I couldn’t meet his eyes any longer. It was too difficult to bare myself so completely. “Not long after Belinda died.” My words fell between us and I felt him go completely still on top of me. The only movement in his body was the beating of his heart. He wasn’t even breathing.
I forced myself to continue. “You were so…broken. I wanted to heal you.” My breath hitched. “If I could have brought her back, I would have. I hated to see you in so much pain.”
I felt a tear trickle down my cheek and cursed myself inwardly. I’d cried more in the last few weeks than I had my entire life.
“So that’s why you stayed,” he breathed.
“Yes.”
His thumb traced the trail of dampness the tear left behind. “That’s also why you left, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered. “You were finally getting stronger. You didn’t need me anymore and it—” I couldn’t continue because my throat convulsed. I swallowed hard, forcing back more tears.
“It hurt,” he finished.
My throat wouldn’t loosen enough for me to speak so I nodded my head.
“Chloe, look at me.”
“Lachlan,” I began.
“You call me Ian when we’re in bed together, Chloe. You have since the beginning.”
My eye opened at the thread of steel in his voice and my gaze collided with his. Though he didn’t look angry, there was a resolve in his eyes, as though he’d made up his mind about something.
“Ian,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry, Chloe,” he apologized. “I’m sorry that I put you through that.”
My hands squeezed his shoulders reflexively. “Why should you be sorry?”
His lips brushed my forehead. “Because I learned over the last three days that there’s no pain like the one you feel when you watch your mate suffer. And you bore that in silence for nearly two years. For that, I am sorry.”
My heart thumped against my breastbone, one hard bump. “I would do it again because you needed me,” I replied.
“Jesus, Chloe,” he said, his voice rough, before he kissed me again. “I can’t let you walk away now. Not after this.”
I couldn’t breathe as his mouth found mine once more.
When he lifted his head, he said, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to make up, Ian. I wanted to do it.”
“Then you have to stay with me,” he insisted. “Because I still need you. I’ll always need you.”
I looked up at him, seeing everything I’d ever wanted wrapped up inside him. Love, warmth, family. He was offering it all to me.
“Make me yours,” I said, curving my hand around the back of his neck. “Now.”
He kissed me again, giving into my urging touch. As our mouths opened, our tongues tangling and tasting, his hands moved to the hem of my t-shirt, lifting it over my head. Beneath it I wore a simple cotton tank that disguised the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. It followed my t-shirt to the floor.
My own hands were busy, diving under the hem of his tee as well. He reached over his head, his hand grasping the material between his shoulder blades and pulled it off.
My flip-flops had fallen from my feet when he laid me on the bed, but he released my mouth and straightened, tugging my leggings and underwear down my thighs, over my calves, until I lay bare before him.
He rose to stand at the end of the bed, unbuckling his belt. I watched as he kicked off his boots and socks and shoved the jeans off. When he rejoined me on the bed, we were naked, our bodies twined together skin-to-skin. He barely took his eyes from my face as his hand roved over my body, trailing over the pink scar tissue on my side, down over my belly button, and from hipbone to hipbone.
I laid my hand flat on his back, smoothing it over his skin. My fingertips brushed the bumps of his spine and I felt the flex and bunch of his muscles beneath my palm. He was warm and heavy, his body enveloping me.
