“God, you taste—” He bit me again. “You taste like Della. Like everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”
And that was it.
I did what he said I would.
I exploded.
I unravelled.
I came and came and came.
And before the final breeze blew the fire out, Ren crawled up my body, slotted his hips into mine, and thrust inside me in one long, delicious impale.
We both cried out. Him low and guttural. Me high and needy.
This was truth.
This was us.
This was everything.
His hips pistoned into mine, driving me deep, shoving me into the sleeping bags, and the tent shook and creaked, and we clawed and snapped and bit, our hands never empty, our legs never untangled, our bodies as joined as they could ever be.
On and on, he fucked me.
On and on, I rode him.
And when a matching fire-breathing typhoon found him. When his body couldn’t withstand the pleasure. When our hearts exceeded too much love and thankfulness and joy, he reared up on his hands…
…and roared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
REN
* * * * * *
2018
IT TOOK A MONTH.
A month for me to trust that this was real.
That I hadn’t died and found my version of heaven. That I wasn’t asleep and living in my dream. That I wasn’t fantasising that Della was mine only to find I’d gone insane.
For four wondrous weeks, we stayed in the forest, swimming in chilly rivers, making love in glades, and eating the rest of our supplies before brushing off our hunting skills and living off the land.
Autumn well and truly arrived, turning the final mugginess of summer into the warning chill of impending winter.
T-shirts became sweaters and we snuggled for warmth as much as for sanity.
We walked far, sometimes leaving the river to climb up a hill for a better vantage point, and sometimes doubling back to a campsite where we’d shared a night beneath the stars, naked and writhing on a sleeping bag beside a cheery fire.
We didn’t care what time of day it was or where we were—when the urge to be close overtook us, we didn’t fight it. We’d spent far too long fighting it and were now making up for lost time.
Most mornings, I woke with Della plastered to my side—just like she did when she was little—her face tucked into my chest, her legs wrapped in mine. Those moments stabbed my heart with memories of a blonde cherub who always made me melt.
I found it hard to let such thoughts in—of Della playing with Liam when she was six or seven. Of Della launching on my back while I raked freshly cut lucerne when she was eight or nine.
The guilt was still there, but not because I’d slept with her. The guilt was because she was so damn pure and had an entire life ahead of her. By accepting what had always been between us, I’d stolen that future from her. I’d shackled her with me, and I still struggled to believe I would be enough.
She’d always been so bright and brave and capable.
I’d always been distrusting, untalkative, and stubborn.
I’d given her everything to ensure she had an education, enjoyed fellow humans, and was prepared for a career she could be proud of. But by giving in to my feelings for her, I’d made all those sacrifices obsolete. I should’ve noticed just how similar we were. I should’ve stopped to look at her, not just manhandle her into a life people were told they should want.
As far as I was concerned, I would never live in a city again. I doubted I could. I’d reached my people quota the day I ran from Mclary’s, and that hadn’t changed just because I’d fallen in love.
But I also couldn’t deny, I would live in a high-rise poky apartment if that made Della happy. If she wanted to work in an office and have overpriced drinks with her colleagues and become the bread winner, then I would agree, because I meant what I said: I was hers.
We’d stepped over every line we could, and there was no going back now. She was stuck with me, and no matter what sort of life she wanted—city or farm—I was limited to what I could offer her.
Wherever we ended up, I would forever be an unskilled labourer with no accolades to my name. I knew hard work, and I lived to cultivate and tend, but I would never be a man to wear a suit, own a laptop, or host dinner parties in his home.
At the moment, Della was as wrapped up in me as I was in her…but things always had a way of changing. When she grew sick of my overprotectiveness, or when she turned away my need to have her in my arms…what would happen then?
She was still so damn young—still forming into herself; unaware of her true wants and dreams. Compared to her, I’d always been the surly old man who would rather growl at visitors than welcome them. Would Della love me when she was my age and I was pushing forty not thirty? Would she still find me handsome with sun-weathered skin and a body that had seen better days?