Chapter Twenty-Three
Nathan
My entire body is vibrating—heart pounding, blood rushing, nerves sparking like live wires.
And beneath it all, I feel it happening again.
The music.
That old, sacred thing I thought I’d lost forever.
It’s building inside me, swelling, rising—just like my desire, my passion, my need for this one woman.
Adrianna has always been the only person who can awaken that song inside me.
The only muse I’ve ever had.
The only woman whose existence turns my breath into melody.
How the hell have I lived without her?
The real answer? I haven’t.
I’ve been stumbling. Drifting. Pretending.
A man without a compass, wandering through noise and spotlight.
But not now.
Not when I guide her into the private elevator.
Not when her hand stays in mine the whole ride up.
Not when I lead her down the quiet hallway toward our suite.
Not when I unlock the door and step inside with her.
And not when I turn back and lock the door behind us.
Because right here, this moment?
This breath—this heartbeat—is the pivot point of my entire life. It’s everything I ever wanted, ever longed for.
Fucking sacred.
“Nathan?” she whispers, breath catching as I face her.
Christ.
She’s so beautiful it aches.
Her ivory dress is hugging her curves.
Her lips are still pink from my kiss.
Her velvet brown eyes are warm and wide and shining in the soft golden light of the suite.
I take her in.
All of her.
Every inch.
And for the first time in sixteen goddamn years, I feel alive.
“Tell me you want this, Ad,” I say, stepping closer. My voice is rough, thick with truth I can’t hide. “Or tell me to stop. Because the second I get my hands on you, there’s no turning back.”
She looks at me.
Bold.
Unflinching.
Strong in ways she doesn’t even realize.
And she has no idea that my entire fucking life is hanging in the balance—waiting for her answer.
Then I see it.
The shift.
The decision.
That spark of certainty that belongs only to her.
“I want this, Nathan,” she breathes. “I want you.”
Something in my chest breaks open—raw, bright, unstoppable.
I cup her face in my hands, pulling her toward me like she’s oxygen and I’m drowning.
I crush my mouth to hers.
“Thank fuck,” I growl against her lips.
The kiss is fire.
It’s lust.
Need.
So many nights wasted, frustrated, with me just longing for the one woman I was stupid enough to lose.
Sixteen years of wanting her, collapsing into a single, perfect collision.
When we break apart, panting, our foreheads pressed together, I whisper against her lips, “Dammit, Sparky, I’ve missed you.”
Her breath shudders.
Mine matches it.
And then—we’re on each other.
Hands everywhere—tugging, pulling, desperate.
Buttons parting, zippers lowering, fabric whispering across skin.
Her dress slips down her shoulders like it’s been waiting for this moment.
My shirt hits the floor.
Her fingers are sinking into my hair.
My mouth is tracing the line of her jaw, her throat, and her sexy as fuck collarbone.
We’re smiling and sighing—moaning and laughing—rediscovering each other with a hunger that borders on worship.
And as clothes fall away and bare skin meets bare skin, one truth beats louder than anything.
This is real.
This is happening.
This is us.
And I’m never letting her go again.