Page 43 of The Founder's Power

“I did it for you,” I reply. “Being an artist is mostly solidary so I know what it’s like to fight alone, and… I’m tired of pretending I’m not more than someone who waits for you to come home.”

He sets the folder down and walks toward me. His voice is low and rough. “You’re not just someone I come home to. Although I wish you would consider moving into my place. Make it our place. I know we’re not ready for that, but?—”

I meet his eyes. “If I’m not just someone you come home to, then let me be someone who stands beside you too.”

The silence between us hums like a live wire. Then he pulls me into a kiss that says “thank you” and “I’m sorry” and “I see you” all at once.

His kiss hits me like a truth. There’s no pretense in it. No desperation. Just the quiet, aching clarity of two people who have fought their way back to each other, bruised but still standing.

Damian pulls back only slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I know,” I whisper, “but I wanted to. I chose to.”

Something shifts in his eyes, and the last of his defenses finally drop. This kiss is different, hungrier, raw, but still reverent, like he’s afraid to break me… and I’m afraid not to break with him.

I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. He groans softly against my mouth, and the sound goes straight to the center of me. My skin is already tingling, my pulse wild. This isn’t just about desire. It’s aboutfinally. It’s aboutyes.

He lifts me into his arms like it’s instinct, like he was always meant to carry me somewhere softer, and I don’t resist. I hold on. I trust him.

The desk is behind me, cool against the backs of my thighs. He pushes everything to one side and then he lifts me up and sets me down, slow and reverent. His hands are on my hips, fingers shaking, not from hesitation but from restraint. Like he wants to fall apart and is just barely holding himself together.

And then he stops.

He looks at me—really looks.

His chest is rising and falling with uneven breath, his pupils wide with need, but it’s the emotion in his eyes that undoes me. Not lust. Not pride.

Wonder.

Like he can’t believe I’m here, that we’re here.

His hands tremble slightly as he brushes my hair from my face. “Tell me this is real,” he murmurs.

“It is,” I say. “You are.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time we don’t stop. His jacket falls to the floor. I tug his shirt up and over his head, my hands exploring skin I’ve only remembered in shadow. He’s warm. Solid. Human. Mine.

He undresses me piece by piece, pausing between each removal like he’s asking for permission. Like he’s grateful for it. His hands trace the curve of my stomach, the line of my ribs, the dip of my hipbone as if mapping something beautiful and irreplaceable.

He makes love to me on his desk, the same desk where he’s wielded power, made empires bend, signed contracts that changed lives. Right now, though, it’s just us. Flesh. Breath. Heartbeats tangled.

He moves inside me like he’s learning how to breathe again, and I receive him the same way—with trembling fingers and open eyes. With my whole body soft and bare and willing. Not because I’m giving in. Because I’m choosing this.

Choosing him.

He worships every inch of me with his hands, his lips, his focus. Not like a man claiming something but like a man who’s finally allowed himself to feel everything he was afraid of.

He kisses me like he’s memorizing every moment we lost, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away for even a second.

His mouth is on my throat, his hands moving over my body like he’s rediscovering sacred ground—lips brushing over my collarbone, down the line of my chest, reverent and slow. He doesn’t rush. He worships.

Every kiss is a confession, every touch an apology.

His forehead presses to mine, his breath mixing with mine, and I can feel it—feel him—not just in my body but in every scar he’s never spoken aloud.

This is what forgiveness tastes like. It’s fierce and fragile and alive.

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