“Aye, hen. I’ve got ye.”
His hand goes around my throat, the weight of it claiming. Then he settles between my thighs, lines up and pushes inside me slow. My eyes roll back as the piercing drags through my flesh, my body opening for him, his eyes never leaving mine.
“There.” His forehead drops to mine when he’s all the way in, hips flush to mine. “There, lass.Fuck.Mine. Mine.”
“Yours.”
“In my fuckin’ bed.”
“In your bed, honey.”
“On my fuckin’ land.”
“Adam,” I gasp when he rolls his hips in a wicked grind.
“Mine.”
He moves slow at first, then faster, harder, and I scream into the side of his throat, his hand still cradling the back of my neck, his mouth at my temple, his low ‘aye, hen, aye, fuckin’ scream for me.’The headboard knocks against the wall, and somewhere far in the back of my head I vaguely remember that Skye saidbehave, and her son is so not behaving.
My husband comes inside me on a groan that goes on and on, his hips locked to mine, his face buried in my hair, and I crash right behind him the way I always do, curling tight around him like I’m trying to keep him there. Then the room goes quiet except for our breathing and the wind outside. He doesn’t pull out. My man always stays inside me for as long as he can. He kisses my hair and whispers something against my temple in Russian or Scots or both; the words running together in his brogue. And I don’t need a translation. I know.
I run my hands down his back, legs crossed around his waist, squeezed his magnificent ass, before traveling back up, over his broad shoulders, cup his neck. I run my fingers through the thick curls of his hair.
“Adam.”
“Mm.”
“I love you.”
He goes still. Because it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. Two weeks of him whispering those words into my skin, of me nodding against his throat with my heart so fucking full I can barely breathe. I’ve saidyes,whimpered his name, called myselfMrs. Maksimov,but I hadn’t saidthesewords yet. They fall out of me. Now, on his land, in his bed, with him still inside me and his face in my hair.
Adam lifts his head, looks at me, and his eyes gofucking wild.
“Say that again.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, feeling my eyes well up. “I love you, Adam Maksimov.”
“Aye.” His voice cracks. “Aye, lass.”
He doesn’t say it back. He doesn’t have to…he’s said it a hundred times already. Tonight’s mine. He just looks at me with his blue eyes, his slow grin returning, and kisses me softly. Thenmy husband pulls the comforter over us, his mouth on mine, his hand sliding between us…
THE END.
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