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Not because saying I love you erased the hurt.

It can't.

But after weeks of feeling like I was floating somewhere without an anchor, I'm here.

With Mitchell.

His arms around me. His forehead pressed against mine. His heart hammering beneath my palm.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, I don't feel adrift.

I feel whole again.

Mitchell thrusts up, impaling me on his cock, and I moan, rocking my hips and taking him deeper with every swerve and grind.

It's so good.

So fucking good.

“S'perfect,” he growls, cupping my face and kissing me deep.

His hands move frantically over me, tracing and touching everywhere they can reach. My waist. My hips. My breasts. My back.

Like he can't get enough.

Like he needs to relearn every inch of me.

I'm doing the same.

My hands roam over his shoulders and chest, then around his back, clutching him closer as I ride him.

I'm almost giddy with it.

With having him in my arms again.

With feeling his mouth on mine.

His hands on my body.

His cock moving inside me.

Mitchell.

I missed him so fucking much.

“Layla,” he groans against my mouth.

His control snaps.

One second I'm straddling him, and the next he's moving us, laying me back against the couch without ever leaving my body.

I gasp as he follows me down.

“Mitchell!”

“I've got you.”

Three little words.