When I finally catch my breath, I put a hand to his cheek. “I love you, too,” I tell him.
His eyes search mine, like he has to make sure it’s real. That I mean it.
“I do. I love you.” My hand brushes over his warm skin. “You infuriating, stubborn, smart, funny, polylingual, contradictory man. I love you, and Iwantto be your wife.”
He’s breathing hard.“Polylingual?”
“I had to throw it in there.”
“Good to know,” he says, and there’s a tone in his voice that I recognize, a hint of joy amidst the turmoil, “that dual citizenship and some childhood language lessons helped me get the love of my life.”
I laugh.Love of my life.That’s what it said, in the will.
And I found it.
“I expect you to teach me all of them, you know,” I say.
“I will.” He brushes hair off my face, and then he tells me the same phrase in French, Italian, and German.
I love you.
When he’s done, I brush my fingers over his top lip. “I want to kiss you. But it looks like it might hurt.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I could be dying and I’d still want your lips.” There’s a light in his eyes that looks almost feverish, and it matches the pounding of my own pulse. “But we’re on the bathroom floor and I need a shower. Come. I’ve made a mess of you.”
We end up beneath the warm spray of water together, and when we finally make it to bed, we have sex again. Carefully. Because he has bruised ribs and a cut lip, and the newfound honesty between us feels raw and real and like a dream I don’t want to fade.
We go slow this time, too, and I find that I don’t mind at all.
CHAPTER 67
PAIGE
We sleep in the next morning.
I don’t know the last time that happened. But it does. Rafe leaves bed to grab coffee and a bottle of orange juice from the kitchen, bringing the entire pitcher straight up, while I open up the windows to let the Italian sunshine in.
Despite the healing cut in his lip and the lack of sleep, he seems lighter than I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t move like he’s covered in bruises.
He returns to my side, pulling back the covers to start leisurely running his hands and mouth all over my body. It’s a slow, exquisite kind of torture.
“I can take my time,” he says with his face against my ribs. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted to savor you?”
I reach up, hands stretched behind my head. “You have?”
“Yes.” He runs a hand down along my bent left leg, tracing a soft pattern along my skin. His eyes follow the movement.
“You’ve always liked my legs. And my hair,” I say. “I think that was the first thing that gave you away.”
“Couldn’t help myself.” He grips my hips and kisses over my ribs, and my tattoo. He moves over the curve of mybreast, just barely teasing a nipple, before his eyes return to mine. “But that wasn’t the only thing.”
“Hmm?”
He runs a thumb over my lips. “I hated this part of you the most, and then it attracted me the most.”
I can’t help but smile. “I know.”
He looks down, smoothing a hand over my stomach. “Whenever I got to hold you in public, I’d wrap my arm around your waist and feel you breathe. And this.” His fingers smooth over my tattoo, tracing the wave. “I love this. Every time I’ve gotten a look at it, it’s made me want you even more.” He leans down and kisses the curve between my tits. “And these, fuck. When you went tanning topless…”
