Page 131 of Under Southern Stars
We walk in silence, close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally. The forest is alive around us—the rustle of nocturnal creatures, the distant call of a morepork owl, the soft whisper of wind through the trees. By the time we reach the cottage, darkness has fully descended, the path illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the canopy.
I hesitate at the door, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a place that’s…mine.”
The cottage is small by McKenzie Estate standards—two bedrooms, a common area with fireplace, a kitchen, all built from local stone and native timber. I’d helped design it during my final year of high school, before I’d left for university. It had been my refuge during holidays home, the one place on the estate that feels truly separate from the family business.
I flick on the lights, watching nervously as Sophia steps inside, her eyes taking in every detail—the books scattered on the coffee table, the hiking boots by the door, the old guitar I’d had since uni propped in the corner.
“This is you,” she says after a moment, turning to face me. “The real you.”
“As real as I get,” I admit. “This is where I hide when the family expectations get too much. Where I can just be Jack.”
She moves toward me, a new determination in her expression. “No more hiding. Not from each other.” Her hands find my chest, resting over my heart. “Show me who you really are, Jack McKenzie.”
The invitation in her words, in her touch, is unmistakable. I gather her close, my lips finding hers in a kiss that quickly deepens from tender to desperate. Months of longing, days of separation, hours of uncertainty, all of it pours into this single point of connection.
My hands trace the familiar curves of her body, rediscovering territory I’d feared lost forever. She responds with equal fervor, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer as if afraid I might disappear.
“Bedroom,” she murmurs against my lips, already working at the buttons of my shirt.
“Yes, ma’am,” I growl, scooping her up without hesitation.
She laughs—low, breathless, wrecked from emotion and relief—and her arms lock around my neck as I carry her, never breaking the kiss. We bump against the hallway wall once, laughing again, mouths tangling, fingers tugging and fumbling. When we make it to the bedroom, I lay her down like something sacred and immediately follow, pressing her body beneath mine.
Clothes vanish between kisses, her shirt over her head, my belt undone with shaky hands, jeans pushed down without care. She rolls me onto my back and straddles my hips, wild-eyed and panting, her hair a dark curtain around her face as she kisses her way down my chest.
“God, I missed this,” she whispers, lips brushing over my skin, her fingers grazing the sharp line of my hipbones. Her touch is reverent and greedy all at once.
“I missed you,” I manage, breath catching as she slides down, her hands stroking along the insides of my thighs. “I thought I’d never—Sophia—”
She returns to me in a flash, kissing me hard, devouring, like she could crawl inside my skin and stay. “I’m here now,” she whispers. “I’m yours.”
“Say that again,” I beg, flipping us with a low growl, pinning her wrists gently above her head, our bodies perfectly aligned.
“I’m yours,” she says, breathless, desperate.
I release her wrists and let my hands roam—over her ribs, the swell of her breasts, the soft dip of her waist, cradling her buttocks. She arches into me with a moan when my mouth closes around her nipple, her legs falling open beneath me. My name spills from her lips again and again, and I answer with my body, with every touch and kiss, until she is writhing and whispering, “Please. Jack. Now.”
I slide into her slowly, watching her eyes—watching them go wide, watching her lips part as she gasps and arches, fitting around me like we’d never been apart.
“You’re still perfect,” I murmur.
“So are you,” she chokes out, clinging to me like I was air.
I move slowly at first, drinking in the way she moves with me—every shift of her hips, every breathless gasp, every whispered prayer. Then we find our rhythm again—familiar, instinctive, electric—and the slow build becomes urgency.
Her nails bite into my back. I pull her forehead to mine.
“Jack,” she whispers, over and over. Like it means something. Like it was everything.
I feel her begin to tighten around me and reach between us, brushing my thumb against the place where we were joined, and she shatters with a cry—head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, legs wrapped around me so tight I saw stars.
I follow seconds later, spilling into her with a groan that shakes loose something from my chest I didn’t know I’d been holding. I collapse beside her, gathering her trembling body against mine as aftershocks ripple through us both. For long minutes, we lie in silence broken only by our gradually slowing breaths, limbs entangled, hearts beating in tandem.
We lie there afterward, tangled and spent, sweat cooling on our skin. She is pressed against me, one hand on my chest, her legs still twined with mine. I can’t stop touching her—running my hand along the curve of her waist, brushing her damp hair from her face, kissing her temple over and over.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough with emotion and aftermath.
She looks up, eyes still dazed and glowing. “Better than okay.”
