Page 52 of Shattered Echoes

I shrug, ducking my head in a rare bout of shyness. "It's not much. Just a way for me to get shit out of my head when it gets too loud, you know?"

Warm fingers graze my jawline, prompting me to meet Colette's gaze once more. "No, this… you have a gift, Antonio. Please don't sell yourself short."

The sincerity in her voice and the quiet wonder shining in her eyes steal my breath. For so long, I've struggled to claw my way out of the mental foxhole addiction left me in, to rediscover even a glimmer of the creative spark I once had.

But maybe, just maybe, Colette is onto something. The words, the poetry–they're all still inside me somewhere, fighting to escape the tangled morass of fear and insecurity. I just have to set them free.

Angling my body, I gather Colette flush against me, brushing a fervent kiss to her brow as a swell of pure, unabashed affection blooms in my chest. She came into my life at the exact right moment, a blazing beacon to guide me out of the suffocating darkness that threatened to consume me. With her at my side, maybe I can make an uphill climb out of the pit after all. Maybe I can reclaim the part of myself I thought was lost forever.

"Thank you, Col," I whisper against her hairline, tightening my embrace. "For seeing me. All of me."

Slender arms wind around my waist as Colette buries her face in the crook of my neck, her breath fanning over my skin. We sit that way for long, quiet moments, drawing strength from our intimate connection. Only when the silence stretches to the point of discomfort, do I pull away, smoothing my thumb over the delicate arch of Colette's cheekbone.

"Hey, I have an idea," I murmur, catching her gaze. "Why don't you turn on some tunes, and I'll whip us up some breakfast?"

The corner of her mouth curves into a soft smile that sets my heart aflutter. The simple domesticity of the moment shouldn't fill me with such warmth, and yet…

"That sounds perfect," she agrees, leaning in to brush her lips over mine. Colette slips away towards the living room as I push to my feet, striding into the kitchen to take stock of what I have on hand.

It's been ages since I put any serious effort into meal prepping, let alone an actual home cooked breakfast. But as I rummage through the cabinets, singing along under my breath to the crooning melodies of Frank Sinatra drifting in from the other room, I can't help but feel that familiar spark of inspiration trying to reignite deep inside me.

17

Colette

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon fills the air as I step into the kitchen, drawn by the mouthwatering scents. Antonio stands at the stove, swaying his hips in time with the jazzy crooners spilling from the speakers as he tends to the spread of food.

My heart squeezes at the simple domesticity of the scene. Just a few months ago, I couldn't have imagined finding this sort of peace and contentment again. Not after everything I'd endured at the hands of my ex-husband — the emotional turmoil and physical violence, the fear that became as familiar as breathing.

And yet here I am, wrapped up in Antonio's strong arms and basking in the warmth of his affection. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the darkness of my traumatic past has receded into the shadows. Don't get me wrong, the demons still linger. The panic attacks, the bone-deep weariness- those haven't disappeared overnight. But with Antonio at my side, bolstering me with his steadfast care and understanding, it's becoming easier to keep the darkness at bay.

I linger in the entryway for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. The taut muscles in his shoulders and back ripple beneath the thin fabric of his white undershirt with each flex and turn of his body. Shorter strands of his dark hair curl over the nape of his neck, damp with the humidity wafting from the stove.

My fingertips itch with the sudden urge to trace the hard planes of his body, to explore every hard-earned ridge and valley. For all the passion we share behind closed doors, there's an unabashed intimacy to this quiet morning ritual that makes it feel so much more…real.

As though he can sense my heated regard, Antonio glances over his shoulder with a rakish grin. "Morning, gorgeous. Hungry?"

The low, gravelly timbre of his voice sends a shiver skittering down my spine. I cross the tiled floor toward him in a few unhurried strides, unable to resist the siren's call of his presence any longer.

"Starving," I murmur, lifting onto my tiptoes to brush a teasing kiss to the sensitive span of skin just beneath his jawline.

A rumbling purr echoes in Antonio's throat as his arm bands around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His body is scorching even through the thin material of my camisole, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding against the softness of my curves.

"That's what I like to hear," he rasps, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. A need flares in my lower belly as a whimper escapes me. Morning ablutions and fresh pots of coffee are rapidly forgotten as I sink my fingers into Antonio's thick mane.

He groans low in my ear; the sound vibrating through me as his nimble fingers find their way beneath the hem of my top. My back arches, pressing my breasts more firmly into the scorching expanse of his palms. But just as swiftly as the wanting pools between my thighs, a separate flicker of emotion blooms in my chest. Tenderness. Contentment.

This right here — the languid caresses, the bone-deep yearning, is more than just sex.

The realization seizes me with such startling intensity that it nearly steals my breath. When was the last time I felt this alive, this empowered? Years? Maybe more? I can't even fathom how different my life would be if I'd reunited with Antonio sooner. If our paths had crossed before the shroud of misery and isolation consumed me, perhaps I would have been strong enough to resist the slow insidious poison of my ex-husband's conditioning.

The thought should make me sad, or at the very least wistful. But I find myself grateful instead. Because without those trials, without suffering through the crucible of my disastrous marriage, I never would have been forged into the woman strong enough to accept the depth of Antonio's love.

To let him in - scars and all.

Antonio must sense the shift in my energy because of his ministrations still, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from the thundering pulse at the base of my throat. "Col? You okay?"

Drawing back, I tilt my chin to meet his gaze. The naked concern burning in those sable depths steals what little breath I have left in my lungs.

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