Each memory was a shard of glass—cutting deep, yet impossible to let go of.
By the time the sun bled itself into the horizon and shadows swallowed the house, grief had hollowed us out, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Marlena lingered after dinner, arms wrapped around me so tightly I felt rooted for the first time all day. But eventually, she slipped away into the night. Tessa andI couldn’t stomach the thought of cooking; we ordered takeout that went lukewarm on the counter before we picked at it. Later, we curled up on the couch, Max sprawled heavy across our feet, his warm body a fragile anchor. We tried to lose ourselves in a movie, but halfway through, Tessa gave in to the need for solitude and shut herself in her room. That left Max and me, the flickering TV, and the silence pressing in around us.
It’s close to one in the morning when a knock sounds at my door. Soft, but sharp enough to slice through the stillness and make my heart leap into my throat, despite knowing exactly who it is.
I open the door without hesitation. Emilio fills the frame, leaning against it like he’s been there a while. His navy shirt clings to him, stretched over the hard lines of his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. His eyes—those golden eyes—catch mine, sparking warmth I didn’t know I was capable of feeling tonight.
“You came,” I whisper, the words slipping out like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“I told you I would,” he says, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a promise.
Max barrels up to him before I can even move, his whole body wagging as he shoves his toy into Emilio’s hand. Emilio laughs softly, kneeling to scratch behind his ears, stealing the toy with a mock tug before tossing it toward the couch. Max skitters after it, claws clicking against the floor.
Emilio steps inside and shuts the door behind him; the dam inside me breaks. I’m in his arms before I can think. My chest collides with his, my arms winding tight around his neck. His scent surrounds me—citrus, coffee, rainwater, and the warm bite of cedar—and I breathe it in like oxygen. His embrace is immediate, fierce yet careful, one hand sliding into my hair, theother anchoring me close as his chin dips against the crown of my head.
For the first time all day, the tension in my body eases. The grief doesn’t vanish—it never could—but it softens, edged out by the heat of him pressed to me, by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my cheek.
“I missed you,” I murmur against him.
“I missed you too,” he breathes, his voice brushing hot against my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine.
I tilt my head back, and his gaze hooks mine. There’s still pain there, shadows clinging to him the same way they cling to me, but beneath the darkness burns something hotter—an intensity that mirrors the ache coiling low in my belly. His thumb strokes along my jaw, slow and reverent, as though I’m something fragile, something sacred, before his mouth finally finds mine.
The kiss begins soft, hesitant, careful—like he’s offering me an escape. But I don’t want one. I clutch his shirt tighter in my fists, dragging him closer, pressing harder, devouring him like I’ve been starving for this all along. His lips part, and the kiss deepens, heat surging between us with relentless force, quick and consuming until the air itself feels flammable.
When he pulls away, it’s only to whisper against my lips, his breath rough and uneven, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I shake my head, my voice shaky but resolute. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes darken, hunger eclipsing the sorrow. Then his mouth claims mine again, with raw, unrestrained need. His hands roam over me like he’s memorizing every curve, sliding down my sides, over my waist, tugging at the hem of my sleep shirt until his fingers graze bare skin. The touch rips a shudder through me, every ounce of grief in me alchemizing into hunger.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me into his arms. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, holding on as the world aroundus blurs—the hallway, the shadows, the grief dissolving into nothing but him. Each step he takes toward my bedroom rattles me, a slow burn unfurling low in my belly, until I feel like I might combust. His lips trail down my throat, sucking lightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin at the base of my neck before his tongue soothes the sting, leaving fire blazing along my pulse.
My back hits the doorframe, and I gasp, his hips grinding into mine. The hard length of him presses against my core through his jeans, the friction making me writhe, a needy moan spilling from my lips before I can stop it.
When he finally lowers me onto my bed, it isn’t rushed. It’s deliberate, careful, like he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind. But I don’t want distance—I want to drown in him. The mattress dips beneath us as he follows me down, his weight pinning me, his mouth devouring mine with frantic worship.
His hands roam everywhere—palms flattening against my ribs, fingertips skimming my waist, tugging my shirt inch by inch until I raise my arms, surrendering it to him. The fabric is gone in an instant, tossed somewhere unseen. Cool air ghosts over my bare skin, pebbling my nipples, but the heat in his gaze sets me ablaze. His eyes linger, reverent and hungry, as if he is searing every part of me into his memory.
“God, Rae…” His voice is rough, ragged, breaking under the weight of his desire. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, but I don’t shy away. I want him to see me. I want him to want me the way I ache for him. My hands fumble with his shirt, shoving it up until warm, solid muscle is bared to my touch, until the ink stretched across his chest is revealed—desert flowers winding around the hollowed skull of a bull.
“What does it mean?” I whisper, my fingers tracing the Roman numerals etched into the curve of the horn.
His gaze softens, shadows shifting into something more vulnerable. “November 20, 2010. The day my mother and I left my abusive father.” His voice is low, steady, but the weight of it presses into me.
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
He catches my hand, pressing his lips to each of my knuckles, slow and deliberate. “Don’t be. It made me who I am.” He releases my hand only to claim my mouth again, a kiss laced with both vulnerability and fire.
I taste it—his grief, his strength, his need—and my tongue pushes deeper, tangling with his as his hands continue to roam over my body. His hands move to my breasts, cupping and kneading them before toying with my nipples. I moan into his mouth and grind against his hard length protruding from his jeans. My hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, desperate and clumsy to free his cock from its denim prison, but he catches my wrists, stilling me. He breaks the kiss, his golden eyes smoldering but tender as they lock onto mine.
“Patience, baby,” he whispers, letting go of my wrists.
A pout forms on my lips, but it dissolves when his mouth trails lower, down my throat, leaving marks—his marks—as he nips and sucks. He dips into the valley of my breasts, capturing one in his hand while his tongue circles my nipple then pulls it into the heat of his mouth. My back bows off the bed, a sharp cry spilling out as his teeth scrape lightly, teasing. His free hand glides lower—fingers ghosting down my stomach, brushing the waistband of my panties, then retreating, tormenting me with the promise of more.
“Emilio…” My voice cracks on his name, a plea and a prayer all at once. My hips buck against him, begging for friction.
