28. Georgina #2
“I needed you to want my company, too.” I look at him. “Lately, I haven’t had to wonder about that. Even when we aren’t riding. Even when I’m being difficult.”
“Especially then,” he says, and I feel my mouth begin to curve.
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at our joined hands. “I spent so much time thinking I knew what you needed that I never bothered to ask. When you left, I had to face that. I didn’t like what I saw.”
“Neither did I.” I don’t soften it. “But I noticed you trying. Before the competition. Before we knew what Giselle had done.”
“I hoped you would.” He looks up at me. “I didn’t know if it would be enough.”
“I want the life we’ve been having.” I lean into him, letting my shoulder rest against his. “I want to keep making it with you.”
We sit together in the garden, letting the conversation settle. There will be more to say, I know. Years of more to say. But right now, this is enough.
“There’s something else,” I say eventually. “Something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Tell me.”
“My ring.” I feel him go still beside me. “I left it at the championship. Did you keep it?”
“Yes.” His voice is careful. “I found it in the suite after you left. I’ve kept it with my things here.”
“Where?”
“The drawer of the nightstand. On my side of the bed.”
I hadn’t known that. All these weeks, while I’ve been sleeping beside him, my ring has been right there.
“Will you get it for me?”
He’s on his feet before I finish the sentence. I wait on the bench, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face, listening to the distant sounds of the stable. When he comes back, he’s holding the ring carefully, as though it might shatter.
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever give this back to you,” he says. “I brought it with me when I came here. I didn’t know whether you’d ever want it again.”
I take the ring from him and look at it for a moment. It’s the same ring he put on my finger years ago, the same ring I left behind when I thought everything was over. It looks smaller than I remember. More ordinary.
But it’s also everything we’ve been through. Everything we’ve survived.
I slip it onto my finger. It fits perfectly.
“There,” I say. “Now I can stop pretending I don’t miss it.”
Max pulls me up from the bench and kisses me. It’s different from the morning kisses we’ve shared for weeks, different from the comfortable affection of two people who’ve learned to live together again. This kiss has weight. Intention. Promise.
When we separate, I’m smiling.
“You look pleased with yourself,” I tell him.
“I’m pleased with you.” He keeps his arms around me. “I’m pleased with us.”
“I’m staying, Max.” I look up at him, wanting him to see my face when I say it. “Not because I’m tired of fighting, or because it’s easier than leaving. Because I want this. I want you.”
His breath catches. For a moment he doesn’t speak, just looks at me with his mouth slightly open, as though he had an answer ready and can no longer remember it. I lay my hand against his cheek and feel him turn into it.
“I was afraid to hope for that,” he says quietly. “Even these past weeks, even waking up beside you every morning. I kept waiting for you to change your mind.”
“Then hear me now.” I touch his face. “I want to be your wife. I want us to have a life we both like living.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel the difference in him. He draws me against him, one hand spreading across my back. His hands tighten at my waist, and I press closer, wanting more of this, more of him.
“Come inside,” I say against his mouth. “We have time before lunch.”
“Rosa said half an hour.”
“Then we shouldn’t waste it standing in the garden.”
His laugh is warm against my cheek.
He takes my hand and we walk toward the house, through the kitchen where Rosa is stirring something that smells wonderful, up the stairs to the bedroom we’ve been sharing for weeks.
The room is bright with midday sun, the bed still unmade from this morning.
This is different, though. This is choosing to stay with the ring back on my finger.
Max closes the door behind us, and I turn to face him. He watches me slip off my shoes. When I straighten, he’s still standing by the door, smiling at something I haven’t caught yet.
“What?” I ask.
“You brought me upstairs.”
“You’ve been here before, Max. Try to look less astonished.”
“I’m enjoying it.”
I cross to him before he can make another joke.
I push him back until his shoulders hit the door hard enough to rattle it in the frame, and I kiss him open and filthy.
He groans into my mouth. His hands fist in my blouse.
I suck on his tongue and feel him harden against my stomach, thick and unmistakable.
“Elle.” Rough already. “Amore mio.”
“I want you.” I kiss down his throat, bite the hinge of his jaw. “Now. Not carefully.”
“Then take what you want.” His eyes are dark. Dominant. “I’m yours.”
I sink to my knees.
The floor is cool under me. I undo his belt slowly enough to make his stomach jump, drag the zip down, and free him into my hand. He’s heavy, flushed, already wet at the tip. I stroke him once from root to head and watch his head tip back against the door.
Then I take him into my mouth.
He swears in Italian. His hands plunge into my blonde curls at once, cradling my skull, thumbs stroking my temples while I sink deeper. I taste salt and heat.
I hollow my cheeks and drag back up, tongue flat along the underside, then take him again until he bumps the back of my throat and I moan around the stretch.