Not that I’m complaining. A nearly naked Keaton is living art. Every tattoo begs to be traced and tasted.
A shiver curls up my spine just thinking about it.
But my man is taking his time, and the ache building inside me is almost unbearable.
I get why he hesitates, even if it drives me wild.
We’re healing—sometimes together, sometimes on our own—growing into people we barely recognize.
Perfection isn’t in our vocabulary. We’re just us. Flawed, messy, and perfectly imperfect.
We make the wrong choices.
We hurt people we love.
If we keep owning our flaws and striving to outgrow yesterday’s selves, then we’re winning, not failing.
No matter how far we’ve come since Keaton’s betrayal, the road ahead still stretches long and uncertain.
It’s not always at the forefront, but some nights, the memory of that pool house slips into my dreams. On those nights, doubtcreeps in, and I wonder if forgiving him was right. Sometimes, I think a small part of me still hates him for it.
Amelia always likes to point out that there’s a fine line between love and hate. When I feel indifferent to him and what he’s done, that's when I need to walk away for good. Because that means there’s nothing left to fight for.
So I refuse to let hate take root. On the hard days, I open the door to love instead.
As long as we keep choosing love, day after day, I believe we’ll find our way back to each other.
I stand before the mirror, smoothing my hand over a short, silky black dress that clings to every curve, leaving no doubt I’m wearing nothing beneath. The thin straps grip my shoulders, holding the bodice just so, my bare skin pressed against the fabric.
With a sly smirk, I squat, admiring the way the dress barely covers me. The hem teases the curve of my ass, hinting at everything I plan to reveal.
Which I plan to do.
If this dress doesn’t scream that I’m ready for more than innocent touches, I’ll just have to spell it out and hope he shoves his face between my legs.
He sent me a text ten minutes ago that he’ll be home shortly.
Pizza is timed to arrive with him, a movie waits on the TV, and LED candles flicker on the coffee table. Paper plates, napkins, and a bucket of ice with bottled water are ready. I’ve built a cozy love nest of pillows and comforters on the floor.
The only thing missing is us.
When the front door opens, I give myself one last once-over, inhale deeply, and square my shoulders.
It’s time to take another leap forward.
“Butterfly?” Keaton calls.
“Coming, dragon boy.”
Keaton’s smile is molten when I enter, his gaze devouring me. He sets the pizza down, but his attention never wavers. “You look…” His fists clench, voice thick. “So fucking beautiful.” His lips part, tongue flicking over them, a groan escaping as his hand drops to the bulge in his jeans. “And hot. So goddamn hot. You’re trying to kill me.”
I let my hips sway, closing the space between us in a slow, sensual dance. My heart thuds, warmth blooming inside me. Standing before him, I trail my hand down his chest to where he’s gripping himself, curling my fingers over his. My movements are slow, deliberate, and I watch the heat in his eyes burn brighter. “I’m doing no such thing. You wouldn’t be much use to me if I did that. I’m all for trying new things, baby, but necrophilia isn’t on the menu,” I purr, rising to lick his neck.
He shivers with another deep groan, his cock growing bigger under our palms. “What are you doing, beautiful?”
God, I love when he calls me that as if it’s my name.
“Nothing,” I say as innocently as possible, placing a kiss on his jawline and stepping away. “Having a date with you in the living room.”
