.
He kissed her hard after that. No hesitation. No gentleness.
And when he dragged his mouth to her throat, he didn’t hold back. He bit her. Not to hurt. But enough for her to feel it tomorrow. Enough to mark her, just for a little while.
Once. Again. Lower now.
She gasped, thighs tightening around him.
“You like that,” he rasped against her neck.
She didn’t speak—just moaned, breath hot against his ear.
He held her there, one hand still fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he was staking claim, then under her ass, dragging her to the very edge of the counter. She gasped as her hips met his cock, still behind his jeans.
He groaned at the contact, burying his face in her neck.
“This right here,” he whispered, grinding into her, breath hot against her ear. “Every time I walk through that door and you’re here… fuck.”
Rosie’s fingers slid into his hair, fisting there, tugging. “I like when you lose your mind,” she whispered.
That made him pause. Just for a second.
Then he grinned—slow, feral, something dangerous in his eyes. “Good. ’Cause I’m about to ruin your night.” He leaned in again, kissed her hard—claiming and deep. She melted into it, because there was no other choice.
Then he lifted her clean off the kitchen counter, her thighs instinctively locking around his waist, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His grip was possessive—one hand cradling the back of her head, the other under her legs, firm and commanding like she belonged nowhere else but in his arms.
He carried her straight to the bedroom they now shared, every step steady and deliberate.
Rosie felt it—the shift in him. The quiet fury. The heat. The focus.
He threw her down on the edge of the bed with a reverence that made her chest ache, then crossed to the nightstand. Opened the drawer.
She knew what was in there. Her breath caught when she saw the rope.
Soft black silk. Thick enough to hold.
And with practiced care, he took the rope and wrapped her wrists—looping, twisting, tightening. Firm, never cruel. Always watching her face. Her breath hitched as he pulled her arms above her head, tying the ends to the headboard slats. She could move—but only barely. She could breathe—but now every breath was his.
“You trust me?” he said, dragging his thumb along her stomach, his mouth hot against her ribs.
She nodded, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
Isaac’s voice darkened. “Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.”
He kissed her then—deep, hard, filthy—with the full weight of everything he’d held back for too long. The rope creaked softly with her movement, but she didn’t pull. Didn’t fight.
She gave in.
To him.
To this.
To all the ways he loved her—feral, rough, and fiercely loyal.
And as his mouth moved lower, slow and unrelenting, Rosie knew exactly what she’d surrendered to.
And she never wanted it to stop.
Rosie lay back, breath shallow, arms stretched above her, wrists bound in silk. The rope didn’t hurt. It wasn’t supposed to. It grounded her. Held her in place, tethered to something steady and solid and safe. Tethered to Isaac.
Her thighs trembled when he ran his hands up them again, slow, measured—-gripping her and dragging her closer to the edge of the bed. He bent, kissed her thigh, then dragged his lips higher.
But not all the way.
Not yet.
Control was in the pause.
It was in every breath he withheld, every place he didn’t touch. In the slow strokes of his thumb along her skin. In the way he looked at her like he could already feel her coming undone again.
“Isaac,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
He met her eyes. “What do you want, baby.”
She bit her lip, hips shifting. “Your tongue.”
“Where?”
“My pussy.”
“Good girl.”
He bit gently at the inside of her thigh and groaned like he was starving. Like this was his. His hands pressed her thighs open wider, possessive and sure. And when his mouth reached her center, everything inside her unraveled.
“Isaac,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, half a prayer. “Baby, I love you.”
She gasped when his tongue found her clit—his stubble scraping the inside of her thighs, his lips soft right after. He dragged his teeth along her skin and then soothed the sting with his tongue, a rhythm of pressure and relief that made her arch into him.
Every kiss lower stole her breath.
Every flick of his tongue sent heat spiraling through her.
She moaned, back arching, rope pulling tight above her as his tongue moved with purpose—slow at first, teasing, then deeper, hungrier. He alternated pressure and pace, reading her body like he’d always known it, like he’d always been meant to.
She couldn’t reach for him. Couldn’t bury her hands in his hair or pull him closer. She was spread out and trembling, and all she could do was feel—every hot, slow, reverent movement of his mouth as he ate her pussy.
Like she was his.
And she was.
“I love you too, Coco,” he said, sliding two fingers inside her, slow but firm, curling just right—and her back arched, her mouth dropping open.
