Page 75 of Heart of Stone
"Okay?" His voice holds hope.
"Yeah." I press my face into his neck, breathing in leather and soap and him. "But you're still sleeping on the couch."
His laugh rumbles through his chest. "Can I convince you otherwise?"
"You can try."
His smile turns wicked. "Challenge accepted."
He kisses me then, slow and deep, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. His hands slide into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss as he pulls me closer.
This is different from our other kisses. Those have been charged with need or desperation.
This feels like coming home.
"Missed you," he murmurs against my lips. "Missed this."
"Show me," I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own dark with intent. Then he stands, scooping me into his arms in one smooth motion.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking you to bed." He starts down the hall. "Unless you object?"
I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "The kids?—"
"Are out cold." He shoulders open my bedroom door. "And I've got the baby monitor right here."
He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, following me down until his weight presses me into the mattress.
"Still want me on the couch?" he asks, his lips trailing down my neck.
"Hmm." I arch into him as his hands find skin. "I might be persuaded to reconsider."
His laugh is low and rich. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Then his mouth is on mine again, and words become unnecessary. His tongue sweeps into my mouth as his hands slide under my shirt, callused fingers mapping the curve of my spine. I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing everything he can give me.
We take our time undressing each other, each revealed inch of skin a revelation. His tattoos are a roadmap I explore with fingers and tongue, tracing tiny kisses over the club's emblem on his chest, feeling his heart thunder under my lips.
There’s no rush here, no pressure. Time seems to stand still as we rediscovered each other, relearning what it takes to make the other shiver with pleasure.
"Missed this," he murmurs, his mouth trailing slow, delicious kisses down my neck. "Missed you. The way you taste, the sounds you make."
His hands find my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I'm gasping. When he replaces his fingers with his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue has me arching off the bed.
This is no longer gentle lovemaking—it’s a reclaiming. A branding of one to the other. Each touch, each kiss, each shared breath is both an apology and a promise.
He works his way down my body with devastating focus, as if he's trying to memorize every curve, every reaction. His beard scrapes deliciously against my inner thigh as he settles between my legs.
"Look at me," he demands softly.
I prop myself up on my elbows, meeting his gaze. The intensity there steals my breath.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, his eyes dark with want and something deeper, something that makes my heart clench. "So fucking beautiful. Spread out for me, trusting me again."
"Hawk—"
