Chapter 49 #2
We navigate the short distance to the couch by instinct and touch, laughing once when my knee hits the coffee table, both of us too unwilling to break apart to mind.
He sits; I climb into his lap like I’ve always known where I fit.
The kiss deepens—the kind that isn’t content to sit at the edges of your mouth, the kind that wants to know you.
His hands map me with a certainty that feels like reverence: the line of my back, the curve of my waist, the place at my hip where his palm spans me as if claiming and asking are the same gesture.
“Tell me if you want me to slow down,” he murmurs against my lip.
“Don’t you dare,” I breathe, and feel his answering groan under my hands.
We take our time even as we hurry. He shrugs out of his hoodie; I loop it off his arms and tug my jumper over my head.
We laugh again, breathless, when static makes my hair stand in a ridiculous halo, and he smooths it with palms that linger, gentling the strands, his face so open with fondness it steals the air from my lungs.
“So fucking beautiful,” he says, like a fact, not a compliment.
He kisses down my cheek to the edge of my jaw, then my throat. The heat of his mouth is slow and careful, but the intent thrums like a struck wire. Every place he touches blooms awake. I tip my head back, eyes closed, trusting, the hand at the nape of his neck pulling him closer.
“I want you in your bed.”
We stand only long enough to stumble the rest of the way to my bedroom, kissing like we’ll never learn the lesson of patience.
The fairy lights spill a soft gold across rumpled sheets.
Rain ticks lazily against the glass. He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, his chest moving hard, eyes asking me one more time.
“Yes,” I say, louder than I intended. Then, softer: “Yes.”
What happens next is not rushed, but it’s unstoppable.
He undresses me like a man unwrapping something he’s thought about for too long, fingers working slowly, deliberately, as if each layer is a secret he’s earned the right to uncover.
The clasp of my bra comes free with the smallest click, the sound loud in the quiet.
His fingertips skim my bare skin as he slides the straps down, slow enough to make my breath hitch.
Every touch feels both reverent and claiming—palms tracing the curve of my shoulders, the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist—each pass sending a flush of heat through me. His thumbs brush over my nipples, teasing until they harden, his gaze darkening as if he’s cataloguing every reaction.
I take my turn with him, dragging my hands over the breadth of his chest, down the hard planes of muscle to the V at his hips.
The fabric of his T-shirt clings before I tug it over his head, baring warm skin I can’t stop touching.
My nails trail lightly along his spine, feeling the way his breath catches.
We move like we’re relearning each other and memorising all over again, because now we have time—time we didn’t have before.
We fall to the bed in a tangle, my back against the sheets, his body over mine, solid and warm, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the best way.
The heat of him seeps into my skin, steady and anchoring, like standing in front of a hearth after a long walk through the snow.
His mouth claims mine, deep and unhurried, before moving lower—down my throat, lingering at the hollow beneath my ear, over the racing pulse there.
I arch into him without thinking, my body greedy for his. “Bas…” His name leaves me half plea, half surrender.
He groans low, the sound rumbling through my chest where it presses to his. “Amber,” he breathes back, my name thick on his tongue.
His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time, the kiss all heat and possession.
He angles my head with his hand at the base of my skull, taking exactly what he wants, tasting me like he’s been starving for it.
When he finally drags his lips from mine, it’s only to trail them down the line of my jaw, over the curve of my throat, lingering there as his tongue flicks against the frantic pulse under my skin.
I shiver when his mouth moves lower, mapping a path over my collarbone before dipping to take my nipple between his lips. The sharp pull of suction has my breath catching; the slow roll of his tongue makes my hips twitch against his.
“Stay still,” he murmurs against my skin. It’s not a request.
I try, but then he’s kissing his way down my stomach, parting my thighs with his hands, and still holding me open when his mouth finally closes over me. The first stroke of his tongue is deliberate, slow enough to make me ache, then deeper, more insistent.
My hands fist in the sheets, but he pins my hips with his forearm, holding me exactly where he wants me. Every flick, every circle, is paced to unravel me one breath at a time.
“Bas—” It’s half his name, half a plea.
He lifts his head just enough to speak, voice low and rough. “I’m not stopping until you come on my tongue.”
The promise—and the control in it—has me right on the edge, and when he seals his lips around me again, sucking hard, I break, my back arching, a strangled sound spilling out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t let me go until I’m trembling, and when he finally comes up, his mouth is wet, his eyes dark.
Before I can catch my breath, I push him back onto the mattress and slide down his body, tasting salt and heat as I take him into my mouth.
His hand threads into my hair, not forcing, just guiding, but the weight of his control is there in the way his fingers tighten when I draw him deeper.
I keep my eyes on his, watching his jaw clench, his chest rise and fall faster with every pass of my tongue.
“That’s enough,” he says finally, pulling me up. His voice grits on the words, and it sends a shiver through me.
The last space between us disappears when he pushes into me, slow, inch by inch, until I’m full and stretched around him. My legs wrap around his hips instinctively, pulling him deeper, chasing the connection like I’ll die without it.
We move together—slow at first, breaths syncing, finding a rhythm that feels inevitable, like we’ve been working toward this for years. His hips roll into mine with precision, the friction perfect, his body covering mine like a shield and a promise.
He whispers things into my ear—stuff he’s never said. I love you—things he’s always said. I’ve got you. I’m here. Each one lands in the quiet places where fear used to live, staking claim.
Heat builds quickly, coiling low in my belly until the rest of the room disappears. The glide of his palm along my waist, the scrape of his teeth at my jaw, the way his mouth finds mine when I need it most—it all blurs into the same desperate need to be as close as possible.
When I gasp, he stills, holding me in place, forehead resting against mine. “Tell me,” he murmurs, and the way he’s listening with his whole body makes me dizzy.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe, and he obeys instantly, driving deeper, harder.
He is gentle; he is not gentle. He is careful with me, but there’s nothing careful about the way his hips snap forward or the way he drags a groan from my chest with every thrust. It’s passion and hunger, but it’s also home—the place my body has learned to trust.
The tension snaps all at once. Pleasure crashes over me in a wave so sharp it’s almost too much, and I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, mouth finding his in a desperate, clumsy kiss.
He follows me into it, groaning my name against my lips, his own release breaking through in a shuddering thrust.
When it’s over, we collapse together, chests heaving, the sweat cooling on our skin. His forehead rests against mine, both of us still catching our breath. He kisses me once more—soft, lingering, full of everything we just said without words.
Then his palm slides to my belly. He lays it there, warm and protective, fingers splayed like he’s sheltering a small, sacred flame. He doesn’t say anything at first, and he doesn’t have to. Something inside me goes liquid and certain.
“This is where I stay,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “With you. With our baby. Every day.”
I cover his hand with mine. The future is still terrifying—so much unknown—but terror has a different shape when the person beside you refuses to let go.
And he does refuse. Not just in moments like this, when it’s easy to feel safe, but in the small hours of the morning when he makes me tea before I’ve even asked.
In the way he takes the long route home just so we can drive past the wildflower field he knows I love.
In the way he calls Abel every night, including me in those conversations makes me feel like I’ve always been part of them.
In the way his eyes soften when they find me in a crowd, like I’m the only person he’s looking for.
He’s showing up. Every day, in a hundred small ways, he’s proving that this—me, him, us—isn’t just something he’s surviving. It’s something he’s choosing.
“Hope feels good,” I whisper, and it does. It feels like his hand warm over new life, like the steady thud of his heart under my ear, like rain softening against the glass while a new kind of morning waits on the other side of night.
We drift in the afterglow, and when sleep finally comes, it doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like being held.