He loved this part. Loved it.
The power of it—not just in her body yielding under his hands, but in how completely she trusted him to take her apart.
* * * * *
Rosie was heat and haze and helplessness. Pleasure throbbed through her like a current, a build she couldn’t control, made sharper by the fact that she couldn’t hold him, couldn’t anchor herself to anything but the sound of his breath and the rasp of his voice said against her skin.
He was relentless.
And she was coming undone, piece by piece, strung out beneath him, tied up and adored.
She didn’t need her hands to know—this man was hers.
He licked her like he was starving. Like she was the only thing that could possibly satisfy the heat inside him. And his hands—they didn’t just hold her, they commanded her, anchoring her to the bed, to him, to the here and now.
He teased with his tongue, then pushed deeper, firmer, dragging pleasure through her like a current. His stubble scraped the insides of her thighs. His mouth was relentless.
And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his fingers joined the rhythm—slow, then fast, curling inside her with a pressure that shattered her.
“I thought about this,” he said against her, voice guttural, vibrating through her core. “So many fucking times. Wished it was you under me. Wished I could taste you instead of pretending with someone else.”
“Isaac,” she gasped, nearly sobbing.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his pace unforgiving now. “You hear me? Say it. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she cried out, her back arching, her body breaking apart.
She couldn’t breathe.
Or maybe she was breathing too much—too fast, too shallow. Each inhale hitched on a moan, each exhale caught on a tremble. Her arms pulled against the rope securing her wrists to the headboard, not to escape, but to feel the tension. The restraint. The way her body arched for him.
She needed him like oxygen. Needed the weight of him, the heat, the rough hands, the wicked mouth.
Isaac twirled his tongue around her clit—slow and deliberate like it was the only thing he had to do in the world. And it wrecked her.
She gasped, toes curling, her breath catching in her throat.
“Still with me, Coco?” he rasped, voice hoarse with hunger.
She nodded, helpless. Couldn’t form words. Her whole body was already alive—sensitive, expectant, begging.
He gripped her thighs tighter, calloused fingers digging into her skin as he opened her wider to him. His eyes flicked up, dark and locked on hers.
“You’ve got no idea,” he growled. “All those nights. All those women. I still only saw you. Always you.”
Rosie made a sound—something between a sob and a moan. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned. She didn’t know how to hold all of it.
He dragged his mouth up her inner thigh, open-mouthed and wet, biting just enough to make her hips buck.
She whimpered. He growled.
“Don’t move unless I say,” he warned, rough and low.
And God help her, that made it worse. Or better.
She didn’t even realize she was shaking until his tongue finally found her.
Hot. Slow. Brutal.
She cried out, head falling back, thighs trembling in his grip.
He didn’t give her an inch.
Didn’t let her run from it. From him.
And he didn’t stop. Not when she begged. Not when she came. Not when she trembled, breathless and undone, shivering beneath the weight of him.
He stayed there, licking her slow now, like he wasn’t done tasting her. Like he never would be.
And all she could do was feel.
All she could do was fall.
Into him. Into the fire. Into everything he’d been holding back for years.
And she wanted all of it.
* * * * *
Isaac was losing his goddamn mind.
He stopped moving, just enough to make her whimper with frustration, her body shuddering.
“That’s what I thought,” he breathed. “You like it when I’m in control, don’t you?”
A choked nod.
“I know how to take care of you. Don’t I?”
“Y-Yes. Isaac, please—”
That did it.
His control snapped.
He shoved his fingers back inside her and kissed her hard—deep and messy and full of heat. Then he broke the kiss, panting now, rubbing himself against her thigh.
“I’m gonna fuck you again,” he growled. “And you’re gonna let me take every inch of you like it’s mine. Because it is. It always was.”
Rosie moaned, her hands still above her head, knuckles white in anticipation.
And Isaac—he was gone.
Gone in her.
Gone in the way she gave herself to him.
Gone in the idea that maybe, for the first time, someone actually needed him like this.
And he never wanted to let go.
He dragged his lips from hers and pulled back just enough to see her, really see her. Rosie, breathless and wrecked, pupils blown wide, her hair wild across his pillow, her legs trembling against his hips.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And he wasn’t done.
“Hands,” he said, voice low and commanding.
She blinked, dazed.
“Give them to me.”
