“Look at me,” he said. The intensity in his eyes stole my breath. “I love you. More than anything.”
“I love you too,” I whispered. “Now please?—”
He pushed inside me in one slow, deliberate thrust, and we both exhaled—a shared breath of homecoming. He filled me completely, perfectly, the way he always did.
“God, Tess,” he groaned, his face buried in my neck. “You feel so good. Always so good.”
He started to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and deliberate. Not rushed, not frantic—just perfectly, intensely us. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together, pinning it to the mattress beside my head.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him even deeper. The pleasure built. Every thrust hit that perfect spot inside me, and I could feel myself climbing toward a peak.
“You close, baby?” His voice was strained, his movements getting less controlled.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
His free hand slid between our bodies, finding my clit, and that was all it took. The orgasm hit me hard, my inner walls clenching around him as I cried out.
“Fuck, Tess—” He thrust into me one more time, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, his body shuddering with release.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, sweat-slicked and tangled together. Finally, he shifted, pulling out and rolling to his side, gathering me against him.
“I’m going to need a minute after that,” he said with a breathless laugh.
“Yeah… me too,” I murmured, smiling into his chest.
We lay there in the firelight, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. Satisfaction hummed through my veins, warm and sweet, along with something deeper—love, gratitude, the bone-deep certainty that this man was mine and I was his.
“Worth the trip?” he asked sleepily.
“Worth everything,” I replied, and meant it.
But even as I said it, even wrapped in his arms with satisfaction, that old, unwelcome fear stirred—the quiet ache that came from knowing moments like this were just that: moments. Beautiful, fleeting, impossible to hold on to.
“Stop,” Marco said.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re worrying about. I can feel it. Your whole body just tensed up.”
I sighed, burrowing closer to him. “Just... tomorrow. And all the tomorrows after that.”
He tightened his arms around me, solid and warm and real. “Tomorrow’s going to be great. We’re going to go home to our crazy kids, close the Ashley deal, and keep building on this life we have.” He kissed the top of my head. “And we’re going to have a lot more nights like this one.”
I let myself believe him. Let the fear dissolve in the warmth of his embrace. He was right. Everything was going to be okay.
“I love you,” he murmured, already half asleep.
“I love you too.”
The nightmare of the afternoon had transformed into the most wonderful night.
Tomorrow, we would fly home. Tomorrow, we would get back to our real, full, beautiful life.
I woke slowly to bright sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. The kind of morning where you wake up warm and content, still wrapped in the glow of the night. I stretched, a soft, satisfied sigh escaping my lips, and reached for Marco.
My hand found only cool, empty sheets.
I opened my eyes. The indentation of his head was still on the pillow, but he was gone.
