“You’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
I laugh shakily against his lips, but the sound breaks apart when his hand slides between our bodies and his thumb finds my clit.
Pleasure crashes through me instantly. “Owen—”
“I know.” His voice drops lower, rough with focus. “I’ve got you.”
My stomach tightens unexpectedly. Because he means it. In every way that matters.
My orgasm builds frighteningly fast after that. Every thrust. Every slow circle of his thumb. Every filthy sound he makes when I clench around him.
“Please,” I gasp helplessly.
His forehead presses against mine while his movements grow rougher, less controlled now. “Come for me, baby.”
Pleasure tears through me hard enough to pull a broken cry out of my throat while my entire body locks around him. Owen groans deeply against my mouth the second he feels me come apart beneath him.
“Fuck, Remy. I love you.”
The words hit me right in the center of my chest. Warmth floods through me so fast it almost hurts.
“I love you too,” I whisper immediately.
Owen’s expression completely caves in after that. He thrusts hard twice more before burying himself deep inside me with a rough groan, his entire body trembling through the orgasm.
Then, suddenly, we’re both just… breathing.
Tangled together on the couch. Sweaty. Boneless. Completely spent.
Owen holds me for a long moment afterward, pressing slow kisses against my skin while his fingers trace lazy circles against my hip beneath my ruined leggings.
The realization comes upon me without warning: Loving someone doesn’t feel terrifying.
Because lying here with Owen wrapped around me feels like finally coming home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Remy
Six Months Later…
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Sofra!” I smack Owen’s arm.
He shakes his head at me. “Rem. What part of ‘I grew up poor’ is so hard for you to understand?”
“Sofra isn’t exactly fine dining.”
“Listen, when I was a kid, if we ever went out, it was for seafood. And I love you, babe, but if you think I’m going to miss the opportunity to eat my weight in clams and crab cakes, you don’t know me.”
I feign offense. “First of all, I willneverturn down steamers. Second, the fact that you didn’t mention lobster is offensive. The only lobster they have in Vegas is from California, and no. Just no.”
“California lobsters are inferior,” Owen agrees. “But clam chowder beats lobster every time.”
I loop my arm through his, savoring the salt air. It’s been forever since I smelled the ocean, although it’s been less than a year since I came back. “You’re such a stereotype.”
“I’m a simple man. And I know what I like.” Owen kisses the top of my head. “And, speaking of which…”
