Page 107 of The Voicemail

Then he steps closer, and I remember something else. The fire never went out. It changed. It got deeper. Hotter in the quiet places. Less frantic, maybe, but not less hungry. He still looks at me like he’d burn the world down if I asked, but now he also knows I’ll tell him to put the matches away and help fold laundry first.

His hands settle at my waist. “May I?” he asks.

My breath catches, even now.

Especially now.

“Yes.”

He kisses me like he’s been waiting all day, which he probably has. I kiss him back with both hands in his hair, pulling him closer because I can, because I want to, because this man has seen me terrified, furious, pregnant, exhausted, and covered in spit-up, and still looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth wanting.

He backs me toward the bed slowly.

I laugh against his mouth. “You locked the door?”

“Yes.”

“Baby monitor?”

“On.”

“Guards?”

“Downstairs.”

“Lucia?”

“Asleep.”

“Good.”

He kisses the side of my neck. “Any other questions?”

“Yes.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. I smile at him.

“Why are you still dressed?”

The End