Page 116 of The Beautiful Collision
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice rough.
The orgasm finds me a moment later, making me shake and clench around him. He groans my name, his hips bucking up as he follows me over the edge, and the feeling of him coming inside me—no barriers, just us—is enough to trigger another, smaller aftershock.
But we’re not done. Not even close.
We’ve barely caught our breath before he’s moving again, flipping me onto my stomach and pulling my hips up. The position is primal, possessive, and when he slides back inside me, we both moan at how deep he can go like this, how much energy he’s still got after a full game of hockey and round one of this.
“OK?” he checks, his hand stroking down my spine.
“More than,” I gasp, pushing back against him.
He takes that as the permission it is, his pace becoming almost punishing in the best way. His hands are everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding around to tease my breasts, and tangling in my hair to pull my head back so he can kiss my neck.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my ear.
It should sound possessive in a bad way, but it doesn’t. Because I know he’s mine too. We own each other now, in all the ways that matter. Because he’s my person, and I’m his, and I’ll do anything I can to help him and heal him, to lean on him and let him lean, too.
“Yours,” I agree, and feel him shudder against me.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whine at the loss, but he’s already turning me over, pulling me to the edge of the bed. He enters me again, standing at the foot of the bed with my legs over his shoulders, and the angle is the single most devastating thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Look at me,” he demands, and I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze.
The intensity there—the love and lust and complete adoration—is almost too much to bear. But I don’t look away. Can’t look away. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world.
“I love you,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too,” I gasp, and then I’m coming again, my entire body shaking.
He follows immediately, and then he’s collapsing onto the bed beside me, both of us breathing like we’ve run a marathon. We lie there for a moment, breathless, our bodies still humming with aftershocks. Then he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around my waist.
The moment is perfect—peaceful and content in a way I never thought I’d have. Which is, of course, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. I feel him tense immediately, that old familiar dread creeping back in, which I recognize as similar to my old anxiety when my parents used to call.
But we’re different now. We’ve learned.
“Hi, Mom,” he says after he answers the call and puts it on speaker, his free hand finding mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles.
“Maine?” Her voice is trembling, thick with tears, but for once they don’t sound like tears of fear or exhaustion. “They’re starting. The next dose of the treatment.”
The words hit us both like a physical blow.
“Mom, that’s—“ Maine’s voice cracks, because I know how much this means to him, but also how scared he is.
“We’ll be right there,” I say, loud enough for his mom to hear, squeezing his hand at the same time.
“Maya?” His mom sounds surprised but pleased. “Oh honey, you don’t have to?—“
“We’ll be right there,” I repeat, firmer this time, leaving no room for argument. “Family shows up.”
There’s a pause, then his mom is crying in earnest. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Both of you. Thank you.”
Maine ends the call and looks at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You don’t have to come. After what happened with your patient?—“
I press my fingers to his lips, silencing him. “This is Chloe. This is your family.” I take a breath. “This isourfamily.”
The look he gives me then is worth every moment of pain we went through to get here. It’s gratitude and love and partnership all rolled into one. “OK,” he says.
“Let’s go,” I say, already sliding out of bed and looking for clothes. “Your sister’s waiting.”
