He releases my wrists to cup my face in his large, calloused hands. "You still look at me like I'm some kind of hero," he says, wonder in his voice.
"You are my hero," I whisper, reaching up to trace the scar near his eyebrow—the one I've memorized along with every other mark on his body. "You always have been."
His eyes darken at my words, that familiar possessive gleam making my pulse quicken. "Never deserved you," he growls, lowering his head to nip at my collarbone. "Still don't."
"Shh," I silence him with a finger to his lips. After five years, this is still our dance—his insistence that he's unworthy, my absolute certainty that he's everything I've ever needed. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
To prove it, I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer. His hardness presses against me through the thin fabric of my nightgown, making me gasp.
"Need you," he rumbles, large hands pushing the material up my thighs. "Always need you.” He’s breathing heavy now, his chest rising and falling like a big bull.
I see the intensity on his face—the same intensity that was there the night we first met, when he caught me on that ricketyladder in my bookstore. The years have softened some edges, but not this—never this connection between us.
"I'm gonna put another baby in you," he growls, his hands hiking my nightgown higher. "Number four."
My body responds instantly to his words, to the promise in them. After three children, I should be more practical, should remind him we agreed to wait. Instead, I find myself arching into his touch, silently begging.
"You want that, don't you?" His fingers find me wet and ready. "Want daddy to fill you up again? Make you round with my child?"
"Yes," I whisper, no longer embarrassed by how his breeding talk affects me. "Please, Butch."
He groans, positioning himself between my thighs. "Five years, and you still beg so pretty for me."
When he pushes inside, I gasp at the familiar stretch. No matter how many times we do this, I'm always amazed at how perfectly we fit together—how my body, made for his, accommodates his size, welcomes him home like I've been waiting for him all day.
"Mine," he growls as he begins to move, his strokes deep and deliberate. "Still so fucking tight for me."
I cling to his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath my fingers. Five years of marriage, and his body still awes me—all hard planes and strength, marked with scars that tell stories he now shares freely in the dark of night.
"Love you," I gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "Love you so much."
His rhythm falters for just a moment. Even now, my declarations of love affect him deeply. This massive, intimidating man who terrifies most of Hickory Ridge melts when I whisper those three words.
"My angel," he murmurs, his pace increasing. "My perfect fucking angel."
His hand slides between us, finding where I need him most, circling with practiced skill. He knows my body so well now—knows exactly how to touch me, how to drive me to the edge and over it.
"Come for daddy," he commands, his voice that perfect mix of tenderness and dominance that still makes me shiver. "Let me feel you.”
And I do. I can never deny my husband.
Later, wrapped in his arms, I trace the tattoos on his chest—new ones mixed with old. Our children's names and birthdates. The coordinates of the bookstore where we met. The simple phrase "Fate's Storm" commemorating the night that changed everything.
"What are you thinking about, angel?" he asks, fingers combing gently through my hair.
"How different my life would be if you hadn't walked into my store that day."
His arm tightens around me. "Wasn't chance. Was meant to be."
Maybe he's right. Maybe some things are written in the stars. Maybe some souls are meant to find each other across impossible odds.
"The Henderson account went through today," he says, changing subjects with typical Butch abruptness. "Security for their entire apartment complex. Means we can start on the addition next month."
The addition—a larger home office for me, a dedicated playroom for the children, and another bedroom. Always planning ahead, my Butch.
"Think we might need it sooner than later," I tell him, taking his hand and placing it on my still-flat stomach. "I took a test this morning."
For a moment, he's perfectly still. Then his hand spreads across my abdomen, possessive and tender at once. "Another baby?"
