BOONE
BOONE
I don’t waste time.
The second her back hits the mattress, I’m on her—hands planted on either side of her head, mouth crashing into hers like I’ve gone too long without it. Because I have. Kissing her feels like getting hit with air after being underwater too damn long.
Lark meets me with all of it—fingers in my hair, nails dragging across my scalp like she’s trying to make me lose control. Her legs fall open and I slot between them without hesitation, right where I belong.
I kiss her like I’m starving. Like I’ve only got this one shot to get it right. It’s messy, hot, and completely unhinged. Tongues, teeth, breath. Her moans slip between us, soft and wrecked, and they ruin me—fuel on a fire I’m not even trying to put out.
I rip her sweatshirt off and toss it somewhere I don’t care about. But then I stop.
Black lace.
Barely there. Delicate. Fucking lethal.
My eyes drag over her and I swear my pulse hits the damn ceiling. “Jesus, Lark…”
My voice cracks around her name, and I don’t even try to hide it. My hands slide over her waist, slow and greedy, relearning the shape of her. Reclaiming it.
I trace the edge of her bra with the backs of my fingers, teasing just to watch her shiver. Just to see her eyes flutter and her breath hitch.
Then my mouth is on her throat—jaw, neck, that spot just under her ear where she always comes undone. She tilts her head, gives me more of her like she always does, and I sink my teeth in, sucking a mark I know she’ll find sometime tomorrow.
She makes this noise—quiet and broken—and fuck, it nearly knocks me out.
“Yeah,” I murmur against her skin, dragging my mouth lower. “I missed that sound.”
My hand grips her hip, hard. Not to control her—but to keep myself from going too fast. Because every second I’m not inside her is starting to feel like punishment.
“Missed being the one who gets to hear you fall apart.”
Her hands are under my shirt now, fingertips ghosting over my abs, my ribs, like she’s rediscovering something she used to know by heart. I suck in a breath, reach back, and rip the damn thing off.
She stares.
Her eyes roam—slow, lingering—over the scar on my side, the lines of my body, the ink stretched across my shoulder she’s never seen.
Her tongue flicks out, quick and mindless, dragging across her bottom lip—and that’s all it takes. My jaw tightens. Blood rushes low. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
Then her fingers trail down my stomach, light as air, like she’s testing just how far she can push before I snap.
“You look…” she says, voice scratchy, eyes stuck on my chest. “Good. I guess.”
I smirk, dipping my head until my mouth brushes hers. “You always this generous, or is it just for me?”
I kiss her before she can answer—mouth open, tongue sliding against hers with zero hesitation. It’s not soft. It’s not practiced. It’s two people who’ve thought about this too many times and finally stopped pretending not to.
My hand fists in the sheets beside her head, the other gripping her thigh, dragging it higher around my waist. She drags her nails down my stomach, slips her fingers under the waistband of my jeans, and I groan against her mouth, biting her bottom lip as her hips shift beneath mine.
She tastes like heat and home. Like I’ve waited long enough.
Her hands tangle in my hair, tugging me closer, rough and impatient. Her hips lift, chasing friction, her body arching under mine like she’s daring me to lose control.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
She’s flushed, wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
That’s when I see them.
Barely there. Pale against her skin. A soft constellation of stretch marks low on her stomach, trailing along her hips. Faint and quiet and honest in a way that hits me dead center.
My chest tightens, admiration settling deep inside me.
I lower my head and press my lips to one.
Then another.
And another.
Each kiss a thank-you. A prayer. A vow.
Lark goes still under me. Her fingers stop in my hair, then slide away completely.
“Boone,” she says softly, voice cracking just a little. “You don’t have to—”
“Hey.” I lift my head and meet her eyes.
She glances away too fast. Down at herself. Then off to the side, like she doesn’t want to be seen.
But I see her.
All of her.
And she’s fucking perfect.
She exhales slowly, a sound that’s part frustration, part surrender. “Seriously. They’re not— ”
“No.” I cut her off before the words can land. I shift, bracing a forearm beside her head so I can look her dead in the eye. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk about them like they’re something to be ashamed of.”
Her breath hitches. She blinks up at me, not flinching this time. Not turning away.
Good.
I slide my hand down, tracing the soft skin just above her hip, following the faint lines that map the story of her body. I move slowly. Not because I’m nervous—but because this matters.
