Chapter 6
six
. . .
Rhys
I’m hard and already reaching for her. Willow is still asleep, curled on her side with her back against my chest, one of my arms locked around her waist. The early light filters through the trees and lands across her back.
I press a kiss to her shoulder until she shifts and makes a soft sound in her throat.
She pushes her ass back against me without fully waking. I grit my teeth and press a kiss to the back of her neck.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Mmm.” She arches a little more. “You’re already—”
“Yeah.” I slide my hand down between her legs and find her warm and soft. “And you’re already wet. Does that mean you’re ready for me?”
She nods, still half-asleep, and that’s all the permission I need.
I lift her top leg, line myself up, and push into her slow and deep from behind.
The way she takes me—tight and perfect and already trembling—pulls a rough sound out of my chest. I keep one arm banded around her waist and the other braced on the bed so I can control every stroke.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
She turns her head on the pillow until those brown eyes meet mine. There’s no fear left in them. Just heat and trust and something that looks a lot like the same thing I’m feeling.
I thrust deeper. “You’re mine, Willow. Say it.”
Her breath hitches. “Hudson—”
“Say it while I’m inside you.” I grind against her, slow and hard. “I want to hear it.”
She holds my gaze and whispers, “I’m yours.”
The words hit me like a punch and a promise at the same time.
I fuck her deeper for it, keeping the pace deliberate so she feels every inch.
Every time she tries to close her eyes, I tip her chin back until she’s looking at me again.
I make her say it twice more before I let her come, and when she finally clenches around me with a broken little cry, I follow her over, buried to the hilt and already thinking about the next time.
We stay locked together afterward, my hand resting on her stomach, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my forearm. I press a kiss to her shoulder and speak against her skin.
"I want you pregnant."
She goes still. "What?"
"I want to watch you get soft and round with my kid. I want to feel it move under my hand." I keep my voice steady, possessive. "I want you tied to me in every way that matters. More than one if you'll let me."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she covers my hand with hers and laces our fingers together over her stomach. "I know what that means," she says quietly. "And I'm choosing it. I'm choosing you."
The quiet acceptance in the gesture settles something deep in my chest.
We eventually get out of bed. I make coffee while she showers. The ordinary rhythm of it already feels like a future I refuse to give up.
When I walk back inside, Willow is in the kitchen wearing another one of my shirts, bare legs and wild curls and a soft smile that hits me harder than any of the filthy things we did this morning. She looks at me like she can tell something shifted.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"It is now." I cross the room, cup the back of her neck, and kiss her slow and deep. "You're safe. I'm making sure of it."
She leans into me, forehead against my chest. "You didn't have to tell me that."
"Yes, I did. You deserve to know I'm handling it."
She tips her head back and looks up at me. There's still a little fear in her eyes—fear of how fast this is moving, fear of wanting it as much as I do—but underneath it is something steadier.
"Okay," she says quietly. "I'm not running."
I kiss her again, slower this time, and feel the last of the morning's tension leave my shoulders.