“Tell me what you want, Charlie,” he rasps, voice dark and broken open with need.
“You,” I whisper, trembling. “All of you.”
His grin is slow, crooked, and devastating. It’s the kind of smile that says I’m in trouble and I’ll love every second.
“Then that’s what you’ll get.”
In one smooth motion, he slips the pink dress over my hips and off, tossing it aside like it’s never coming back. I lie beneath him in nothing but lace and nerves and love so deep it’s terrifying. But then he leans in again, kissing me with hunger, and the fear quiets.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse as he presses kisses along my collarbone. “You don’t know what seeing you again is doing to me.”
I arch into him, breath catching when his palm cups between my thighs through the lace. “I think I have an idea,” I breathe, eyes locked on his.
He dips his head, his tongue finding the sensitive spot just below my ear, and whispers, “I’m going to take my time with you, Charlie. Make up for every second we lost.”
He doesn’t rush.
Everything Sam does is worshipful as if he’s relearning every curve, every sound I make, every breath I take. His hands move with a devotion that nearly undoes me, like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break and something sacred he refuses to let go.
He removes my panties with care, trailing his fingers along the backs of my thighs as he kisses down my stomach. The way he looks up at me before he settles between my legs—like I’m his entire world—has tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
“Eyes on me, darlin’,” he murmurs.
And I do. I keep my gaze locked to his as he worships mewith his mouth, slow and steady, building the kind of pressure that steals all coherent thought. My hands grip the sheets, my back arches, and my voice breaks on his name.
When I come undone, it’s with a sob that catches in my throat. He doesn’t let me go far. He crawls back up my body, gathering me in his arms, whispering soft things against my lips. Things likemineandI love youandnever again.
When I pull him closer, guiding him between my legs, it’s not just out of need but longing. For connection. For healing. For a future I’ve been aching for since the day I left.
He slides into me with a groan, forehead pressed to mine. We move slowly at first. Just the quiet sounds of our breathing, the creak of the bus, the wet press of skin on skin.
But the pace builds more desperate as days and weeks and months of longing combust all at once.
We fall together, again and again, murmuring each other’s names like prayers. And afterward, when we’re tangled in the sheets, breathless and spent, he holds me like he never plans to let go.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
“Good?” he asks quietly, his fingers brushing my back.
“I’m good,” I whisper. “And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
His arms tighten around me, and I know he feels it too.
30
We stay on the bus, tangled in each other, making love like we’ve got time to rewrite the months we lost. Slow, unhurried, sometimes laughing, always touching. Hours pass in the hush of low lamplight and whispered promises. He showers me with tenderness and then adds spicy roughness when I beg for it.
After, Sam wraps his arms around me, one hand trailing lazily through my hair, the other tracing light circles on my lower back like he can’t bear to stop touching me.
“Phern wants to apologize to you,” he murmurs. “When you’re ready.”
“She doesn’t have to, Sam. I understand. She was just trying to protect you.”
His jaw clenches against my temple. “She still shouldn’t have done what she did.”
We fall quiet for a moment.
“She showed me the letters right before the show,” he says finally. “If I hadn’t seen you in the crowd, I was going to find you the second I walked off that stage.”
