Page 189 of The Sweetest Return

My name.

Still there.

Still hers.

Still mine in the only way that had ever mattered.

I pressed my mouth to it, and her breath broke.

Then I licked it slowly, tasting sweat and skin and all those years between us.

Her eyes filled.

I pulled one pretty nipple back into my mouth, the bra still half holding her, half giving up. I sucked her gently this time, then tugged the ring with my teeth until she made a soft, broken sound.

I lifted my head and looked at her.

“I never let you go either, baby.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

My chest tightened around the sight of it.

“And I never will.”

She kissed me then, desperate and wet-eyed, her mouth opening under mine like those words had reached somewhere deeper than sex could go by itself.

I started walking.

Slowly, carefully, still inside her, still holding her against me while she clung to my neck and breathed against my mouth. Boxes scraped beneath my foot. One of her shoes tipped over. I knocked into the bedroom doorframe and laughed against her lips.

She made a sound that might have been a laugh too, if another thrust had not turned it into a cry.

By the time I reached her bed, I was almost gone.

I laid her down and followed, dragging one of those boots higher around my waist before I started moving again.

Her back arched.

“Please.”

I kissed her mouth. “I know.”

Then I took my time.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Monday afternoon found me in a Saint Aurelia logistics meeting with the weekend still under my skin and several pieces of Andre Jones still scattered through my condo.

The flowers arrived Saturday morning, and after I kissed him all over his handsome face in thanks, he spent the rest of the day helping me unpack.

Mostly.

The discovery of his old AWU letterman jacket in the back of my closet interrupted productivity for reasons I was not prepared to discuss in a conference room full of coworkers.

Dre had gone completely still when he saw the purple wool and gold leather hanging behind coats I actually wore. His name was still stitched across the chest, his number pressed into the sleeve, and after nearly eight years I had apparently done a better job protecting that jacket than I had some of my retirement statements.

“You kept my jacket.”