Page 48 of Insta-Love

In fact, I love it.

His hand fists in my hair, his control of my head forceful, yet also respectful as he pulls it back, bringing my chin high.

“If you want to take things slow, I can respect that.” His touch is reverent as he slides his free hand along my throat. “But trust me when I say this—” He rocks his hips against me, his cock skating the seam of my arse. “isn’t something I can hold back on.”

“I don’t want you to.” I tilt my hips to line him with my entrance. “I’m not fragile, Bowen. You can’t break me.”

“I’d never want to.”

I believe him. As he takes my body, using it as much as he worships it, I feel the conviction in his touch.

This is a man who knows what it’s like to be cast aside, to know what it’s like to be hurt unnecessarily.

This is a man who couldn’t, in good conscience, do those things to me.

I guess when it all boils down to it, first impressions only mean so much. Because the man I pegged him to be? The assumptions I made? They all shatter along with me as he brings me to orgasm.

Not once, but twice.

All before sating his own needs.

Perhaps we rush into this? Maybe we throw caution to the wind. But I can say without a doubt in my mind that I have—we have—made the right decision.

This connection? This bond we form? It’s based on truth and honesty. How can we go wrong with that?

How can we ever go wrong when both of us have vowed to ourselves never to return to the situations that left us so scarred and torn?

Failure will always be an option. You can’t pre-empt fate. But you can, sure as hell, take a chance on a good thing.

And as Bowen rolls me over to kiss my forehead, my nose, and my lips, I know that’s what he is.

A good thing.

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