When his mouth travels down my jaw and his teeth graze the pulse at my throat, a moan rips out of me that’s quickly swallowed by thunder.
“Scott—” I breathe.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my skin. His lips brush the spot he just bit. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
“Don’t,” I whisper, fingers now having traveled to his shoulder, digging into his skin. “Please don’t stop.”
His growl hits low against my throat—rough, frayed, like he’s been holding himself together too long and the thread has finally snapped.
One hand slides down my back, bunching the soaked sundress until the hem clears my thighs, and cool air hits skin that’s been burning since he popped back into my life. The other hand cups my jaw, thumb dragging through the mess of rain and tears he still can’t wipe away. Then he lifts me.
My legs lock around his waist like they never forgot the shape of him.
He carries me three steps to the bed. The mattress dips under our weight. Scott settles above and surrounding me—solid heat, wet skin, rainwater dripping from his hair onto my collarbone, mixing with the salt already there.
For one long moment, we just breathe. He holds me tight against his chest. He leans his forehead to mine. I can feel his heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to reach mine through bone and ten years of silence.
“I need to see you,” he rasps, voice cracked open. “All of you. Please.”
That please slices me open wider than any knife ever could.
I nod—shaking, tears still leaking—and lift my arms. His thumbs hook under the thin straps of my sundress—slow, reverent, like he’s afraid the fabric might dissolve if he moves too fast. Rainwater has turned it nearly transparent; every inch of me is already on display, but he wants the last veil gone.
The dress slides up, over my head, and lands somewhere behind us with a wet slap. My bra and panties cling uselessly, translucent from rain. His fingers tremble at the edges as he unhooks the bra, slides the straps down my arms, and lets it fall. My skin is all goose bumped and flushed. My nipples are tight from cold and want and the way his eyes devour me like he’s starving.
“Jesus, Lyla.” His voice is gravel. He sits back on his heels between my thighs, palms skating up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. “You’re more beautiful than I remembered. And I remembered every fucking detail.”
I swallow hard. “You had ten years to forget.”
“Never.” He leans down, mouth hovering over one nipple, breath hot. “Every deployment. Every night I couldn’t sleep. It was always your face. Your laugh. The way you tasted.” His tongue flicks out—once, testing the nub. Then he sucks hard, drawing a gasp from me that echoes in the room.
My fingers dig into his wet hair. “Scott?—”
He switches to the other side, delivers the same rough worship, same growl vibrating through me. One hand slides down, cupping me through soaked panties. Not pushing yet. Just holding. Feeling how drenched I am for him.
“How many others?” The question slips out before I can stop it—quiet, cracked. I hate that it still matters.
He freezes. Lifts his head. Eyes dark, pained. “A handful. None lasted longer than a night or two.” His thumb hovers over the cotton covering my clit. “None of them were you. I’d close my eyes and picture you instead of them. Every time.”
My throat burns. “I tried, too. A few times. Always ended with me crying in the shower afterward, wishing it was you touching me.” I arch into his hand, begging him to circle his thumb there. “It never stopped hurting.”
He exhales like I’ve punched him. “I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there when you lost him.” His forehead drops to my stomach—right over the place our baby once was. “I should’ve been holding you. Telling you it wasn’t your fault. Begging you to let me stay.”
Tears slip hot down my temples. “You can hold me now.”
He does. Both arms band around my waist, face pressed to my skin like he’s trying to crawl inside me and rewrite history. Then he kisses lower—open-mouthed, desperate—trailing fire down my ribs, over the soft curve of my belly.
When he reaches the edge of my panties, he looks up. Eyes blazing. “Let me make it right. Let me taste you. Let me worship the woman who carried our baby even when I couldn’t be there.”
My legs fall open wider on instinct. “Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Hooking the fabric aside, he parts me gently with his fingers, then seals his mouth over me like reclaiming territory he lost a decade ago.
Hungry. Relentless. He circles his tongue over my bundle of nerves in slow, firm strokes while his hands clamp on my hips, holding me exactly where he wants me.