She obeyed, lifting her arms, her wrists loose and willing in his hands.
He gathered them in one of his palms and pushed them gently above her head, pressing them into the pillow. Holding her there.
Pinning her.
She gasped, her back arching instinctively beneath him, her nipples brushing his chest.
He smiled against her throat. “You like that.”
It wasn’t a question.
She moaned, her body answering before her mouth could.
He rolled his hips slow and deep, grinding into her, watching the way her mouth parted, the way her breath stuttered when he hit just the right spot. His free hand slid down her ribs, her stomach, her hip—firm, possessive. His.
“You feel how wet you are for me?” he whispered, thrusting again. “How tight you get when I hold you like this?”
She nodded, nearly sobbing with it, her thighs squeezing him harder.
His jaw clenched. He could barely stand it.
Every time she gave him more—more control, more trust, more of her—he felt like he was coming apart at the seams trying to stay steady. It was too much. It was everything.
But he wasn’t letting go.
He shifted again, angling his hips deeper, harder, until she cried out, her wrists still pinned, her body stretched wide open beneath him.
“Look at me,” he said.
She was still beneath him, her eyes glassy and dark, her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t catch her breath. Her skin flushed pink all over—chest, cheeks, the tips of her ears. Isaac took it all in like a man starved.
He could still taste her on his tongue.
Isaac’s cock ached—pulsed with need—but he held himself in check. Barely.
“Hands up,” he said, voice low but steady.
She obeyed without question, sliding her hands up above her head, wrists crossed.
He kissed her mouth again—slow, coaxing. Then took both of her wrists in one hand and pinned them to the pillow, his forearm braced beside her head.
His body hovered over hers, straining with restraint.
“Keep them there.”
A small nod. Eyes wide, lips parted.
He moved his free hand between her legs again, his touch feather-light at first, teasing the slick heat of her until she whimpered. Her hips lifted for more, chasing his hand, and Isaac groaned, the sound guttural and low.
“You’re already close again, aren’t you?” he muttered, mouth at her neck now, kissing just beneath her ear.
She gasped. “Y-Yes.”
“Good.”
Her wrists flexed against his grip.
“You wanna let go?” he whispered, working her rhythm now, precise, controlled. “Come again for me.”
She made a sound that didn’t even have a shape.
But he didn’t let her.
Not yet.
Isaac watched her unravel beneath him—watched her eyes flutter, her lips part, her breath catch in her throat like she’d forgotten how to speak. Her fingers were locked around his forearms, holding on, grounding herself. And him? He was trying to memorize everything.
Every soft noise she made.
Every pulse of heat between them.
Every curve, every arch of her body that seemed to beg for more, even as she pretended she didn’t need him.
She did.
And hell if he didn’t need her just as much.
Her skin was flushed, slick with heat, her chest rising and falling fast as he kissed down the slope of her throat, tasting salt, perfume, her. His hands mapped her hips, slow and reverent at first, then tighter—possessive. Like if he didn’t hold her properly, she might slip away again.
Not this time.
Not again.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low, gravelly. She opened her eyes, and it just about undid him.
Rosie. His Rosie. But different now.
She wasn’t just the girl he knew. She was this—burning, brilliant, soft and powerful all at once. She looked up at him like she wasn’t sure whether to kiss him or kill him.
It did something to him.
“You always do this to me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.
She swallowed. “Do what?”
“Make me forget who the hell I am.”
She laughed, shaky and breathless, and he caught her mouth with his—deep and slow. The kind of kiss that said I’m here, I’m real, I’m yours. He felt her melt beneath him again, her arms around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist like she couldn’t help it.
God, she was soft. And sweet. And wild.
She whispered his name like a question, like a prayer.
And Isaac, who had no idea what the hell he was doing when it came to love, knew only one thing:
He wasn’t letting go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Isaac’s hands framed her face as he hovered above her, sweat slicking the small of his back, every muscle tight with restraint. Rosie lay beneath him, flushed and gasping, her fingers tangled in his hair like she needed to hold onto something solid—something real.
His body was burning.
She was so soft. So warm. Every time he pressed into her, her hips met his like it was instinct, like she’d always been meant to take him this way.
Her mouth parted, lips trembling. “Isaac…”
That voice. That broken little sound.
He gritted his teeth and rocked into her again—slow and deep—dragging a moan from her throat that nearly undid him.
