She silenced him with a soft kiss. “I wish for you.”
This time, when he entered her, it was gradual—an exploration, not a conquest. He watched her face, every shift of her breath. She felt every inch of him, the slow, careful glide, the exquisite fullness of being taken into him again.
Her hands travelled over him—mapping, learning, adoring. His lips traced the line of her throat, her shoulder, the hollow of her collarbone. He moved in her with a rhythm that felt less like passion and more like devotion—deep, unhurried strokes that drew soft gasps from her lips.
Every sensation was heightened by the openness between them. Every sigh, every whisper, every brush of skin carried the weight of the words they had finally spoken.
“I love you,” he murmured against her neck, his breath hot and uneven.
Each repetition was a vow, a caress, a tether.
She arched into him, her fingers curling at his nape. “And I love you.”
Their second climax was not shattering like the first.
It was slow, beautiful, inevitable.
A cresting wave that lifted them both into something quiet and luminous before gently releasing them into each other’s arms.
When it passed, he held her tightly, as though fearing the world might reclaim her if he loosened his grip even a little.
She nestled against him, her fingers tracing the steady beat beneath his ribs.
“No more locked doors,” she whispered.
“Never again,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “You sleep in my arms now. For all the nights of our lives.”
She smiled—a soft, tired, utterly contented smile—and he felt it against his skin like a promise.
They drifted into sleep entwined—no distance, no walls, no countdowns.
Just one heart’s breath against another.
Epilogue
Celine stood at the window of the morning room, one hand resting on the slight swell of her stomach, watching her husband direct the installation of a new garden feature—a fountain, because apparently the gardens needed “more structure,” though she suspected he simply liked having projects to control.
“You’re smiling,” Lucy observed from where she sat with her embroidery.
“Am I?”
“You always smile when you watch him. It’s quite nauseating, actually.”
“You’ll understand when you’re married.”
“If I ever find someone who looks at me the way His Grace looks at you.” Lucy set down her needlework. “Have you told him yet?”
“Told him what?”
“What the midwife said.”
Celine grinned. “Not yet. I am waiting for the right time.”
“It will certainly disrupt his plans.”
“Everything about me disrupts his plans. He claims to hate it.”
“But?”
