Page 63 of Dirty Mechanic
And maybe they have.
He moves over me like he knows every place I’ve ever ached. Every wound. Every wish. We melt into each other, all breath and heat and tangled limbs.
And when he finally enters me, slow and deep and perfect, I forget how to think.
Every thrust is a vow I didn’t know I needed. Every gasp, a prayer. Every breathless whisper of my name, an anchor to this moment—this man—this impossible, gorgeous truth: he’s my husband now.
My forever.
Because I’ll be damned if those divorce papers aren’t backdated by the universe itself.
Our bodies collide and dissolve, caught between tension and surrender. His weight presses into me, and my legs wrap around him like instinct. My hips lift to meet his, and the fullness of him inside me pulls a sound from my throat that would embarrass me if he didn’t echo it with a groan that vibrates through my bones.
He moves with intent now, measured and unrelenting. Like he’s trying to mark every inch of me from the inside out. My fingers scramble across the sheets, seeking anything to hold onto. The quilt’s gone, kicked to the floor. A lamp crashes to its death somewhere to the left, but neither of us stops. Not even when the bed slams against the wall hard enough to rattle the window. Not even when the footboard gives a mournful creak and splinters beneath his hand.
I grip at his back, nails dragging down the muscles that tense and ripple beneath me. His mouth crashes to mine. It’s all teeth, heat, and desperate need. His hand cradles the back of my head like he’s terrified I’ll break. Like he knows I already have, and this is how I get put back together.
“Fuck, Annabelle,” he rasps into my neck. His voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven. Like mine.”
“I am,” I gasp, my whole body pulsing around him. “I’m yours.”
He groans, thrusts again, and the rhythm falters, tips over the edge.
Pleasure slams into me like a supernova. I cry out, a sound that sounds more like release than any word ever could. I lock around him as he follows with a growl pulled straight from his core. Our bodies shudder, then collapse into stillness.
The room is wrecked.
So are we.
We lie tangled in the aftermath, chests heaving, sweat cooling between us. My limbs feel like they’ve melted into the mattress, boneless and warm and useless. Derek's weight settles on me like gravity itself—comforting, heavy, solid. His head is tucked into the curve of my neck. His heart beats against mine, steady and slow.
He kisses my temple. Then my cheek. Then the hollow of my throat, like he can’t decide which part of me he wants to worship next. “You okay?” he murmurs, the words thick with tenderness.
I nod, dazed and buzzing. “Better than okay. You?”
He pulls back just far enough to look me in the eyes. “Honestly?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I thought I’d have more impressive lines than ‘I love you so much I forgot which leg goes where.’”
I laugh into his shoulder, loose and unfiltered. “You were very... enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic?” he says, mock-offended. “That’s like calling a drag race ‘a spirited drive.’”
“You’re my spirited drive,” I tease, tracing circles across his shoulder with my fingertips.
He chuckles. “Well, in that case, hold on, Honeycrisp. I’ve got excellent torque.”
“Oh my God.” I roll my eyes, smacking his chest with the back of my hand. “Stop talking dirty to me about auto parts.”
He kisses my forehead and says with a grin, “Never.”
The silence that follows is softer. Heavier. The kind that hums with meaning. With truth.
“I imagined this,” I whisper. “But I never thought I could have it. I never thought we could do this.”
His arms tighten around me. “Well, you’ve got it now and you should believe it.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the inside of my wrist with a kind of fragile devotion that cracks something in my chest. “Believe it so hard you never doubt it again.”
