Page 143 of The Sweetest Return

“What?”

“Do not become sweet after all that.”

His laugh was low and rough, still carrying the edge of what we had just done. “Move your hand.”

“No.”

“Imani.”

He looked amused, tender, and far too pleased with himself.

“Let me take care of you.”

So I did.

Dre cleaned me slowly, careful with every place he had made sensitive, his hand warm on my thigh, his mouth brushing my knee once like even that deserved attention. I wanted to make a joke. I wanted to say something smart enough to give me my balance back.

Nothing came.

He left again, returned, and climbed into bed beside me. Then his arm came around my waist, and he pulled me into him like there had never been anywhere else for me to go.

My back settled against his chest. His thigh slid carefully behind mine. His hand rested low on my stomach, heavy and warm, while his mouth found the side of my neck.

“You okay?” he asked.

I should have threatened him again.

Instead, my eyes closed.

“Yeah.”

His arm tightened.

That was all.

This was reckless. Complicated. Too much too soon and too familiar to be safe.

I still could not regret it.

His breathing slowed behind me. His hand stayed spread over my stomach. His lips brushed my shoulder once, soft enough to break what the sex had left standing.

Sleep came before I could argue with it.

The last thing I remembered was Dre drawing me closer, his voice low against my skin.

“Rest, Mani.”

And God help me, I did.

For a few hours, I let myself be a woman held by the man who still knew how to make every part of me answer. No decisions, explanations, internet panic, or old fear standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for a chance to remind me what loving Andre Jones had once cost.

Morning would find all of it.

Morning would bring screenshots, assumptions, and the old panic of becoming part of Andre Jones’s story before I had chosen the words for my own.

But I did not know that yet.

That night, I slept like staying had finally become the easiest thing in the world.