Page 45 of Saving Her Heart
"Complete idiots," I agree.
She moves first, or maybe I do… I don’t know. But suddenly she's in my arms, and we're holding each other, both of us crying for all the years we lost, all the pain we caused each other.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper into her hair. "For leaving. For staying away. For being too proud to fight for us."
"I'm sorry for not letting you explain. For holding onto hurt instead of hope." She pulls back to look at me. "For wasting so much time."
"It's not wasted if it brought us here."
"Here? With someone threatening to burn down buildings and destroy my life?"
"Here. Together. Finally being honest."
She touches my face, her thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I'm scared."
"Of the threats?"
"Of this. Us. Of wanting you so much it physically hurts." Her voice drops. "Of what happens when this crisis is over and real life comes back."
"Then we deal with real life together."
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. I love you. I've always loved you. That's the only thing that's been constant for ten years."
"Jax..."
"I know we have things to work through. Trust to rebuild. But Kendall, I'm all in. Whatever it takes, however long it takes."
She kisses me. Not like earlier—desperate and hungry. This is soft, achingly tender, tasting of tears and promises.
"I love you too," she whispers against my lips. "I tried not to. God, I tried. But I never learned how to stop."
I pull her closer, and she settles into my lap, her hands framing my face. We kiss like we have all the time in the world, like there aren't threats hanging over us, like we're not both terrified of how much this means.
"I want you," she breathes, and the words shoot straight through me.
"Kendall—"
"Not because I'm scared. Not because of adrenaline. Because I've wanted you every day for ten years, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."
I stand, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her back to the bedroom, laying her downgently on the bed we'd so carefully shared opposite sides of only hours ago.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"I need to grab protection," I say, reaching for the nightstand drawer where I keep them. "I want to keep you safe in every way."
She nods, appreciation in her eyes. "Thank you. I'm on birth control too, but better safe."
What follows is nothing like our frantic encounter in the hallway earlier. This is slow, reverent, relearning each other with careful hands and patient mouths. I trace the curves I've dreamed about, finding new places that make her gasp—the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, the delicate hollow of her throat that flutters with her pulse.
She's changed in ten years—we both have. There's a small scar on her hip that wasn't there before, a story I don't know yet but I'm anxious to learn. Her body is more defined, stronger from years of kickball and running between properties. But the way she responds to my touch, the little sounds she makes when I kiss that spot below her ear—that's exactly the same.
I take my time exploring her, mapping every inch with lips and fingertips. The smooth plane of her stomach tenses under my touch. The soft skin of her inner thighs that makes her breath catch. The arch of her foot, the curve of her calf, every part of her that I've missed for so long.
"I missed you," she gasps as I worship her with my mouth, tasting her, savoring her responses as I remember exactly what makes her come undone.
