He turns toward me. The porch light glows soft on his face, on the lines of regret and the shadows of the day.
“You’re strong, Dove. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Tears prick, but they don’t burn this time. They’re warm, almost sweet. “I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m broken into so many pieces I’ll never be whole again.”
“Then I’ll help you put the pieces back together,” he says simply, drawing me to him. “One at a time. However long it takes.”
The quilt slips from my shoulders as I lean into him. His heartbeat is strong against my cheek.
“I stopped believing in fairytales,” I confess. “I also stopped trusting I’d ever heal. Ever be whole.”
“And now?”
I nuzzle him. “Now, I’m choosing to let hope in.” His heart starts beating a little faster.
I smile at the evidence of his vulnerability. His hope.
After a while, the mountain air becomes cooler. “Let’s go inside,” he suggests.
The words aren’t suggestive. They’re an invitation. One I intend to accept.
“Yes, let’s go inside.”
He holds my hand as we walk in. He takes me to hisroom. It’s quiet, familiar in its simplicity. No shadows of the past here. Just him. Just us.
When he peels back the bedcovers, a pang of hesitation grips me. My body’s memory is far too potent, too vivid—each scar of hurt, betrayal, and raw fear itching anew. Yet his gaze hooks onto mine—not with lust or impatience, but with reverence.
“Dove.” His roughened fingertips graze the tender skin of my arms, igniting a wildfire of shivers.
As our lips crash together in a dance that’s both soft and urgent, his hands map out my curves while mine yank at his shirt like a lifeline.
The tantalizing brush of his fingertips against my bare skin is sheer electricity, etching unseen patterns down my spine.
His mouth brands a searing path of open-mouthed kisses down my throat, over the swell of my breast.
His hands cradle my breasts and tweak my nipples into throbbing peaks. Then, slowly, he disappears where the waistband of my pajamas starts, sliding them off.
I tremble like an aspen leaf, a low whimper slipping past my lips, an echo of primal yearning.
He pushes me against a wall; our bodies become one chaotic tangle of raw passion. As we chase sensation across each other’s skin, our breaths hitch in ragged harmony.
His hands are calloused and rough from years of hard labor, and they move over my skin like they’re worshipping me.
His fingers trace the curve of my hip, teasing theedge of my lace underwear, before slipping beneath the fabric to stroke the wet heat between my thighs.
I arch into his touch.
“You’re soaked.” His voice is a deep, sinful rumble. “Always so fucking wet for me.”
We undress each other, exploring our bodies.
He’s a man now. More muscle. More sinew. Harder. Older. But he’s still Cade. The boy I loved. The man I’m falling in love with.
He leans into me, his cock grinding against me, making me ache with need.
I can feel the heat radiating from him, see the primal hunger in his eyes as he stares down at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
“I want you,” I whisper, my voice trembling with desperation as I grip his cock. Hard and dripping with pre-cum.
