Chapter 12
Joelle
The world feels soft-edged when Wade kisses me.
All the noise in my head quiets at once, like someone set a hand over the frantic pulse of my thoughts and whispered, hush. The kiss is warm and slow enough that I feel every shift of his mouth, every breath shared between us, every careful piece of him trying not to rush me.
His hands cradle my face as if I might vanish the moment he lets go.
Maybe I would. I’ve spent so long drifting at the edges of my own life that I barely know how to stay present in my body anymore. But Wade’s touch pulls me back into myself, anchors me, and tells me without words that he sees me here, now.
I slide a hand up the back of his neck, fingers brushing the short hair at his nape.
The contact draws a low breath from him, his lips pressing more firmly to mine as something hot curls between us.
Desire, yes. But also relief. I’ve never been kissed like this before, and I sink into it like a woman drinking sweet wine for the first time.
When we part, his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, almost pleading. “That this is what you want.”
I open my eyes. He waits, his eyes dark, searching, and hopeful in a way that makes my chest ache.
I never imagined Wade would be this way.
He’s always been so stoic and in control, but when he looks at me, there’s a feral, animalistic possessiveness that wraps tightly around me, and a deep vulnerability, too.
“I want you,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes for a moment, the words seeming to hit him somewhere deep and tender. When he looks back at me, the tension from earlier has eased, replaced by certainty.
His palm traces up my spine under his shirt that I love wearing, and the warmth of his hand sends a shiver through me. When he lifts the hem, my breath catches. The fabric rises inch by inch, and the cool air grazes my skin in its wake.
I lift my arms, and he slides the shirt from my body like a sigh.
Wade looks at me with the kind of awe that warms me from the inside and makes me want to stand a little straighter.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself, gently stroking the underside of my full breast with his knuckles.
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Nobody has ever called me beautiful before, and since I had the baby, all I’ve felt is heavy and achy, covered with stretch marks and veins that didn’t used to be there. But Wade looks at me as if this version of me is the one he wanted all along.
A soft trickle of milk runs down the curve of my breast, the letdown happening from the anticipation of his hunger. Instinctively, I move to wipe it, embarrassed, but Wade catches my hand gently.
“Let me,” he murmurs, and he leans forward.
His tongue laps up the spilled milk, his mouth closing around my nipple with a reverence that undoes me. The heat of him, the pull of his tongue, the slow, coaxing suction force pleasure to unspool through me in warm, liquid ribbons, loosening every tight, hurting place in my body.
My hand flies to his soft, dark hair, curling into it as a helpless breath escapes me.
“Wade…”
He groans against my skin as milk releases in a sweet, aching rush. His hands grip my hips, holding me while I hover above him, my thighs trembling. Relief spreads through me, liquid and glowing, as his mouth coaxes milk from me in deep pulls.
My hips rock without permission, searching for the pressure he gives so easily. His breath catches when I move. I feel him, hot and hard beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants, and the knowledge that he’s hard for me sends heat spiraling low in my belly.
He switches sides, and pleasure sparks sharp enough to make my breath falter.
“Wade,” I gasp, my voice breaking around the edges. “I’m… I can’t hold it…”
“I’ve got you,” he says against my skin, his voice thick with devotion and hunger, his hand tugging my hips into him hard. “Let go.”
And I do, pleasure cresting fast, sweeping through me in waves that steal my breath and arch my back. My fingers dig into his shoulders, my cry muffled against his hair as my body shudders with release. Milk spills warm against his mouth, and he groans like the taste is a gift.
He holds me tight through the entire tremor, whispering low, steady words I barely register but feel down to my bones. “Good girl,” he whispers. “Good girl,” and I feel his praise so deeply it brings fresh tears to my eyes.
When I finally sag against him, boneless and breathless, he wraps his arms around me, one hand splayed wide across my spine, the other cupping the back of my thigh. A protector’s hold. A lover’s hold.
“You still want me?” he murmurs against my temple.
I lift my head, take his face in both hands, and kiss him with every ounce of truth I have left. It feels greedy to want these moments for me. The last eighteen months have been solely focused on my son, and in that time, I lost touch with who I am and what I desire.
But in Wade’s arms, pieces of the girl I was are slipping back into place. I can be a mother and also a woman who craves the touch of a man. At least, I want to believe that.
“More than anything,” I breathe, kissing him again. “More than anything.”