Page 122 of American Beauty

My chest tightens. “Alex––”

“Not the sex. This––you and me together. No pretending. No countdown. No goodbye.”

The emotion in his voice tugs at something deep inside me, and tears prick my eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming fullness of this. Of us. The weight of everything we lost and everything we somehow clawed our way back to.

I reach up, cradling his face in both hands, and pull his mouth back to mine.

This time, the kiss isn’t desperate—it’s sure. It’s steady. It’s a vow wrapped in love.

His hands slide down my sides, anchoring me as our mouths devour each other in slow, aching sync. His fingers find the hem of my dress, teasing it upward inch by inch.

“You didn’t wear this sexy little thing to dinner, expecting me to behave like a gentleman after.”

I smile against his mouth, breathless. “I don’t expect you to behave at all.”

His laugh is low, wicked. “Good. Because I’m done pretending that I have an ounce of control where you’re concerned.”

The dress slips over my head in one fluid motion, cool air kissing my skin as he drinks me in. His eyes darken as he takes in the lace beneath—barely there, black, and meant only for him.

His mouth follows every inch he exposes, lips dragging over my skin like he’s blessing it. My breath stutters when his hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace of my bra.

We take our time, every movement, every touch, laced with reverence and want. There’s no frantic tearing, no fumbling. Only hands mapping familiar territory like it’s brand new again. Like we’re both a little afraid to wake up and find this moment isn’t real.

By the time we’re skin to skin, my breath is already shallow, pulse racing beneath the press of his hands.

And then?—

His hips press against mine as his hand slides up the inside of my thigh, parting me. His fingers move with devastating purpose, and I arch into him, gasping his name like a prayer I never want to stop repeating.

And still, he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble.

He worships.

Every inch of me, every sound I make, every tremble and whisper of want—I feel it mirrored in him.

When his mouth trails down my body, slow and unrelenting, it’s not just foreplay. It’s love in its rawest form.

And when he enters me—body-to-body, soul-to-soul—it’s not with a groan. It’s with a broken sound, like surrender.

My hands clutch his shoulders, and my legs squeeze around his waist. He holds still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, his breath shaky against my mouth.

“This is everything to me, favorite. You are my everything.”

My chest tightens, breath catching like his words wrapped around my ribcage and cinched tight.

Everything.

It’s not just something he says. It’s the way he says it—like a truth that’s lived in him longer than he’s known how to name it.

I run my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, our foreheads brushing. “You don’t even know how deeply I’m yours, Alex.”

His eyes flicker—heat, hunger, and something close to awe.

I kiss him again, slow and deep. Like I mean it.

Because I do.

God, I do.

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