Page 48 of Vargan

Vargan's expression softens. "Thank you. Both of you."

Willie brightens. "Do you want to go for a drive? I've been practicing, and I'm really good now. Got my license last month."

Before Vargan can answer, Silas clears his throat, tapping Willie's shoulder. "Maybe another time, son. I think these two need some alone time." He winks at me. "Why don't you take me for a spin instead? Show me how well you handle that truck."

Willie's face falls for a moment, then understanding dawns. "Oh! Yeah, sure. Next time, Vargan?"

"Definitely," Vargan promises, ruffling Willie's hair much as I often do.

Helen begins collecting plates. "I'll clean up here. Why don't you two get going? No arguments, Savvy. I've got this."

"You don't have to tell me twice," I say, grabbing Vargan's hand. "Let's go home."

We walk to the farmhouse hand in hand, the cool fall air warm against our skin, the setting sun painting everything in gold. Six months ago, I wasn't sure I'd ever see him outside a prison visiting room again. Now he's here, fingers intertwined with mine, returning to the home that's been waiting for him.

"I still can't believe our luck," I say as we cross the yard. The farmhouse looks different now—Crow and Diesel helped me paint it over the summer, the cheerful yellow a far cry from the peeling white it was when Vargan first arrived.

Vargan stops at the porch, leaning against the banister and pulling me between his legs. "It wasn't luck," he says, his large hands settling on my waist. "The judge told me, when it came down to it, it was my insistence on innocence that tipped the scales." His eyes soften. "And without your strength, without you giving me something to fight for, I never would have had it in me to fight that hard."

My heart swells at his words. After years of struggling alone, of being the strong one for everyone else, hearing someone acknowledge that strength—value it—is overwhelming.

"I think that means I've earned something special," I say, stepping closer until our bodies press together.

Vargan's grin is wicked, all tusks and a hint of evil. In one fluid motion, he throws me over his shoulder, drawing a surprised squeal from my lips.

"You've earned my whole damn world," he growls, carrying me toward the house.

I laugh, playfully beating my fists against his broad back as he takes the porch steps two at a time. Inside, he navigates the familiar path to my bedroom and deposits me gently on top.

"I've never missed anything in my life the way I've missed you," he says, his voice rough with emotion.

Standing at the foot of the bed, he looks down at me with such hunger that my body responds instantly, heat pooling low in my belly. I've dreamed of this moment for six months, imagined his return in a thousand different ways, but nothing compares to the reality of him here, his honey colored eyes burning with desire.

"I've never been more afraid in my life than I was that I'd never see you again," I whisper, sitting up to reach for him.

He catches my hands in his, bringing them to his lips. "Six months," he murmurs against my skin. "Six months of thinking about this. About you."

Slowly, deliberately, he pulls off his shirt, revealing the tapestry of tattoos and scars across his green skin. My breath catches at the sight. He's leaner than when he left, but he’s no less breathtaking.

"I'll have to make it up to you, then," he says, lowering himself onto the bed.

His weight dips the mattress as he crawls toward me, his movements predatory, focused. When he reaches me, he doesn't kiss me immediately as I expect. Instead, he takes hold of my ankle, lifting it to press his lips against the delicate skin there.

"I'm going to kiss every inch of you," he promises, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers racing up my spine. "To make up for every day I couldn't touch you."

He works his way up my calf, pushing the fabric of my dress higher as he goes. His tusks graze my skin, a sensation that once seemed so foreign but now feels so right. When he reaches my knee, he takes his time, exploring the sensitive spot behind it until I'm squirming beneath him.

"Vargan," I breathe, my hands fisting in the bedspread. "Please."

He looks up, his gaze locking on mine. "Please what?"

"Touch me," I plead. "Really touch me."

His smile is almost feral as he continues his journey upward, hands sliding beneath my dress to caress my thighs. When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he hooks his fingers into the waistband, drawing them down my legs with agonizing slowness.

"I've thought about this moment every night," he confesses, settling between my thighs. "About how you taste. How you sound when you come apart for me."

Before I can respond, his mouth is on me, his tongue exploring with a hunger that takes my breath away. My back arches off the bed at the first touch, a cry escaping my lips.It's been so long—too long—and my body responds instantly, desperate for the release only he can provide.

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