Page 121 of American Beauty

He blinks, then laughs low and full of heat. “Fuck, that was hot.”

I meet his gaze, breathless. “Damn right it was.”

Tonight isn’t about perfection. It’s about need.

I push his shirt off his shoulders, revealing the ink I already know by heart—except now there’s more. My eyes drift to the new lines, the fresh tattoo over his heart.

I trace the edges with my finger. “This is for me.”

His hand covers mine. “Notforyou. Itisyou.”

I press a kiss against the tattoo. “Mine.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

I slide my nails down his chest as I push his shirt off. “Bet you say that to all the women who drop everything to be your nurse.”

He grins, but there’s heat behind it. “Only the one I’m still falling for every… damn… day.”

For all the teasing and the heat crackling between us—it’s that quiet, gruff confession that cuts right through me.

Still falling for me.

Every… damn… day.

Like I’m more than someone he wants at this moment. I’m someone he’s choosing. Again. And again. And again.

Something twists in my chest, tender and breathless. The kind of ache that comes with knowing this is real. This is us. And I’m not scared of it anymore.

I blink up at him, heart pounding, throat tight. “Then I guess I better give you a reason to keep falling.”

His belt comes next, undone with a practiced flick that earns me a raised brow and a soft, amused grunt. “Seems like you’ve done that a time or two.”

“Only for you.”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s right. Only for me.”

He kisses me like I’m oxygen—like the world might stop spinning if he lets go. My back hits the wall behind us, and his hands roam with purpose, slipping under the hem of my dress, fingertips grazing the bare skin of my thighs as I gasp against his mouth. But just when I think he’ll lose control, he stills.

Then, in one fluid, confident motion, Alex lifts me off the floor.

My breath catches as my legs wrap around his waist, our bodies aligned, tension humming between us. His hands grip me tight, like he can’t bear to let go even for a second.

He carries me through the penthouse with slow, deliberate steps, every movement precise, restrained—but barely. He kicks open the bedroom door and lays me down like I’m something sacred.

I sink into the mattress, my dress bunched around my hips, chest rising and falling fast.

And he just looks at me.

His body hovers over mine, arms braced on either side of my head, eyes devouring every detail.

He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

I reach for him, fingertips skimming the taut planes of his abs, the trail of ink along his ribs. But he catches my hands, pinning them to the bed beside my head.

“Do you know how many nights I imagined this?”

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