Page 97 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“It does,” he said, his hand shoving between us to cup me. He made a sound of satisfaction as he pulled his hand back out. “Look at that. So fuckin’ wet.”

“That’s yours,” I argued, still giggling as he ran his hand over his chest and then mine. “Cian!”

“That’s you,” he said, gripping me tight as he rolled us over. “You were fuckin’ drippin’ before I even got inside you.”

“I was not,” I protested. I knew my face was red from the heat in my cheeks.

“You were. Makeup sex must be your thing.”

“Sex withyouis my thing,” I corrected quietly.

“Happy to hear that,” he murmured, letting even more of his weight rest on me until I was fully pinned and our noses were touching.

I stared. His lashes were so long.

“Why the tears, baby?” he asked softly, the tips of his fingers tracing the dried tear tracks on my temples.

“I have no idea,” I whispered back, my throat tightening. “It was a lot.”

“Yeah, it was,” he agreed. “Knew it would be.”

“Me too.”

“Happy, though?”

“Oh, yeah,” I breathed.

I didn’t think I’d ever been happier in my life. The man I’d loved for years was laying on top of me, naked, after the best sex I’d ever had—I never wanted to leave that bed again.

Cian rolled to his back, taking me with him, and flipped the blankets over us. It reminded me of when we’d shared the sleeping bag, and I smiled against his chest as his fingers traced back and forth across my bare back.

It must have reminded him of the same thing.

“I’m sorry I left your ass swingin’ with your pop,” he said quietly, kissing the top of my head. “Fucked up.”

“You were trying to defend yourself,” I conceded, spreading my hand over the tattoo on his chest. “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“I was fuckin’ pissed,” he argued with a huff. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“I was taking care of it,” I murmured.

His hand stilled on my back. “I didn’t handle it well.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Didn’t blame you.”

“Sure seemed like it,” I said gently. “But here’s the thing: I should be able to walk around stark naked and drunk off my ass and still be safe to say no.”

“You’ve got no argument from me.”

“Good.”

“Shouldbe able to, baby,” Cian said, his arm tightening around me. “Notare.”

“I know,” I replied, lifting my head to look at him. “I just thought—I don’t know. I was on club grounds for Christ’s sake. I let my guard down.”

“I know, My.”

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