Borrowed Night #3
It takes time. It takes patience. It takes a willingness to laugh when something doesn’t work, to shift, to try again without either of us keeping score.
And somewhere in the trying—in the adjustments and the whispered here and like this and wait, let me—the getting there becomes its own kind of intimacy. Maybe the deepest kind.
He pays attention. Not just to what works, but to what I need, what I want, what makes my breath catch and my thoughts scatter. He learns me the way he learns everything that matters to him: with focus, with patience, with a thoroughness that undoes me more than any urgency could.
In the end, it’s simple. His chest warm against my back.
His arms free to wrap around me, to wander, to find the places that have become so achingly sensitive these past months that even a light touch makes me shiver.
The swell of my belly isn’t trapped, isn’t compressed—just cradled between us and the pillows we’ve arranged like fortifications against the world.
And he can still—
Oh.
Yes.
I stop thinking.
His hands map me like I’m new territory, like he hasn’t already memorized every inch, like there’s still something left to discover.
And there is. There always is. I’m different now.
Changed. And he wants to know this version of me too—every curve, every soft place, every spot that makes me gasp and arch back into him and forget that I’m supposed to be the one in control.
I’m not in control. I don’t want to be.
My hands find him too—the jut of his hip, the muscles that tense beneath my palm, the sharp intake of breath when I touch him there. He makes a sound against my neck, low and rough, and I feel it everywhere.
He says my name.
Just my name. Like it’s a prayer. Like it’s a promise. Like it means I’m here and I’ve got you and you’re mine all at once.
There’s heat between us. Need. The slow, inexorable build of something that started the moment he touched me and won’t end until we’re both wrecked and remade. And when everything else finally falls away—the words, the walls, the centuries of armor I’ve built around my heart—there’s only this.
The two of us.
Here.
Now.
In this borrowed night, in this borrowed body, in this life I never expected to want.
It’s not perfect. It wouldn’t make it into a romance novel.
But it’s better. It’s ours.
After, neither of us speaks.
His hand rests on my belly. My back against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat through my spine—steady, calm, the heartbeat of a man who has just thoroughly dismantled what remained of my composure and doesn’t even seem to realize it.
This, I think. This is what I didn’t know I was missing.
Not the sex—though that was fine, better than fine, I’m not going to think about how much better than fine because that way lies dangerous territory.
The laughing. The way nothing went according to plan and neither of us cared. The way he looked at me like I was still something worth looking at, even now, even enormous, even graceless.
Eight hundred years. More lovers than I bothered counting.
And not one of them ever made me laugh in bed. Well—not for the right reasons.
I always thought intimacy meant performance. Meant being what they needed, giving them what they wanted, making sure they never saw the cracks.
This felt like the armor wasn’t even in the room.
I close my eyes. Feel his breath warm on my shoulder. Feel the baby shift and settle, quieting for once, as if even she can sense that this moment matters.
Dumpling has relocated to the foot of our bedroll.
He’s facing pointedly away from us. His posture radiates disapproval. Every line of his orange body screams I have witnessed something unseemly and I will never recover.
“Your cat is judging us,” Ren murmurs. His voice is rough. Sleepy. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer against his chest.
“He’s always judging us.”
“He’s judging us specifically right now.”
“He’s a cat. Judging is his primary function.”
“He seems to be performing it with particular vigor tonight.”
I snort. “He’ll get over it. He always does. By morning he’ll be demanding breakfast like nothing happened.”
Dumpling’s ear twitches. He does not turn around.
“Besides,” I add, “he’s my cat. He judges everyone. The entire world exists for him to evaluate and find wanting.”
“Does he?”
“Constantly. You should see what he does when Jing visits.”
“What does he do?”
“Sits on her research. All of it. Very deliberately. She has to work around him.”
Ren’s chest moves against my back. A silent laugh. “She allows this?”
“She brings him treats now. I think he’s trained her.” I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my hip ache. “He’s trained all of us, really. We just pretend we’re in charge.”
“Mmm.”
His breathing is evening out. Slowing. The arm around me has gone heavy with approaching sleep, his hand still splayed across my belly. The baby shifts, pressing against his palm, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
His fingers spread. Protective. Warm.
Chapter 645, I think. In which our heroine discovers that some things are worth staying for.
Chapter 645. In which she admits she already knew.