His answer is in his eyes before his lips find mine again. This kiss is different from all the others. No desperation. No anger. No ghosts of the past haunting us.
Just us. Finally, purely us.
He stands, pulling me with him, his hands gentle as they frame my face. "I need you," he murmurs against my mouth. "Not to forget. Not to escape. Just because you're you."
My heart clenches. This is what I've wanted since he came back from the dead—for him to want me for the right reasons. Not revenge. Not rage. Just love.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, careful of his bandaged shoulder. He helps me ease it over his head, revealing the patchwork of injuries covering his torso. The healing gunshot wounds. The bruises fading from purple to yellow. The scars from Georgia that will never fully disappear.
Each of those scars are a testament to his will to live. His strength.
"You're beautiful," I tell him.
He laughs, the sound rough but genuine. "I'm a mess."
"You're mine." I press my lips to his shoulder, just above the bandage. "Every scar. Every wound. Every broken piece. Mine."
His hands move to my clothes, undressing me slowly. When I'm bare before him, his eyes travel over my body.
"You're not showing yet," he says softly, his palm settling over my stomach.
"Not for a few more weeks probably." I cover his hand with mine. "But they're in there. Growing. Our baby."
"Our baby." He says it like a prayer. Like a promise.
He leads me to the bed, and we sink onto it together. The mattress is thin, the sheets rough, but none of that matters. All that matters is the man beside me, his body warm against mine.
His kisses are slow. Thorough. He takes his time exploring my mouth, my throat, the curve of my shoulder. There's no rush, no frantic need to possess. Just tenderness.
This is the man I fell in love with when I was just a girl.
He’s come back to me.
The violence and anger are gone.
My Maksim is back.
I arch into him as his lips find my breast, his tongue circling my nipple. They're more sensitive than usual. The sensation sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Maksim," I breathe.
"I know." His hand trails down my side, over my hip, between my thighs. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers find me wet and ready. He strokes slowly, building pleasure in gradual waves instead of the usual storm. I rock against his hand, my breathing quickening.
But when I reach for him, try to return the attention, he catches my wrist.
"Tonight is about you," he says. "Let me worship you. I owe you so much. An apology. I’m an asshole. I’ve treated you so badly. You should have killed me for doing what I did."
I smile up at him. “Maksim, if I didn’t like it, I would have killed you.”
He flashes a cocky grin. “It was good.”
I laugh softly, the sound turning into a gasp as his fingers press deeper, finding that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "It was very good."
"And it's going to be even better now." He lowers his head, trailing kisses down my stomach. His lips pause over where our child grows, so gentle it makes my throat tight. "Both of you are precious to me."
The tenderness in his voice undoes something in my chest. This is what I've been missing—not just the physical connection, but this emotional intimacy. Being cherished instead of conquered. It’s the intimacy that has my heart racing and my body quivering.
