24. Zola
ZOLA
His mouth on mine feels like an impossibility made real. Eight years I spent convincing myself this would never happen again, that I'd destroyed something irreplaceable, and here he is—solid and warm and here, kissing me like I'm the only thing that matters in the entire world.
My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Everything's too much—losing Nia, raising Maeve alone, the shock of Declan walking back into my life, the confusion and hurt over his wife. I'm still raw from all of it, still bleeding from wounds I thought had scarred over years ago.
But Maeve adores him. She lights up when he walks in, reaches for him like she knows on some fundamental level that he's safe. And Stellan's suddenly around too, this unexpected presence who looks at my daughter like she's family already.
I can't keep pushing him out. Can't keep pretending that having him back in my life isn't exactly what I've wanted since the moment I left Philadelphia.
So I don't. I pull him closer instead, kissing him deeper, my hands fisting in his shirt hard enough that I'm probably wrinkling the fabric beyond repair. He makes this sound—low and rough and desperate—and heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly.
"Declan." I break the kiss just long enough to get the words out. "I need you. God, I need you so badly."
"Zola—" He's breathing hard, forehead pressed against mine. "We should probably—"
"No." I cut him off, shifting so I'm straddling his lap. The bench is narrow and uncomfortable but I don't care. "I don't want to think. Don't want to be careful or smart or any of the things I've been trying to be. I just want you."
He groans when I grind against him, and I can feel how much he wants this too—hard and insistent through his jeans. "Love—"
"I missed you." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Every single day for eight years, I missed you. Missed this. Missed us."
"I know." His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the fabric of my dress higher. "Believe me, I know."
I reach between us, fingers fumbling with his belt. The metal's cool under my hands and I'm shaking slightly—nerves or anticipation or just the overwhelming reality of finally touching him again after so long. He helps me, undoing the buckle and button while I shove the fabric aside.
This is reckless. We're in a public park, even if it is secluded, even if it is late. Anyone could walk by. But I've spent my whole life being careful, protecting myself, making the smart choice. Just this once, I want to be selfish. Want to take what I need without thinking about consequences.
Declan's eyes are dark when I lift myself up, positioning myself over him. "You're sure?"
"So sure." I sink down slowly, taking him in, and the stretch and fullness is so intense I have to pause halfway, breathing through the adjustment. It's been years—not since him, not since before I left. My body needs time to remember this, to accommodate him.
He's perfectly still beneath me, every muscle tensed like he's holding himself back with sheer force of will. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise and I can see the strain in his jaw, the way he's clenching his teeth.
I roll my hips experimentally, taking him deeper, and he makes a sound like he's dying.
"Christ." The word comes out strangled. "It's been far too long. I'm barely holding on here."
Something in the way he says it makes me pause, studying his face in the dim light. "How long?"
His eyes meet mine and there's something vulnerable there, something that makes my chest tight. "How long what?"
"How long has it been for you?" I'm almost afraid to hear the answer. Maybe I shouldn't have even asked.
"Zola—"
"Tell me." I need to know, even if it's going to hurt. Even if he's going to say something that will confirm my worst fears—that he tried to move on, that he found someone else, that I was the only one stuck in the past.
"Eight years." His voice is steady, certain. "It's been eight years."
I blink, trying to process that. "But you were married. And before that, I wasn't even in this state for years. I know you said you didn't touch her, but—"
"I didn't touch anyone." He emphasizes each word like he needs me to really hear them. "Didn't look at anyone. Didn't even think about anyone. I just wanted you."
Eight years. He spent eight years wanting only me, the same way I spent eight years wanting only him. All that time I was in New York, trying and failing to move on, trying and failing to imagine wanting anyone the way I wanted him—he was here doing exactly the same thing.
"It was the same for me." The words feel pulled from somewhere deep in my chest. "I didn't want anyone else."
Something shifts in his expression—goes from vulnerable to fierce in the space between heartbeats. His grip on my hips tightens and he pulls me down as he thrusts up, filling me completely.
"Declan—" His name comes out as a gasp.
He does it again, harder this time, and pleasure sparks up my spine. "Mine." The word is possessive, almost rough. "You're mine. Always have been."
"Yes." I lean into him, my hands braced on his shoulders as he sets a rhythm that's deep and hard and exactly what I need. "Always."
We're not careful now, not quiet. He's pulling me down to meet each thrust and I'm grinding against him, chasing the building pressure that's coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
The bench is digging into my knees and my dress is bunched up around my waist and none of it matters because this is Declan—my Declan—and we fit together like we never stopped, like all that time was nothing compared to what we had.
"That's it, love." His voice is rough, strained. "Take what you need."
I'm so close already, the combination of his voice and his hands and the overwhelming sensation of him inside me after so long pushing me rapidly toward the edge. When he shifts the angle slightly, hitting somewhere that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I cry out.
"There?" He does it again, deliberate and precise. "That's what you need?"
"Don't stop." I'm begging now, past pride or shame. "Please don't stop."
"Never." He leans forward, biting down gently on my neck. "Never stopping. Never letting you go again."
The pleasure builds to something almost unbearable—too much and not enough simultaneously. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt and I'm moving frantically now, chasing that final push over the edge.
"Come for me." His breath is hot against my ear. "I want to feel you."
The command breaks something loose inside me.
The orgasm crashes through me with enough force that my vision actually whites out for a moment, pleasure so intense it's almost painful radiating out from my core in waves.
I'm distantly aware that I'm making noise—probably too much noise for a public park—but I can't seem to care.
Declan follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he thrusts deep one final time and holds himself there. I can feel him pulsing inside me as he comes, his face buried against my neck and his hands gripping me like I'm the only solid thing in a spinning world.
For several long moments, neither of us moves.
We're just breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync, bodies still joined.
My dress is a wrinkled mess and his shirt is untucked and we probably look thoroughly debauched, but right now, wrapped up in him with the sound of the river in the background, I feel completely at peace.
For one perfect moment, I let go of everything—the grief over Nia, the fear of losing Declan again, the worry about whether I'm enough for him, whether Maeve and I can ever really be what he needs.
I let it all dissolve into the sensation of being held by him, surrounded by him, with him in every way that matters.
His arms are solid around me, anchoring me to this moment. His heartbeat is steady against my chest. His breathing is evening out, warm puffs of air against my neck where his face is still buried.
"Zola." My name sounds reverent the way he says it.
"I'm here." I run my fingers through his hair, feeling it slip between them—slightly longer than he used to wear it, but still familiar. "I'm right here."
He lifts his head to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my breath catch. There's so much love there, so much naked adoration, that I almost can't bear it. Like I'm something precious, something worth the years he spent waiting.
"I love you." He says it simply, like it's the most fundamental truth in the universe. "Never stopped. Never will."
I open my mouth to respond, but he kisses me before I can get the words out—slow and deep and achingly tender. Different from the desperate passion of minutes ago. This is about connection, about promising each other that we're not going anywhere.
When he finally pulls back, I rest my forehead against his, eyes closed, just breathing him in. His scent is familiar underneath everything else—something clean and masculine that I remember from before, from all those mornings waking up beside him.
"We should probably..." I gesture vaguely toward our current state of disarray.
"Yeah." But he doesn't move to separate us, just holds me closer. "In a minute."
"In a minute." I agree, letting myself have this. Letting myself be held and wanted and loved without questioning whether I deserve it or whether it's smart or whether it's going to last.
Just for right now, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we can actually make this work.