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“I need you,” I murmur. “All of you. I want you inside me.”

He lifts his face, dragging a hand along his mouth. He steps out of his sweats, his muscles flexing and bunching, his erection—thick and weighty—springing free. He stares down at me, eyes burning as the aftershocks of my orgasm shatter me.

“My God, you’re beautiful, Charlie.” He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between my legs. “This ankle,” he says, kissing the bone. “This calf. This thigh. This pussy.”

Each gets a kiss.

“This belly. These breasts. These lips.”

Nick pauses, hovering above me. “This face.” His eyes meet mine and something unlocks inside me, between us, an almost audible click shifting everything that happened leading up to this moment intobeforewhile everything yet to come isafter. A delineation. A moment of great importance.

And here we are, in his bed on a perfect Sunday morning, anchored between it all.

“This heart,” he says, pressing a hand to my chest.

“This mind,” he says before kissing my forehead. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever met.”

He brushes a hand through my hair, then presses his forehead to mine, noses grazing as he reaches between us and guides himself into me.

His breath catches.

As does mine.

He glides along my inner walls, slowly, achingly slow. The world narrows to this single moment—his hips meeting mine, the press of skin against skin, our breath mingling in the charged air. Hearts hammering. Bodies trembling. The lines between us blurred until there is no him, no me, only us.

And then he moves.

A rhythm as old as time, his hips rolling with purpose, his lips seeking mine like a man starved. Gasps and moans fill the room, mingling with whispered names of deities and curses grinding past gritted teeth. My chest rises and falls, each breath catching, as waves of pleasure crash through me. They break me apart, only to rebuild me stronger, more whole than I ever imagined.

I cling to him, my fingers gripping his arms, the muscles taut and straining beneath my palms. His name is a litany on my lips, my anchor as the world tilts on its axis. His face twists in exquisite ecstasy, the raw intensity in his eyes holding mine captive, grounding me in the storm as I tumble over the edge once again.

THIRTY-TWO

Nick

I collapse beside Charlie and pull her close, her body fitting perfectly against mine like we were designed for this. She buries her face in my chest, her breath warm and steady as my hands press firmly against her back, grounding us both in the moment. The rapid thrum of my pulse begins to slow, syncing with the rise and fall of her breathing. The room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of contentment that wraps around us like a second skin.

I press a lingering kiss to her forehead, brushing her hair back from her face with a tenderness I didn’t know I was capable of. When I finally crane my neck to meet her gaze, those beautiful eyes of hers catch mine—open, unguarded, shining with something that looks a lot like peace.

“You okay?” My voice is low, a little raw.

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even hesitate. “More than okay,” she says, her words soft but weighted, like a promise. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too.”

Charlie presses up onto her elbow, her fingers trailing along my brow with a featherlight touch that sends sparks skittering across my skin. Her gaze sweeps over my face, lingering like she’s trying to commit every detail to memory—the faint lines at the corners of my eyes, the curve of my jaw, the places where life has etched its mark. When her eyes finally lock with mine, they shimmer with a mix of humor and something deeper that steals the air from my lungs.

“For the record,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice, “I thought you said last night wasn’t about that.”

I chuckle, the sound rumbling low in my chest. “Exactly, Wildrose.Last night. I never said anything about this morning.”

Her brow quirks, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Wildrose?”

“Yeah.” I trace a fingertip along her jaw, a smirk tugging at my lips. “From Wildrose Landing. But it fits. You’re a little wild, and you’ve got thorns when you need ’em. Beautiful, though. Always.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling, her cheeks flushed. “You’re something else, Nick Hutton.”

“I’m yours, Wildrose.”

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