My throat goes dry. “Lane…”
“I’m on the pill. It’s okay.” Her voice is certain, her fingers wrapping around my cock, daring me to argue. “Please. I just want you.”
The words gut me. All the air leaves my lungs in a rush, and for a second, I can only stare at her, the woman who has haunted me since our divorce, asking for me like this.
I swallow hard, climbing back over her, bracing my hands on either side of her head. “Jesus, Lane,” I rasp, my forehead pressed to hers. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
Her legs lift, her knees in the air. “Then show me.” That quiet trust hits harder than anything else tonight.
I settle back over her, guiding her legs around my waist, the mattress dipping beneath our weight. This time there’s no rush, no frantic tearing of clothes. Just skin on skin, the slide of her bodywelcoming me in.
“Christ, Lane,” I groan, forehead pressed to hers as I push inside. “You’re so tight for me.”
Her eyes flutter open, locking on mine. “For you,” she breathes.
My hands brace me on either side of her as I stare into her eyes and thrust into her. Her thighs clench at my hips, every movement building heat without burning through it too fast.
The tenderness is almost unbearable. Her whispered moans, the way she says my name, the arch of her body beneath mine—it’s all so familiar, like we never stopped. Or maybe something we lost and are clawing back, one slow push at a time.
When release finally takes us, it’s not wild or frantic. It’s quiet. Devastating. Like a truth we can’t unlearn.
Afterward, I collapse beside her, my chest heaving. The ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, moonlight cutting across the sheets. Her breath evens out against my shoulder, warm and steady, and for the first time in years, I let myself believe in this impossible peace.
She curls into me like she used to, her head on my chest, her leg draped over mine. My fingers find their way to her hair, stroking absently. The simple rhythm soothes us both, until the world goes dark.
Light slipsthrough the slats of Lane's blinds, painting stripes across her bed. I don't move, savoring the weight of Lane's body against mine, her head tucked perfectly beneath my chin.
Her hair spreads across my chest like chestnut waves, catching the early dawn in copper highlights.
I breathe deeply, drawing in the scent of her shampoo.For a moment, I let myself believe this is real. Not just one desperate night, not the emotion of the holidays, but something we could reclaim. A life rebuilt from the ruins of what we once had.
My fingers trace lazy circles on her bare shoulder, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breathing against me. Her leg is still draped over mine, our bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces finding their match after years of being scattered.
This feels right. This feels like?—
A harsh electronic melody shatters the quiet. Lane's phone vibrates violently in between bells on the nightstand, the ringtone cutting through our peaceful bubble.
Lane jolts upright, nearly cracking her head against my chin. She fumbles for the phone, squinting at the screen.
"It's Carly," she murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.
"Hello? Carly?" Lane presses the phone to her ear, pushing hair from her face with her free hand.
I watch as the color drains from her face. Her body stiffens, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact.
"What? Slow down," she says, suddenly alert. Her eyes meet mine, wide with alarm. "When did it happen?"
Silence as Lane pulls the sheet up further on her chest. I can hear garbled talking on the other end, but I can't make out what she's saying.
"Oh, God, Carly. I'm sorry. He's strong. He will pull through this."
More silence.
"I know. I know it is."
I sit up beside her, the sheet pooling at my waist. My hand finds hers, squeezing gently. Whatever this is, we're facing it together.
Lane's breathing steadies as she listens, her expression hardening into something I recognize fromour past. This is her crisis mode. Calm, focused, the Lane who never fell apart when things went sideways.
