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“Oh, Jacques,” she sighs, shaky and soft. “You noble asshole. I fucking love you, you idiot.”
And then her lips are on mine again.
Epilogue
One Year Later
Natasha
The sun dances on the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean, bathing the white-washed villa in a riot of shimmering gold. I lean against the balcony railing, breathing in the salt-kissed air as the gauzy curtains flutter around my bare legs.
Strong arms, deliciously familiar, wind around my waist from behind. The solid heat of him envelops me, his chest a wall of strength and comfort against my back. I sink into my husband’s embrace with a contented sigh, reveling in the simple joy of his touch.
“Morning, my love,” Frost rasps out, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His voice is husky, still rough with sleep, and the sound settles deep in my belly, warming me from the inside out.
I turn in the circle of his arms, looping my own around his neck. “Good morning, baby.”
Even now, a week into our honeymoon, I can barely believe it. That this beautiful, complicated, utterly irreplaceable man is mine. Forever.
His quicksilver eyes soften, emotion swimming in their depths. The early morning light traces his angles and planes, catching on the scars that map his skin. Each one is precious to me, a testament to his strength, his resilience. To the battles he’s fought to come back to me.
It was close for a time. Those long, hellish months when he was lost to me, when every ring of the phone sent ice through my veins. No one was forthcoming about the clusterfuck of Frost’s mission. I was left in limbo, clinging to the desperate hope that my man’s stubbornness would see him through. That his promise to return to me would keep him alive and safe.
And return he did, even if not in the way either of us imagined. Bruised and broken, held together by cheer stubbornness and metal pins. But alive.
The road to recovery was long and paved with frustration and pain. More than once, I watched him battle the demons in his own mind, the insidious whispers that he was less, diminished. That I would be better off leaving him behind. They almost won.
But I meant what I said, all those months ago when he first crashed into my world and rewrote all its rules. Frost is it for me. In light and darkness, sickness and health. I’ll never stop fighting for him, for us.
And every day, I watched him claw his way back. Watched as he relearned himself, reshaped his understanding of his own worth. It wasn’t his ability to take a life that defined him, but his drive to protect. His loyalty.
Now, standing wrapped up in each other, the Mediterranean sun on our skin, I know we can weather any storm. That the loveburning between us is the kind of once-in-a-lifetime magic, soul-deep and unshakable.
I tilt my head back to meet my man’s adoring gaze. He brought me to Corsica. His island. The place where his ancestors are from.
“What’s put that look in your eye,bébé?”
I shrug, tracing the lines of his jaw with a finger. “Just thinking how lucky I am. How far we’ve come.”
His grip tightens. “I love you, Mrs. Rossi.”
For a long, suspended moment, we simply stare at each other, lost in the wonder of our love. Then, slowly, Frost lowers his head to capture my lips.
The kiss starts soft, tender. Then it kindles like wildfire, heat and need and soul-deep longing. Before long, I’m arching into Jacques’s strong body, my hands seeking the warmth of his skin as his own knead my curves.
With a low growl that vibrates through me, he hitches me up, bringing my legs to circle his hips. I comply eagerly, gasping into his mouth as the hard evidence of his desire nestles against my pussy.
Frost carries me back into the villa’s immense master suite, never breaking the seal of our lips. Lowering me to the tangled sheets, he follows me down, the delicious weight of him pinning me to the mattress.
“Need you,” he rasps, his fingers making quick work of the buttons at the front of my sundress. “Need to be inside you, feelyou wrapped around me so tight and wet and fucking perfect.”
I moan as he peels my dress down my arms, baring my sensitive breasts to his heated stare. He bends to take one puckered nipple into the scorching heat of his mouth, rolling the bud with his tongue until I’m whimpering.
In a move that’s pure grace and strength, he hoists me up, hooking my legs over his hips as he pins me more firmly. I lock my ankles at the small of his back, grinding my aching core against the thick ridge of his erection.
“Fuck, baby,” Frost grits out, his voice raw with need. “You’re killing me. So fucking sexy, so desperate for it. Gonna give it to you so good, fucking ruin you all over again.”
The filthy words stoke the flames already licking at my nerve endings, sending a fresh flood of arousal gushing from my depths. I need him like air, like shelter. A craving that lives in my very core, imprinted into the fabric of my soul.
