Page 159 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
He takes me from behind in one powerful, claiming thrust. “Fuck,” he grates out, his hands gripping my arse. “Look at you. Taking every inch of me.”
My eyes drift to the left, to the vanity mirror, and I see us, a tangle of straining limbs, his dark, intent gaze watching our reflection.
Our eyes lock.
One hand remains anchored on my hip, the other tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back as he drives into me with wild, abandoned thrusts.
His hand releases my hair, finds my breast, cupping and pinching the sensitised peak.
“Come for me,” he grits out, the command raw.
And I shatter. I let go completely, a broken cry torn from my lips as my climax clenches around him,pulling his own release from him in a hot, pulsing rush that coats my inner walls.
We fall back together, breathless, hearts still racing. He holds me from behind, his cock still inside me, his arm tightens around my waist, holding me close.
His fingers drift to caress my nipple. “You are mine,” he whispers.
A soft laugh escapes me. “I love you, too.”
“I shall never tire of hearing it, ma lune.”
I feel him twitch inside me once more, and a slow smile curves my lips.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he growls.
And he meant every word.
Epilogue
Ophelia
After Arlo proposed for the second time, high above Paris on the Eiffel Tower, the days that followed felt like they belonged to another world.
We stayed in that villa a while longer, as if time had stopped just for us. It was the closest thing to peace I’ve ever known.
When it was finally time to return, we didn’t go back to St. Monarche´ Institute for the remainder of the term.
We agreed we would only fly back in May to take our final exams, collect our diplomas, and be done with it.
For me, it would be the end of my degree, for Arlo being twenty-four it meant collecting his master’s diploma.
After everything that happened, we both needed a new beginning, not another term filled with whispers and ghosts of the past.
When Arlo asked where we should live, he offered options, London, Italy, or France.
I chose Paris.
I told him it felt right, that I wanted to try something new. Maybe it won’t be forever, but for now, it’s home.
The mansion he bought and handed me the key to on Christmas was exactly what I needed.
It sits just outside the city—tall gates, a long tree lined drive, and wide gardens that make the air feel endless.
There’s space for Bellamy to run freely, and every morning I still wake to the sound of hooves on the grass.
Everything was renovated, we had a kitchen, a bed, and enough of a start to move in straight away.
From there, I began slowly turning it into something that felt like ours.
