“Thatwasepic,” she agrees.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “We did some other epic things that night.”
She laughs, and something loosens in my chest.
It’s so domestic to be just us in a space that’s justfor us. She’s not at our place, which she callsmine,or Katya’s place, which she calls hers. This is temporary, only for a weekend, but it’s the intimacy that I’ve been dreaming of having again.
We eat salmon steaks with mushrooms and pulao rice at the small dining table.
The cabin comes with two fireplaces, one in the open plan living-kitchen-dining space and one in the bedroom. We turned them both on. Mia likes it warm.
The flames dance shadows across her face, catching the flecks of gold in her gray eyes. I reach for the wine, a white Burgundy, and refill our glasses.
She sips. “This is nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than nice.” I keep my tone light because this is fucking amazing. Like we’re married again, like when we were newly in love and in tune with each other.I will never ever take this for granted, I vow. I will always,alwayswork to keep our magic alive.
She nods, looking down at her plate. “So…these are the last dates, Aiden.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to date you for the rest of our lives. Evenafterwe get married again, I will keep dating you.”
Her eyes fill with emotion. “Is that right?” She tries to make light of it.
I want to ask if she’s ready to come home, if this trip is the last step before we call it what it is—us getting back together. But I promised I wouldn’t push, so I let the question burn quietly in the back of my mind. Instead, I reach for her hand over the table and trace the line of her knuckles with my thumb.
“Baby, I’m going to date the fuck out of you.”
She laughs again, the sound bright and unburdened. There’s a lightness to her now, an almost incandescent glow that takes my breath away.
The weight of what I did—the shadow I placed on her shoulders—doesn’t seem to drag her down anymore.
Grief still lingers as there are moments when Anya’s absence cuts through her. But more and more, she and Katya share stories, remembering the warmth, the laughter, the good days. And with each memory spoken aloud, I can see them both stepping, slowly but surely, onto the path of healing.
“Speaking offucking…I was wondering if we should go to bed early,” she says coyly.
“I thought we were having dessert. Didn’t I see you whip some cream?”
Her eyes light up with mischief. “Oh, that was going to be dessert…in bed.”
I go from semi-erect to full-on steel in seconds. “And will I be eating this dessert, or will you be?”
“I think we shouldbothenjoy it.” She gets up and holds her hand out to me.
I slide my hand in hers and tug her to the fridge, where we collect the whipped cream, and then head to bed.
We make a freaking mess of the best kind.
I spread whipped cream across her tits, and my tongue follows the trails I painted with deliberate care, driving her crazy with arousal.
The bedroom fireplace makes her skin golden.
When I put a dollop on her pussy, she giggles and then moans, arching into my mouth as I lick it off her, blending the sweetness of the cream with her essence.
She comes suddenly, quivering and moaning. When her breathing resumes at a steady pace, I kiss her clit softly. “You’re so beautiful when you come, baby.”
“Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for the bowl.
I watch her drizzle cream across my collarbone, her tongue darting out to catch a cloud of it before it falls. Arousal shoots straight through me. I grip the sheets to keep from flipping her over and forgetting about dessert entirely.
