“When?” she asks.
“Whenever you want. Tomorrow, next month, next year. I just need to know you’re mine.”
“I’ve been yours since that plane six years ago. I just didn’t want to admit it.”
“Then we’re both idiots who wasted a lot of time.”
“Yeah. But we’re here now.”
She kisses me again.
I pull back from the kiss just enough to look at her, the ring glinting softly on her finger in the low light of the bedroom.Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she’s still catching up to the fact that she said yes. I brush my thumb across her cheek, feeling the warmth there.
“You said yes,” I murmur, the words barely above a whisper, like saying them louder might make it disappear.
“I did,” she answers, smiling in a way that’s soft and open and completely unguarded. “I really did.”
I kiss her again, slower this time, tasting the moment. My hands move to the hem of her pajama top, fingers slipping under the fabric to trace the warm skin of her waist. She lifts her arms without prompting, letting me pull it over her head. The top falls to the floor.
I take a step back just long enough to look at her—bare from the waist up, hair damp and loose around her shoulders, skin glowing in the lamplight.
Beautiful doesn’t cover it.
I drop to my knees in front of her, hands sliding up the backs of her thighs as I press my mouth to her stomach. Soft kisses along the faint silver lines there, remnants of carrying our boys. She threads her fingers into my hair, holding gently. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her pajama shorts and ease them down along with her underwear, letting them pool at her feet.
She steps out of them, and I guide her back toward the bed, laying her down against the pillows. The sheets are cool beneath her. I settle between her thighs, hands stroking up the inside of each leg, parting them slowly. She watches me the entire time, eyes dark and trusting in a way they’ve never quite been before.
I lower my mouth to her.
The first touch is gentle, a long, slow lick from entrance to clit, tasting her fully. She exhales shakily, hips lifting just slightly toward me. I do it again, savoring the way she’s already wet. My tongue circles her clit in steady, unhurried strokes, light pressure at first, learning every small reaction.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. A soft gasp escapes her when I suck gently, drawing the swollen bud between my lips. I keep the rhythm consistent, tongue flattening and pressing, then circling again. One hand slides up to lace fingers with hers beside her head; the other rests on her hip, thumb stroking soothing patterns on her skin.
She’s breathing faster now, thighs trembling faintly on either side of my shoulders. I slide lower, tongue pressing inside her, curling and thrusting shallowly while my nose brushes her clit. She moans quietly—my name, soft and broken. I hum against her, the vibration making her hips rock gently.
I move back to her clit, sucking a little firmer, tongue flicking in quick, precise patterns. Two fingers ease inside her slowly, curling upward to stroke that spot that always makes her breath catch. She arches, back bowing off the bed, fingers squeezing mine tight.
“Cassian,” she whispers, voice trembling on the edge.
I don’t speed up. I just keep the steady, devoted rhythm, licking and sucking and curling my fingers until her thighs start to shake in earnest. Her free hand clutches the sheet. When she comes, it’s soft and rolling—her whole body tensing gently, inner muscles pulsing around my fingers, a quiet cry muffled against her own arm as waves move through her.
I ease her through it, tongue slowing to gentle laps until she relaxes completely, breathing deep and even. Only then do I kiss my way back up her body—inner thigh, hip, stomach, the curve under each breast, lingering on her nipples with soft pulls of my mouth until she’s arching again.
She tugs me upward, hands on my face, pulling me into a deep, slow kiss. I settle over her, letting her undress me the rest of the way—shirt unbuttoned and pushed off my shoulders, trousers and everything else discarded without hurry.
When I’m bare against her, I pause, forehead pressed to hers, breathing the same air.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you,” she answers, eyes shining.
I slide into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face the entire time. She’s warm and wet and perfect, taking me fully with a soft sigh when I’m seated deep. We stay still for a long moment, just feeling.
Then I start to move with long, deep strokes, unhurried, grinding gently at the end to stay close. Her legs wrap loosely around my waist, heels pressing lightly into my back. Our hands stay intertwined beside her head.
Every thrust is deliberate, every withdrawal slow, every return deeper. Eye contact never breaks. I whisper against her lips, promises about tomorrow, about the boys calling us a family forever, about growing old in the same bed.
She whispers back about how long she’s wanted this, how safe she finally feels, how the ring on her finger makes everything real.
