“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, sweetheart… I’m right here.”
And when he kisses me this time, I don’t wait.
I move into it first, pulling him down into me, deepening it, refusing to let it stay soft and distant.
For a second, he hesitates. And then I feel it. The break. The shift. He gives.
The kiss deepens, heat bleeding into it, tension snapping, something real finally pushing through the fear as his hand tightens slightly on me, still careful, still aware, but no longer holding himself completely back.
My breath catches as I lean into him, my hands sliding into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more, chasing that feeling, that connection, that reminder of who I am to him.
Of who I still am.
The world narrows to just this. To him. To the way he’s finally meeting me instead of holding himself away.
And I cling to it.
Because I need it. Because I refuse to lose this part of myself again.
The kiss breaks only long enough for Jackson to pull back and look at me, eyes dark and glassy, chest rising fast. His hand cups the side of my face, thumb trembling against my cheekbone.
“Let me do the work, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice raw. “Just… let me take care of you.”
I nod, already breathless, my fingers still twisted in his shirt. “Don’t hold back, Jackson. I need this. I need you.”
He exhales shakily, forehead resting against mine for a beat. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he’s lifting me, slow, so slow, arms sliding under my thighs and back with the kind of care that makes my throat ache. He carries me to the bedroom like I’m made of glass, but the way his hands shake against me says he’s barely holding himself together. The door clicks shut behind us. He lays me down on the bed like I might disappear if he’s not gentle enough, then straightens just long enough to peel his shirt over his head.
I watch the muscles in his chest and shoulders shift, the familiar lines of him, and something desperate blooms low in my belly. He’s beautiful. Solid. Mine.
He comes back to me immediately, kneeling between my legs on the mattress, hands framing my face again. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing me soft and deep, then trailing his mouth down my jaw, my throat. “Missed the taste of you. Missed feeling you under me like this.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and ease it up, inch by careful inch, pausing when the bandage on my side comes into view. The stab wound is still healing, tender, pink, a ugly reminder, but he doesn’t flinch. He leans down and presses the gentlest kiss just beside the edge of the gauze, lips lingering there like a vow.
“I hate that this happened to you,” he breathes against my skin. “Hate that I wasn’t fast enough. But you’re here. You’re alive. God, Lia… you’re everything.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “I’m right here. Touch me.”
He does. Slow. Reverent. His palms skim up my ribs, avoiding the wound, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts until I arch into him with a soft sound. He groans low in his throat when my nipples tighten under his touch, then dips his head to take one into his mouth, tongue swirling slow and wet while his hand works the other with perfect pressure.
“So perfect,” he praises against my skin, voice thick. “These pretty tits… always so sensitive for me. Look at you, sweetheart, already trembling and I’ve barely started.”
Heat floods through me, sharp and liquid. I let my head fall back, surrendering to the slow build, to the way he’s coaxing my body back to life. His free hand slides down my stomach, over the soft swell that’s still almost nothing at seven weeks, then lower, easing my pants and underwear down my legs withagonizing patience. When I’m bare beneath him he just stares for a long moment, eyes drinking me in like he’s memorizing every inch.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he rasps. “Missed this pretty pussy. Missed how wet you get for me.”
He settles lower, shoulders spreading my thighs, and presses an open-mouthed kiss right where I need him most. The first slow drag of his tongue pulls a broken moan from my throat. He doesn’t rush, he licks and sucks with devastating focus, humming praise into my folds like a prayer.
“That’s it… let me hear you. So sweet. So good for me. Gonna make you feel every second of this.”
Two thick fingers slide into me, curling just right, and my hips jerk. The stretch is already so good, but I know what’s coming. He works me open patiently, mouth never leaving my clit, until I’m panting and clenching around him, chasing the edge.
When he finally pulls back, lips shiny, eyes wild with that mix of hunger and fear, I’m trembling.
“Jackson… please.”
He sheds the rest of his clothes and my breath catches all over again. He’s the biggest of them, thick, heavy, the kind of size that always makes my body have to remember how to take him. The head of his cock is flushed dark, already leaking as he fists himself once, twice.
