I should have had this. I should have been there the first time. Every moment. Every breath. Every second of it. Her belly rounding with my child. Her hand reaching for mine. Her pain. Her fear. Mine to carry.
Stolen.
Rage coils tight in my chest, feeding the rhythm, driving me harder, until there's nothing left but instinct and need and the overwhelming certainty of what I'm taking back. What was always mine. And this time, this time, no one takes it from me. Not her. Not my child. Not this life.
When release hits, it tears through me, sharp and absolute, dragging a rough breath from my chest as I hold her close, grounding myself in the reality of her beneath me. Of us.
I stay there for a moment, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in, anchoring myself. Beneath the fading edge of it, the thought settles in, quiet, dangerous, immovable. Let it take. Let it root. Let it grow.
This time, I'll be there for every second.
My hand slides to her stomach, instinctive, possessive, lingering there. Guarding something that isn't even there yet.
But will be.
She wraps herself around me, holding me together while I fall apart inside her.
We stay like that for a long, silent minute, just the sound of our breaths and a slow, shared heartbeat. Eventually, I roll over and drag her on top of me, tucking her head under my chin. She's shivering. Not from cold, just the aftershock. I hold her close and don't let go.
For the first time in years, there's not a single thought in my head about power, or revenge, or anything except the miracle of having her here with me. She belongs to me. And I belong to her. I never believed in fate, but this feels close enough.
I wake sometime later, tangled in a mess of sheets and Jenna's limbs. Her hair is a wild snarl across my chest, one thigh hiked over my hip, her arm heavy and possessive around my waist. I'm hard again; the night's pleasure echoes through my body in slow, lazy waves.
Her breathing is deep and even. She's exhausted, and I can't blame her. I kept her up for hours. I should let her sleep now, but I can't resist the urge to touch her again. I slide my hand down her back, palm flat, slow. She stirs, mumbling nonsense, but doesn't wake. I keep going, tracing the curve of her ass, the warm crease of her thigh. I want to wake her up gently, but I'm starving for her. I want her every way I can have her.
I ease her onto her back and settle between her legs. She blinks awake, groggy and annoyed for half a second, then shesees me and her expression shifts, soft, languid, hungry. Her hands find my hair, pulling me down for a kiss. Only when she reluctantly releases me do I lower myself to feather kisses, gentle but insistent, along the inside of her knee, then move up to the warm, sensitive skin of her thigh. She goes from sleepy to shivering in a heartbeat. I want her to feel worshipped, adored, drenched in awe. I want her to understand with every nerve ending she has that she's the only thing I will ever hunger for. She's still sleep-fuzzy, blinking in the half-light, but I don't let up. My hands bracket her hips, slow and careful, and I press my mouth between her legs, tasting the salt and heat of her even before she's fully awake.
She arches, a low, broken sound humming through her as I work her open with my tongue. She's swollen and sensitive, still throbbing from the last round. I want to leave her raw from pleasure, ruined for anyone but me. I take my time, savoring every gasp, every involuntary flutter of her stomach. My fingers dig into her hips, holding her steady while I lap and tease, circling her clit slowly, never quite giving her what she wants until she's panting, nails carving crescents into my shoulders.
She tries to speak, to protest or beg, but all that comes out are little whimpers, the kind that make my chest ache with something savage and ancient. I look up at her, and her eyes meet mine, dark, wild, pleading. She's never looked at me like this, and the sight nearly undoes me. This is the real her, the core of her, unguarded and desperate. I want to memorize it.
I slide a finger inside her, gentle and slow, and she chokes on a moan, thighs clamping tight around my head. I keep going, patient and relentless, working her until she's shaking all over, sweat slicking her skin. With every surge of pleasure, she calls my name, voice breaking, and I drink it in. I want her to remember this, the way I touch her, the way I break her apart and hold her together at the same time. I want this to be thestandard she measures all other touch against, for the rest of her life.
She comes once, hard, her whole body curling tight as a bowstring. I don't stop. I keep licking, coaxing every last tremor out of her, pushing her higher and higher until she's sobbing with the force of it. I love her like this, unfiltered and raw, not hiding behind armor or anger. Just need.
When she can't take anymore, I crawl up her body, trailing kisses over her stomach, her rib cage, the tattoo twin of mine, her breasts, the fluttering pulse at her throat. She's limp and shaking, a mess of tangled hair and flushed skin. I crush my mouth to hers, letting her taste herself on my tongue, and she kisses me back with a kind of reckless gratitude that splits me open.
She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down until our bodies are flush, and I can feel every tremor of her aftershocks rippling through her. My hands are everywhere—her hair, her jaw, her breasts—mapping her all over again, greedy for new territory. She clings to me, nails raking down my back, urging me closer, deeper, more.
I line up against her, slow and deliberate, and push inside. She's so slick and tight I nearly lose it right there, but I grit my teeth and force myself to go slow. I want to remember this night for the rest of my life. Her legs come up around my waist, and she pulls me in, hips rolling to meet mine. It's different this time, less hunger, more ache. The kind of ache that's almost unbearable, because it's not just about getting off; it's about giving her something she can't get anywhere else.
She comes twice more before I pull out, flip her over, and put her on her hands and knees, her face buried in a pillow to muffle the sounds. I make it last as long as I can, but she's too tight, too hot, and I'm too far gone. I finish hard, clutching her hips, grinding deep until I'm sure she knows who she belongs to.
After, I collapse next to her, pulling her onto my chest, kissing the sweat off her forehead. She laughs, breathless, and pushes at my shoulder.
"You're insatiable," she whispers.
"I've waited a decade for you," I say, and it's only half a joke.
She kisses me, slow and sweet, and then we both drift for a while, lost in the warm dark.
She sleeps. Curled into my chest, trusting in a way that feels almost violent after the day we've had. I keep my arm around her, fingers resting lightly at her waist, afraid that if I move too much, I'll wake her, or worse, discover this isn't real.
I don't close my eyes. My body is spent. My mind is not. I listen to her breathe and think about how easily everything I've ever wanted fits into this one quiet moment. Her. Our son, asleep down the hall. The illusion—no, thepromise—of something like peace. And the beginning of a new life inside her. Inside the only woman I ever loved. It will be like I finally get something back from what was stolen from me. I'll make every second up to Amauri. I swear. And her.
It's enough to make a man careless. So I don't let myself sink into it. My thoughts slide backward instead, to the hum of engines and cold air rushing past an open hatch door in the compartment room of the jet—a room installed just for this purpose. To Joaquín, bound and broken, no longer screaming. No longer bargaining.
That was when he finally talked. Not when the pain peaked. Not when fear did its usual work. But when he realized he was already dead and nothing he said could change that.
