Page 80 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
My laugh fractures into a moan.
He stills, buried to the hilt, sea-glass eyes blazing. “I’ve waited eighty-six years for a moment thatmattered.You’ll take it slow.”
The raw confession lingers as he begins moving again—deep, languid thrusts that make my toes curl. His hand skims down to where we join, fingers sliding through slickness to circle my clit. Lightning arcs up my spine.
“Aeron—”
His breath hitches as I clench around him.
The creak of salvaged schooner wood harmonizes with the slap of skin on skin. He murmurs nonsense against my neck—Elvish maybe, or old dockyard cant—as his pace quickens. I claw at the sheets, but he captures my wrist, presses my palm to his chest. His heartbeat drums against my fingers, frantic as a storm surge.
“Together,” he growls.
The command tips me over. Pleasure rips through me, violent and sweet, heels digging into his ribs as I choke on his name. He follows, forehead dropping to mine with a groan that vibrates through bone and flesh alike.
We lay tangled in the wreckage of sheets, his lips tracing the hinge of my jaw.
“Still think permanence chokes?” he murmurs.
I flick a silver strand from his eyebrow. “Ask me after your snoring kicks in.”
His chuckle rumbles against my sternum. “Says the woman who mutters darkroom chemicals in her sleep.”
Outside, waves crash—ceaseless, inevitable. Aeron’s fingers thread through mine, our joined hands resting atop his heartbeat. Slower now. Steadier.
CHAPTER 30
AERON
Morning light spills slow and golden across the floorboards of her mother’s old beach house, curling through the gauzy curtains like it’s got nowhere else to be. There’s a hush here I don’t get anywhere else, not even on the docks at dawn or in the belly of the trawler when the engine’s off and the tide’s right. This hush feels like truth—like something sacred and too fragile to name out loud. She’s pressed into my side, warm and still and real in that unguarded way that only comes in the seconds before the day officially begins. And me? I’m just lying here, arm tucked around her, heart beating steady for maybe the first damn time in years.
I don’t breathe heavy. I don’t move. I just let it be.
Because this is the part no one tells you about—the morning after clarity that doesn’t come like lightning or fireworks, but like this quiet bloom of peace where nothing’s perfect but everything’s exactly right.
She stirs a little, lets out a sound that’s half sigh, half growl.
“You awake?” I ask, voice low, gravel-rough.
She shifts, nose brushing against my collarbone. “Unfortunately.”
I chuckle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Could’ve used another hour,” she mumbles, then tilts her head just enough to meet my gaze. “But you’re warm, so I’ll forgive it.”
We lie there a while longer, saying nothing, just listening to the creak of the rafters and the gulls outside doing their usual bitching over who owns what piece of shoreline. The ocean’s a steady hush in the background, like it’s trying to lull us back to sleep. Her fingers tap against my chest, slow and rhythmic, like she’s tracing invisible lines only she can see.
Eventually, she slides out from under the blanket, tugging my flannel shirt over her tank top and padding barefoot into the kitchen. I sit up slow, rubbing the sleep from my face, and follow the smell of coffee like a moth to flame.
She’s leaning against the counter when I walk in, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, her hair a mess, her eyes soft in a way that floors me. Not just sleepy—unguarded. Like all the fight’s been replaced with something quieter.
“Do you ever think about what this looks like,” she says, not as a question but as a nudge, “I mean... after?”
I take the other mug, sip slow. “After what?”
She shrugs. “After the festival. After the lanterns and the late-night porch talks and the convenient excuses to stay.”
I set the cup down. “Yeah. I do.”
