Page 59 of Return
Liam shrugged, leaning in, his voice a warm whisper in her ear. “Anything you like, love. Just choose a color, place it on the canvas, and see what happens.” He moved closer, his arms bracketing hers as he guided her hand toward the canvas, his body pressing lightly against her back. “It’s about feeling, not thinking,” he murmured. “Let it be messy, imperfect—just like life.”
Her heart pounded as she dipped the brush into a shade the color of evergreens and streaked it across the canvas. The sensation was oddly freeing, exhilarating even. Liam hummed in approval, his touch lingering, his breath fanning the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“Good,” he murmured. “See? You’re already an artist.”
Sophie laughed. “My trees look like tornadoes.”
“Art is all about perspective,” Liam’s lips were barely an inch from her skin. “And from where I’m standing, this is beautiful.”
His words sent a slow, melting warmth through her, and when she turned her head to look at him, their faces were impossibly close. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the air between them crackled.
Sophie swallowed hard. “Are you talking about the painting?”
Liam’s smirk was devastating. “Not even a little.”
And then his mouth was on hers—urgent and claiming. The paint brush slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor as she twisted in his arms. He lifted her onto the nearby worktable, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist, the cool wood pressing against the backs of her thighs. His hands roamed her body with the confidence of a man who had already memorized every inch of her—who knew exactly where to touch, where to press, to make her fall apart.
There was no hesitation. Just a seamless return to something that had always been theirs.
He swept everything aside and laid her back, his gaze locked onto hers—dark, intense, full of promises only he could keep. His voice was a low rasp, thick with need.
“I’ve missed my Sophie.”
She traced her fingers down the line of his chest, tugging at the hem of his shirt, her smile slow and knowing. “Show me how much.”
A wicked smile tugged at his lips before he bent to kiss her again—hotter now, deeper. His hands found the edge of her dress and pulled it down, baring her skin to the cool air and his warm mouth. She arched into him with a gasp as his lips closed around her black lace covered nipple, teasing and insistent, his hands firm on her hips as if anchoring her in place.
This—this—was what she’d come for. To remind him. To remind herself. That what they had was still there. Still strong. Still unshakable.
His hands slid beneath her skirt, dragging her lace panties down her thighs and tossing them aside. She guided him where she needed him most, the rough press of his jeans against her bare skin sending a jolt through her. There was no teasing, no patience left.
“Tell me what you want,” he breathed against her throat, his fingers sliding between her legs with practiced ease, drawing a cry from her lips.
“You,” she gasped, clinging to him. “Now.”
He fumbled with his belt, then finally freed himself, the thick weight of him hot against her. She reached between them, guiding him to her, and he pushed into her in one slow, perfect thrust that stole the breath from her lungs.
He groaned her name, forehead pressed to hers, as they moved together with a rhythm that felt like muscle memory—like coming home. Each stroke was deep, desperate, full of everything they still felt.
Their movements turned frantic, messy, greedy. Her hands scrambled over his back, nails digging in as heat coiled tight inside her. Every gasp, every moan, every thrust only pulled her deeper into the fire of him.
And when they shattered—together—it wasn’t just release. It was a reclaiming.
As they stilled, her heart thundered against his chest, and he kissed her again—gentler now, reverent.
Liam had always been her safe place. Her greatest love.
And now, tangled up in the heat of him, Sophie knew with absolute certainty that she was never letting him go again.
Chapter20
Sophie wasn’t snooping.Really, she wasn’t.
She had been looking for a spare blanket—nothing more, nothing less. It was late, Liam was working in his studio, and his bed was cool without him beside her under the covers.
The question was where to find said blanket. The tall armoire in the corner. That seemed like the place a man would shove an extra blanket.
She pulled open the large doors, revealing several drawers. Deciding to start at the bottom since they were the largest, she tugged one open, expecting soft fabric, maybe even an old sweater she could borrow. Instead, her fingers brushed against something hard. Frowning, she pulled it out, her heart giving a strange, uneven lurch at the sight of it. A small blue velvet box. It couldn’t be.
