He groans my name, and his hips start to pound into me with more urgency. My body responds naturally, riding with him, matching his thrusts until every nerve ending burns with need. I cry out as I come apart around him, my world narrowed to the slick, grounding reality of us joined together. He stills for a moment, gasping in my ear, then bottoms out in a final, breathtaking surge. My fingers tangle in his hair, and together we ride out the trembling release.
When he pulls free, I feel hollow and full all at once. He gathers me in his arms, tucking me under him, and I cling to his back as he rolls us so we lie side by side. My body hums with aftershocks, and I press my face into his broad chest, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, musk, something uniquely his.
I feel his tremors, and then his arms tighten protectively around me. My hands roam over his knuckles and forearms, tracing the raised scars there. Guilt flickers through me at the sight of those battle wounds. He tenses beneath my fingers, memories flickering in his eyes as I push my fingertips through the soft smattering of hair that covers his chest..
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“Better now,” I whisper. I lift my head to look at him, eyes wide and tender. “Except for this damn couch.”
The tension drains from his face and he chuckles.
I press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Tell me about these scars,” I whisper, fingertips tracing the angry slashes on his skin.
He gives me a half-smile and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “From my time in the desert,” he murmurs.
He strokes my bare back with his fingertips, and I feel the tightness in his chest ease. He strokes my hair, and I sigh, content to simply be near him, safe in this warmth he’s offering. “I always thought I was better off alone, until you moved into my life.”
I trace a finger along his eyebrow. “You should get used to me, I’m never leaving.”
“I won’t let you,” he laughs. “Even if youarethe neighbor from Hell.”
“Me?” I gasp.
“Yes you, bringing all that sunshine and happiness.”
“You needed my sunshine.”
“Damn right I did, Firefly.”
I press closer and rest my head on his chest and he brushes his fingers through my hair and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. I yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep and satisfaction. His arms wrap around me tighter. “Now go to sleep and dream about how sweet it will be when I wake you up with kisses all over your body tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t wait.” I smile, feeling safe in his arms and cherished for the first time in my life.
Epilogue
Three months later
Boone
By spring, the workshop doesn’t echo anymore.
I notice it one morning when the big bay door is rolled all the way up and sunlight cuts across the concrete, dust motes floating like lazy sparks. The radio’s on low, a blues station Ember likes, and there’s a kid on a stool near my workbench watching me fix a bent tire rim, eyes wide, hands jammed in the pockets of a jacket that’s two sizes too big.
“Don’t touch,” I say without looking.
“I won’t,” he says. A beat. “Promise.”
I glance over. He’s grinning like he just got away with something. I smirk despite myself. “Promises are a kind of contract.”
He nods solemnly. “My mom says contracts are serious.”
“Your mom’s right.”
The door chimes. Laughter spills in first, bright and unashamed, followed by Ember carrying a crate of canvases like it weighs nothing. Her hair’s up in a messy knot, paint alreadysmeared along her knuckles, freckles standing out against skin kissed by sun. She takes in the scene—me, the kid, the open doors—and her smile does something dangerous to my chest.
“Morning, Firefly,” I say.
