Page 142 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Her eyes widen slightly. We haven’t talked about that yet—the fight with Hank, the possessiveness that nearly destroyed us before grief finished the job.
“I know I fucked up before,” I continue. “Thinking love meant ownership. Thinking I could stake a claim on you like you were territory to be conquered.”
“Gabe—”
“Let me say this.” I frame her face with my hands, need her to understand. “What we just did—that wasn’t about possession. That was about choice. You choosing me. Me choosing you. Both of us choosing to build something new instead of letting grief bury us alive.”
She kisses me then, slow and deep, and I taste hope on her tongue alongside desire. When she pulls back, her eyes hold something I haven’t seen since before everything went to hell.
“Make love to me again,” she whispers.
“Ally …”
“Please. I need to know if we can do this more than once. I need to know if it gets easier.”
I don’t need to be asked twice. My body’s already responding to her proximity, to the way she looks at me like I’m something worth wanting instead of something broken that needs fixing.
This time there’s less hesitation. Less careful navigation around empty spaces. I know how she feels beneath my hands now, how she responds when it’s just us. The knowledge makes me bolder.
I roll her beneath me and pin her wrists above her head with one hand while the other explores territory that’s always been mine to claim. She arches into my touch, breath hitching when I find the spot that makes her lose control.
“Better?” I murmur against her throat.
“Much better.”
We move together with growing confidence, finding rhythms that belong to us alone. No ghost of a third presence. No phantom hands or imagined whispers. Just Ally and me, relearning how to set each other on fire.
When she comes apart beneath me, it’s with my name on her lips and her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. When I follow her over the edge, it’s with the knowledge that this—us—is going to survive whatever comes next.
I wake to pale morning light filtering through curtains and the soft sound of Ally’s breathing beside me. The space where Hank should be doesn’t feel like an open wound anymore. Just an empty pillow that reminds me of what we had without destroying what we have.
Ally stirs when I brush hair from her face, eyes fluttering open to reveal sleep-soft confusion that clears when she focuses on me.
“Morning,” she says, voice husky with sleep.
“Morning.”
We’ve made love twice in the last hour, and I’m already hard again. Already wanting her with an intensity that should probably concern me, but doesn’t. This is who I am—the man who wants her constantly, who can’t get enough even when she’s wrapped around me.
Hank used to tease me about it. Called me insatiable. Said watching me try to control my need for her was like watching someone try to hold back the tide.
The memory doesn’t hurt as much as it should. Instead of loss, I feel gratitude—for his understanding, for his willingness to share, for the way he never made me feel ashamed of how much I needed her.
“Again?” Ally asks, reading the intent in my eyes.
“If you’re up for it.”
“Always.”
This time, I don’t hold back. Don’t treat her like she might break if I touch her too hard or move too fast. This time, I let myself be the dominant bastard she fell in love with, the one who knows exactly how to drive her out of her mind.
I flip her onto her stomach, hands gripping her hips as I position her exactly how I want her. She pushes back against me, demanding and eager, no longer the careful woman trying not to betray a dead man’s memory.
“That’s it,” I growl when she meets me thrust for thrust. “Take what you need.”
She does. She takes everything I give her and demands more, her body moving with the grace that always destroys my control. When I slide my hand between her legs, find the bundle of nerves that makes her scream, she shatters with an intensity that nearly takes me with her.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Please don’t stop.”
