“You deserve the world, Amelia,” he says, leaning down to brush his mouth over mine. “I’ll give it to you on a platter.”
I nibble his bottom lip before pushing back to look at him. “You already have.”
“Fuuuck,” he groans when I start stroking him, loving the feel of him in my hands and the way his eyes darken. The sound he makes as I work him over with my hand. I push up and rub my sensitive nipples against his shirt, burying my face in his neck and licking at his skin, losing myself in his scent.
“I used to think about this all the time in my apartment,” I confess, using his precum to slick my hand. “I would run into you in the hallway and blabber like an idiot, then hurry into my apartment, prepare a bath, and touch myself to thoughts of you.”
His breathing grows ragged. “How long?”
“The entire time I’ve known you,” I whisper. “Doesn’t that make me weird?”
“If it does then let’s be weird together, because I did the exact same thing.” He nudges my hand away and, in a flash, I find myself spun around and with my back to the wall. He grips my knee and brings it to his hip, lining his cock with my sex. “We don’t have to imagine anymore when we can have the real thing.”
“Oh,” I gasp when I feel the press of his cock, and my eyes flutter closed as he inches into me. Filling me. Stretching me with his massive girth. “Hawk—”
“No, don’t close your eyes,” he rasps, forcing them to snap open and focus on his. “Keep looking at me. You’re not alone in your bathtub anymore. I’m here. In the room with you. Touching you.”
“Yes,” I whimper, grabbing his shoulders when he starts rocking into me. It takes real effort to keep my eyes open but I do, and I keep them on him. Soaking in every violent shudder, every fevered groan and soft but heated caress.
It’s slow.
And it’s loving.
Miles apart from the feral ride back at the music hall. This time, our lovemaking is full of promise and affection, and when we come apart, it happens nearly at the same time. Our pleasured sounds echo in the bathroom as we renew our marriage vows without words.
As we rewrite fresh ones.
Later, when our bodies are no longer singing from the sex and we’re soaking in the tub, I allow myself to relax and re-live the day. Heck, this has been the best day, week, and year of my life.
“I have one more thing for you,” Hawk says when I start drifting.
“You’ve already given me enough presents,” I hum lazily. “You’re really making me look bad in this relationship.”
He chuckles and I watch as he reaches for his pants and searches through the pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. I gasp when I see the box, and when he opens it to reveal a ring with a center ruby, tears crowd my eyes.
He does know me.
But how?
“I overheard you talking to Wren about your grandfather,” he says, taking the ring out of the box and lifting it, the red gleaming dangerously against the light. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you mention that ruby is your birthstone. Something else you share with your grandfather.”
“So you went out and bought me a ring?” I sniff, the tears spilling down my cheeks. “I think I’m the one who saved a nation in a past life.”
I offer my hand and he slides the ring on, a perfect fit. Like everything else about us. “I love you,” I say, turning my head to brush my mouth over his, my heart swelling with more affection than I thought one could have for another. “You’re everything to me.”
“I love you,” he says, returning the kiss that fast turns heated. Soon, we’re making love again in the tub, once again renewing our vows. Rewriting them again and again.
Epilogue
Five Months Later
Hawk
Her fingers grip my hand so tight that I’m certain they’re cutting off blood circulation, but I do nothing to stop her. I, more than anyone, understand her anxiety. This is the moment my wife has been obsessing and stressing over for days. Weeks, even, but it’s not just her. The courtroom air hangs thick and heavy with anxiety, and each tick of the clock on the wall only works to add to that anxiety. Every rustle of paper, cough, or creak of a wooden chair only works to amplify the tension in the room.
My gaze flickers to my daughter. At seven months old, she’s still so tiny and every bit as beautiful, and this moment is about her. All this fear and anxiety are because everyone in here cares about her. I turn to look at the gallery where our family sits, a sea of worried faces that mirror my wife’s expression when I turn back to her.
Last night was especially hard for her. “What if my age raises concern?” she asked me, pacing anxiously in our bedroom. “I mean, I’m old enough to vote, drink, and drive. Old enough to get married and have kids, but…I read a case about a twenty-two-year-old in another state where the judge deniedadoption, stating that she lacked maturity and stability. What if that happens tomorrow in court?”
