"I missed you," I gasp as he moves inside me, as pleasure builds to almost unbearable intensity. "God, Nate, I missed this. Missed you."
He stills for just a moment, looking down at me with eyes that hold everything—wonder and relief and a love so profound it steals my breath.
"I never stopped missing you," he says, voice breaking. "Not for a single day. Not for a single fucking second."
Then he's moving again—harder now, deeper—and I'mmeeting him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, legs wrapped around his waist pulling him closer, deeper, more.
"That's it," he growls, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside my head. "Take it, Len. Take all of me."
And I do.
Every thrust, every kiss, every whispered promise.
The pressure builds—coiling tight and hot and desperate in my core—and I know I'm close, so close, right on the edge?—
"Let go," he murmurs against my neck, his rhythm faltering. "Come for me, Len. I want to feel you."
His hand slides between us, finding exactly where I need him, and that's all it takes.
I shatter.
My back arches off the couch, his name tears from my throat, and pleasure crashes over me in relentless waves—so intense, so overwhelming, so perfect I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel.
And I feel him follow seconds later—feel him shudder above me, inside me, around me, gasping my name.
For those suspended moments, nothing else exists. Not the past, not the future, not the fear or the pain or the years we lost.
Just this. Just us.
Just the feeling of being so completely connected that I can't tell where I end and he begins.
He collapses against me, both of us trembling and gasping and holding each other like we're afraid to let go. His weight is solid and grounding, his heartbeat thundering against my chest in perfect synchronization with my own.
"Mine," he murmurs into my neck, still buried inside me. "You're mine."
"Yours," I breathe back. "Always."
It's not just the beginning of something new.
It's the reclamation of everything we were always supposed to be.
CHAPTER 35
SECOND CHANCES
NATE
The room smells faintlylike sex and sleep and something warmer—something distinctly us.
Her shampoo mixed with my soap, skin on skin, the evidence of last night still clinging to the sheets.
Nora's asleep beside me.
She's curled on her side, knees drawn slightly in, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting between us like she forgot to pull it back.
Her hair's a mess—soft waves fanned across the pillow, a few strands brushing her cheek.
The sheet has slipped down to her waist, and the curve of her bare shoulder is visible, the slope of her back, a small bruise on her collarbone that I remember putting there with my mouth.
