CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #2
“Good,” he repeats.
“Great.”
“Are we done?”
“I just want it on record that I called it.”
I stare at the ceiling.
My mom would be so happy he came back.
· · ·
That thought comes in like light and grief all at once.
She’d have made too much food and hovered near the door with an excuse to come in and check on us and pretended she wasn’t doing any of those things.
She’d have left a snack outside my door.
She’d have known before I said a word and loved him for it anyway.
· · ·
But then she’s not here anymore.
I close my eyes.
Who’s going to take care of her garden now.
The daisies.
All those daisies.
She planted them for herself.
But they were always ours too.
I don’t say it out loud.
But I feel Cassian’s arms tighten around me.
Like he already knows.
He always knows.
He takes his time.
Helps me forget.
· · ·
More time than I have patience for, which is saying something, because I have been patient for a decade and a half.
Every touch is deliberate, hungry.
Every inch of skin he traces lights up like a fucking wildfire.
Like I’ve been numb for years and he’s the spark that brings me back to life.
Every touch fires off thousands of nerve endings, electric and intense.
I kiss him the way you do when you've been denied something too long.
Like I'm settling a score.
Like every single time he disappeared is something I'm addressing personally, slowly, with my mouth.
Which is not a mature or necessarily good payback plan.
But I'm committed.
He pulls my shirt over my head and sits back, his eyes raking over me in the low light.
I reach for him, my voice steady and sure. “Your turn.”
He pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing every hard line and muscle. I take my time, running my hands over his chest, his stomach, the cut of muscle along his sides. I explore every inch of him because I’ve earned this and I’m going to savor it every time.
Throat. Chest. The tight skin over his abs. I leave marks everywhere I go. Every place I've wanted to put my mouth. Every place I spent years pretending I wasn't obsessing about.
“You’re staring,” he says, his voice low.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”
He pulls me back in, his hands moving over me slowly, finding every spot that makes me forget my own name.
His mouth trails down my throat, my collarbone, moving lower with deliberate patience.
He learns me carefully, like he’s memorizing a map, like he intends to know this by heart. Like it’s the first time every time.
“Cassian,” I murmur, my voice desperate.
“Mmm?” He looks up, his eyes dark and unhurried.
“Cassian,” I say again, my voice breaking with desperation.
· · ·
He looks up from where he’s been methodically driving me insane, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Please, Cassian. Please. I need more.” I say, my voice raw with need.
Something shifts in his expression. He moves back up my body, every inch of him dragging against every inch of me.
The eye contact intense, like he’s seeing straight through me.
“Show me what you need,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
So I do. I show him in explicit detail.
He reciprocates, his movements mirroring mine, deliberate and intense. Every touch, every kiss, every bite—designed to drive me wild.
Worth the wait of eleven years doesn’t even begin to cover it.
· · ·
He’s different than I imagined. Better. Now that I have more time to appreciate him.
The sounds he makes — low and primal, completely uninhibited — are nothing like I’d pictured.
His hands know exactly what they’re doing, no instruction needed.
When I finally take him in my mouth, he says my name like a fucking prayer, over and over like he can’t stop himself.
"Ro—" His hands find my hair. "That mouth. Oh my God. Don't you dare stop. Don't—fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He pulls me up. Both hands on my face. His eyes on mine.
“I want to feel you again,“ he says. Low. Deliberate. “I want—" He swallows. “I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t know how to say it.”
“You don’t have to say it,” I tell him.
· · ·
I pull him over me, guiding him exactly where I want him, watching his face as he pushes in slowly, filling me completely.
The sensation is intense, a mix of pleasure and pain that has me gasping.
His forehead drops to mine, both of us still, breathing each other in.
“Still okay?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” I manage to say. “Yeah, just—”
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
· · ·
He starts to move, and the world narrows down to this — his hands gripping my hips, his mouth finding my throat, the deep sounds he makes when I move with him.
He keeps saying my name over and over like it’s the only word he trusts himself with right now.
Like it’s the only word he knows.
Every thrust is deliberate, hitting every spot so hard, that it makes me see every single memory we’ve had together, blended into one, until it’s just us.
The heat builds until there’s nowhere to put it, and we fall apart together, his name on my lips, both of us completely lost in each other.
· · ·
“Say you love me again,” he breathes, his hips rolling into mine.
“I love you,” I moan. “God—I love you.”
His grip tightens, and he moves harder, faster, like my words have unlocked something primal in him.
“Fuck—Ro,” he says, his voice low and rough against my skin. “You’re mine.”
And in that moment, I know he means it. Completely and utterly.
· · ·
After — he doesn’t leave.
He pulls me in from behind, his arm heavy across my chest, his face against the back of my head. His heartbeat against my spine. Slow. Steadying.
I close my eyes.