“They’re proof Hudson had you,” I murmur. “That he lived here, inside you. That you kept him safe. Carried him into the world. You really think there’s a single part of that I wouldn’t want?”
She opens her mouth to argue. To dismiss. But the words never come. Instead, her lashes flutter, her chest rising fast beneath mine. And I know I’ve hit something deep. Something she’s been carrying for too long.
I lower myself again, press a kiss to the center of her stomach. Then another just beside it. My lips linger this time, my palm splayed across her waist.
“You don’t get to hate this,” I say against her skin. “Not when it’s one of the first things that made you his mom.”
She’s quiet. Still. But her fingers curl around my bicep, holding tight.
I drag my mouth slowly up her body, kissing the curve of her ribs, the slope of her breast, the edge of her collarbone. By the time I reach her mouth, her lips are parted, her eyes glassy, wrecked.
“You don’t get to hide from me, Lark,” I whisper. “Not this. Not any part of you, not anymore.”
Then I kiss her. Deep and slow, like I’m trying to sink into her, stay there forever.
Her hands roam—over my back, my shoulders, the back of my neck. And there’s something in the way she touches me now. Something searching. She’s not just feeling, but remembering—grounding herself to this version of us.
I settle between her thighs again, grinding into her slow, just enough for her to feel how fucking hard I am. How far gone. Her breath stutters, fingernails biting into my skin like she can’t help it.
My mouth finds the side of her throat, tongue dragging over her pulse. “Feel that?” I murmur against her skin. “That’s what you do to me.”
She arches under me, all instinct. No words. Doesn’t need any. Her body says everything—that it’s needy, open, mine .
I rock into her again, the pressure sharp and perfect, and she gasps my name like it slips out before she can catch it. “Boone—”
I grab her wrists, slide them up over her head, and pin them to the pillow—not rough, just enough pressure to remind her she’s not going anywhere unless I let her.
“Are you gonna be a good girl?” I ask, voice low, steady. “Or should I keep you like this for a while?”
She breathes hard, her lips parted. Her thighs clamp tighter around my waist, hips twitching like she’s not sure if she wants to tease or plead. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out.”
I hold her there a second longer, watching the way her pulse jumps in her neck, how her body fights the stillness, already chasing more.
“You like being under me,” I say—not a question. Just a fact. One I plan on proving again and again.
I lean in, drag my nose along her jaw, and whisper against the soft skin under her ear. “I bet I could make you beg for it.”
She shivers—hard—and I feel it everywhere.
I let her wrists go and trail my hands down the length of her body, taking my time. I peel her sweatpants down slow, then her underwear, inch by inch, until she’s bare and squirming and looking at me like she might lose it if I don’t touch her soon.
Her mouth opens. “Boone—”
“Yeah, baby?” I hook her legs over my arms, shift her where I want her.
She grips my shoulders. I kiss her stomach, then lower, letting my breath brush over the inside of her thigh.
And just before I do what we both want, I pause. Look up. “Do I need a condom? ”
She blinks, like it takes her a second to come back to earth. “I have an IUD,” she whispers. “And I’m clean. So unless you want to—”
I still. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. “I’m clean too.”
Her hands slide to the back of my neck, pulling me down to her. “Then don’t stop.”
The sound that leaves me isn’t even close to human. It’s raw. Deep. Torn straight from the center of my chest.
I shift higher, hands tightening around her hips, dragging her flush against me as I crush my mouth to hers—messy and all-consuming—like I need to crawl inside her and stay there for good.
“Sweetheart, you have no idea what that just did to me.”
My hands find the clasp of her bra, flick it open without hesitation. The lace slides down her arms and then she’s bare beneath me—chest rising, breath catching, flushed and perfect.
I freeze for a second.
Fuck.
I don’t even try to swallow the sound that rips out of me. She’s all soft curves and smooth skin, and every inch of her looks like something built to ruin me.
Her hands twitch like she’s about to cover herself, but I catch her wrists before she can—pinning them above her head, pressed into the pillow. Not hard. Just enough to show her she’s mine to look at. Mine to touch.
“Don’t hide from me,” I growl, eyes dragging over her. “You’re too goddamn pretty to ever cover that up.”
She shivers beneath me, back arching, chest rising toward my mouth like she’s begging for it.
So I give it to her.