“Look at me,” he rasped, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her eyes to his. “Don’t look away.”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, dazed with pleasure, her nails dragging faint lines down his arms.
“You feel that?” he said, thrusting again, harder this time.
She whimpered, nodding.
“That’s me,” he breathed, his lips brushing hers. “That’s how much I want you.”
His pace deepened, steady and consuming, each thrust drawing them closer, their bodies locking tighter. The headboard tapped the wall in rhythm, the air heavy with the scent of skin, of sweat, of heat.
“You’ve been driving me insane for years,” he whispered into her mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Her legs tightened around his waist, holding him in place. She arched, gasping as he filled her again.
He caught her jaw, kissed her hard—open-mouthed, rough, full of hunger. And then he slowed, dragging his hips back, letting the tension build. Watching her fall apart.
“Tell me this doesn’t mean something to you,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
She didn’t answer—she didn’t need to.
Her body was already telling him everything.
And Isaac wasn’t stopping until he gave her all of it.
She was unraveling beneath him, panting and clinging, her words dissolving into gasps—but he could feel it, the shift. The way her body molded tighter, the way her walls clenched around him like she didn’t want to let go.
Isaac kissed her hard, then eased back, dragging his lips over her cheek, her jaw, her throat, as he slowed his thrusts and pressed his palm flat against the small of her back.
“C’mere,” he rasped.
She blinked up at him, dazed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
He rolled them—slow, careful—until she was on top of him, straddling his hips, her thighs trembling as she settled down on him again.
The sight of her above him—bare, flushed, hair wild and sticking to her temples—nearly stole the air from his lungs.
“Ride me, baby,” he said, his voice low, coaxing. “Take what you want.”
Her hands landed on his chest, tentative at first, then surer, more needy as she began to move. Slow circles at first. Rocking. Grinding. Isaac gritted his teeth, letting her pace wreck him.
“Look at you,” he breathed, one hand sliding up her thigh, her waist, to cup her breast. “You’re so damn beautiful, Rosie.”
She whimpered, riding harder now, bracing herself against his chest, her eyes locked to his—glassy, desperate.
“I’ve wanted this…” she whispered.
He reached up, thumb stroking over her lips. “Say it.”
She inhaled shakily. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
His stomach twisted, something deeper churning in his chest.
“Rosie…”
Her hands trembled on his chest.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words hit him like a pressure wave, straight to the ribs. He could barely breathe. Not from pain—something else. Something real. Something he hadn’t let himself feel before now.
And still—she kept moving. Her hips grinding into him with every breathless push, her body driving them both closer.
Isaac sat up, wrapping his arms around her, holding her to him while she moved—while she confessed. While everything between them snapped into something deeper.
“You’re gonna finish with me inside you,” he growled. “Right here. Right now. I want you to feel me when you walk tomorrow.”
She gasped—half laugh, half moan—and then he was kissing her again, slow and messy, while her body clenched tight around him.
And Isaac couldn’t stop whispering it—mine. mine. mine.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Just like this. Right here with me.”
And when she did—clenching around him, whispering his name like it was a prayer—Isaac knew something had shifted inside him forever.
She wasn’t just another woman. She never had been.
And now?
She was his. Whether he deserved her or not.
He surged up, kissing her hard, a desperate, consuming kiss that said everything he couldn’t. She moaned into it, fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring them both.
He ran his hands over her bare back, over every inch of her spine, memorizing it all.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered into her neck, kissing his way down, finding the soft swell of her chest. He pressed his mouth there, slow and reverent, the kind of kiss that left a mark—not on her skin, but on her heart.
And then she said it again, barely a breath—“I love you.”
Isaac stilled, his heart lurching hard against his ribs. He felt like the floor beneath them dropped. Her voice had been so small, but the weight of it hit him like a wave.
His grip tightened, his hands sliding to cradle her face as he looked up at her—into those impossibly blue eyes that had haunted him since they were kids.
She rocked against him, chasing the edge, and he met her every movement, guiding her with his hands, his lips, his voice. She was everything. She always had been.
“You’ve got me,” he breathed against her mouth. “You’ve always had me, Coco.”
And when they finally came together, it wasn’t just about heat or need—it was surrender. His. Hers. All of it.
Afterward, he pulled her in tight, hand cupping the back of her head as she lay against his chest, heart still pounding.