Chapter 41
Forty One
Matilda
Icouldn’t hold back the soft gasp of pleasure as Henry carried me into the bedroom — my thigh locked around his waist, my fingers tangled in his hair. He was so bloody sexy I could hardly think straight.
“You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured against my neck, his breath hot against my skin, sending shivers straight through me. He kicked the door open, and it hit the wall with a quiet thud.
The room was dark, lit only by the silver wash of moonlight spilling across the floorboards. It caught the sharp planes of his face — the chiselled jaw, the curve of his lips — and I swear I could have stared at him forever.
He lowered me gently onto the bed, and in one smooth motion, tore his shirt over his head. My breath hitched. His body was all hard lines and soft skin — strength and warmth perfectly balanced.
He caught me staring and gave that slow, knowing smirk that always made my knees weak. Then he leaned down, his fingers curling under the hem of my dress, pulling it up and over my head in one swift move.
“Keep looking at me like that, my little sunshine,” he said, his voice rough and low, “and I’ll have to devour you.”
My little sunshine.
The words hit me straight in the chest. He’d never called me that before — and God, I loved it.
His lips found the hollow just below my ear, tracing a path down my neck and along my jaw.
My head fell back instinctively, my body arching toward him, silently begging for more.
Everything about Henry was intoxicating — the taste of his skin, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever mattered.
He made me feel alive. Wild. Unrestrained.
Before him, I thought I knew what good sex was. I’d been satisfied before, sure — but this? With him, it was something entirely different. I was insatiable. My hands roamed over his back, his shoulders, every inch of him I could reach, memorising the feel of him. This man. My man.
He’d told me he was falling for me — that he couldn’t hide it anymore — and those words had lifted a weight I didn’t realise I’d been carrying.
His hands traced down my sides, mapping my skin like he was learning every inch by heart. When his palm closed over my breast, his thumb brushed lightly across my nipple, sending a tremor through me. He did it again, harder this time, and the sound that escaped me wasn’t a word but a plea.
“Henry…” I gasped.
“Yes, my sunshine?” he whispered, his lips at my throat.
“More,” I managed, breathless. “Please.”
His answering groan vibrated against my skin. “I’ll give you whatever you want, sunshine. Anything.”
His hand slid lower, fingertips drawing soft, deliberate circles that made my whole body tremble. My hips lifted, chasing his touch, desperate for more. He tilted my chin, forcing my gaze back to his, and when our eyes locked, something inside me cracked wide open.
Then his mouth was on mine — fierce, consuming — and I melted into him completely.
“You’re mine,” he panted between kisses.
All I could do was nod, lost in him, in the heat, in the wild rhythm we’d created.
When his fingers left me, I almost cried out — until he gripped my thighs, pulling me down the bed and positioning himself between my legs. The look in his eyes stole my breath. He lowered himself until our noses brushed, his body poised against mine.
“I—” His voice broke, rough with emotion. “I love you.”
A choked sob escaped me just as his mouth found mine again. The kiss was deep, desperate, and full of everything we hadn’t yet said.
Then he moved inside me — slow, deliberate — and the world went still.
Every motion, every touch felt like a promise. This wasn’t just desire anymore. It was something far greater — a declaration without words.
We moved together, perfectly in sync, like we were made to fit this way. Every kiss, every sigh, every whispered name felt sacred. And when we finally shattered together, our bodies trembling, our hearts racing in unison, it felt like coming home.
The moonlight spilled across the sheets, wrapping us in silver as we lay tangled in each other’s arms, breathless and still. Henry shifted, rolling me gently onto his chest and holding me close — his heartbeat strong beneath my palm.
“Henry,” I whispered, lifting my chin to look at him.
“Yes, sunshine?”
“I love you too.”
For a second, he went completely still. Then his chest rose in a shaky breath, and his arms tightened around me, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
And there, in the quiet of the night — surrounded by nothing but the sound of our breathing — I felt it.
For the first time in my life, I was whole.
We lay there wrapped in each other’s arms, our hands tracing lazy patterns over warm skin, mapping every inch we could reach.
We talked and kissed for what felt like hours, the world outside fading until there was nothing left but us — soft breaths, quiet laughter, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
I’d never felt more content in my life than I did right here, tangled up with the man I loved.
“What do you mean you don’t like lemon cake?” I gasped in mock horror.
“Fruit shouldn’t be in cake,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch of amusement.
“Let me guess — you’re a chocolate cake kind of guy.”
He screwed up his face like I’d just offended him. “My favourite’s actually coffee cake.”
“Coffee cake?” I blinked at him. “Okay, yeah — it’s official. You’re completely unhinged.”
Henry laughed — that deep, warm laugh that always made my chest ache — and pulled me closer until my body melted into his.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he murmured into my hair, his breath tickling my ear.
“So,” I teased, “that means I’ll have to get you coffee cake on your next birthday.” I wrinkled my nose dramatically. “Though I might need gloves to handle it.”
“Good luck knowing when that is,” he said, smirking against my temple.
I gave him a triumphant grin. “You think I don’t know? Please. I’ve worked for you for four years — of course I know.”
But as soon as I said it, a flicker of uncertainty crossed my mind.
Henry had never told anyone his birthday.
He’d never celebrated, never so much as accepted a card from the team.
I’d never seen anyone wish him a happy birthday — and yet, every year without fail, he’d take that one day off: November 12th.
“Why don’t you talk about your birthday?” I asked softly.
He stilled. So subtly that anyone else might have missed it — but I didn’t. I felt the shift beneath my palm where it rested on his chest.
“It’s just a day,” he said lightly, too lightly.
“The day Henry Chase was born is not just a day,” I said, swatting his arm gently. “It’s a day to celebrate. You wait — on November 12th, I’m filling the office with balloons so everyone knows.”
I grinned at my own cleverness, but the look on his face made my smile falter. His expression changed — all warmth draining away, replaced by something unreadable. His eyes met mine, sharp and searching.
“Why do you think November 12th is my birthday?” he asked quietly. His tone wasn’t angry, but it carried a weight that made my stomach drop.
“Because… you always book that day off,” I stammered. “Every year. I just presumed. I’m sorry — I feel like I’ve said something wrong.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, grounding me even as guilt twisted in my chest.
“You haven’t said anything wrong, sunshine,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to my hairline. The tenderness in the gesture soothed me, but there was something else beneath it — something heavy, unspoken.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. “November 12th is the day my mother died.”
The air caught in my throat. “Henry… oh God, I’m so sorry.” I wanted to take the words back, to erase the image of balloons and cake and my thoughtless cheer. Shame prickled behind my eyes, hot and sharp.
He tightened his hold on me as if sensing it. “Hey. Stop,” he said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But now you know.”
He paused for a moment, and I felt his heartbeat pick up beneath my palm. “I go to her grave every year. I take fresh flowers. Maybe…” He hesitated, his voice trembling on the edge of something fragile. “Maybe you could come with me this year.”
My vision blurred instantly as tears welled in my eyes. “I’d love to,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
I felt his lips curve into the faintest smile against my skin. He exhaled — a long, unsteady breath — and pulled me tighter into his chest. I hooked my leg over his, desperate to be closer still, as if I could shield him from that lingering ache.
“She would have loved you,” he whispered finally, voice rough with emotion.
My heart swelled so full I thought it might burst. I smiled into his chest, my tears soaking his skin.
“I know she’d be proud of you,” I whispered back.
He didn’t answer, but I felt it — the small tremor in his chest, the press of his lips to my hair, the quiet that said more than words ever could.
And lying there in his arms, I knew it without a shadow of doubt:
I would never love anyone the way I loved Henry Chase.