With the door wide open on every nuance in our lives, there’s nothing separating us. Nothing but the fire he stokes with his thrusts.
He holds my head in his hands, rests his eyes on mine, and makes love to me on the soft, wet patch of grass.
Our bodies slide in a leisurely grind that allows us to savor every second. Hands caress. Lips worship. He’s gentler than I’ve ever felt him, though he isn’t gentle at all. His bearing is too intense for that, his body too rugged and muscular. But he’s relaxed, unhurried, as if he simply enjoys the pleasure of moving inside me.
I make wanton noises, and we laugh carelessly together. The silence doesn’t recoil in judgment, and the surrounding trees don’t hover around, wondering what to do. The universe sways with us, glittering and vibrating with approval.
When we come, it’s a soft, sensuous wave of pleasure, pulsing with the lulling rhythm of the night.
We watch each other as we dress. He rides Captain to the stable and holds my gaze during the task of putting away the gear.
At the house, he fucks me in the shower, rough and fast, then again in the bed, as if it’s been days since he last had me.
Afterward, we lie in a heap of slick limbs, sated breaths, and incoherent thoughts. With a leg thrown over my hips and an arm stretched beneath my head, he trails knuckles around the curve of my breast, his eyes hooded and sleepy.
My core cramps from bowing and crunching through orgasms, and the tissues between my legs tingle from hours of penetration. I struggle to focus my eyes, my head heavy and entire body twitching from his endless attention and stamina. But my chest has never been fuller.
He smashed my heart against my ribs to make room for his. Now we beat side by side, stretching and growing together in the shared space.
His lips brush against mine, his breath so familiar and comforting. How did I live so long without it? How could I ever return to that lonely, hollow woman.
I can’t.
The past two years simmer from the creases of my mind, gathering and building a swell of overloaded emotions behind my eyes.
“We’re never leaving this bed.” His mouth settles against my neck, his voice a rumbling embrace of promise. “I’m never letting you go.”
My breath skips. “You want me to live here?”
“You’re officially moving in.” He glances around the empty, unfurnished room. “We both are.”
My skull pounds with a flood of sadness and joy, fear and relief. It’s been there all this time—the horrors of my past, the hope for something better. His declaration scrapes it all out and sets it free.
The bottomless torrent bombards me with achy, breathless sobs, and I’m too spent to stop the purging.
I cry, silently and cathartically. He holds me through it, supporting me with his arms and encouraging me with a gravelly hum in his throat, while silently promising I’ll never be alone in the hurt again.
As Raina drifts to sleep against my chest, I let myself absorb the colorless, empty room for the first time. I don’t like ceilings, floors, or walls. I hate closed doors and spaces with recycled air. But I like this.
It’s a blank canvas for something new, something extraordinary, with Raina.
In my throat and on my tongue dwell feelings that can’t be shaped into words. But the molecules in my body understand. They multiply and spread out, consuming my veins with purpose and acceptance.
I need this love. I want it. I want to need it. From her.
I want the fiery frustration she ignites in my stomach. I want the strangle around my lungs whenever she’s near.
I want the agony in my heart at the thought of losing her. It keeps me sharp, vigilant, aware.
Tightening my embrace around her naked body, I run my nose through her hair, savoring the silky texture and breathing in her botanical scent.
For the first time in eight years, I’m home. Not home in a prison cell. Not home in my childhood room. It’s the home of my future, and I can turn it into anything I want.
Jarret did this for me. He built me a place to call my own.
I reach for my phone on the night table and launch the internet browser. I’m still trying to adjust to all the changes in technology, but I’m learning how to shop online.
I have a credit card and a small inheritance from my father. I also have an untouched savings account from my labor on the ranch all those years ago.
As I type into the browser’s search bar, I notice a number of bookmarked websites I didn’t put there.
My gaze lowers to the sleeping woman on my chest.
She claims she doesn’t want a phone, but she borrows mine often to look up recipes and herbs and whatever else she does with it.