Page 147 of Outcast’s Vow

The candles flicker and the music plays faintly as I desperately unbutton his shirt. The tattoo of my name glistens on his chest. I sigh against his lips as I rub my hand over his erection. He’s hard and ready.

“I’ve missed you,” I tell him, the words falling out half-formed.

His shirt is pulled over his shoulders, helped by me. He’s slipping me out of my own clothes, and then he’s pushing against me. I fall back onto the couch. My man climbs on top, eyes gleaming with nothing but the thought of me.

“I’ve missed this,” my husband breathes. “I’ve missed my good girl.”

And that makes me moan again.

And Baptiste then goes on to practically worship my body. He takes his time to tenderly kiss every part of me, starting with my lips, then going down my neck, across my collarbone, down my breasts, and down to my thighs.

He shows me what I mean to him.

“I can’t take this,” I gasp.

Baptiste glares at me from between my legs, his hair perfectly tousled and his eyes gleaming.

“Tell me, then,” he rumbles, “what do you need?”

My chest heaves. My legs tremble at the merest brush of his hands as his fingers trace up the inside of my thigh.

“What do you think?”

Baptiste takes his time to answer. He leans close, voice low.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

This is more than erotic roleplay. This is the crux of everything. This is what these last few weeks have been building to.

Do I let him have my heart?

There’s only one answer.

“Yes, I trust you. I need you. I need you so badly. Please, Baptiste. Please end this torture and have me.”

My husband smiles then. Even after today. Even after all the pain of separation. Even after nearly dying.

He leans down and kisses my forehead tenderly.

“I’m staying, Highness. I’ll always choose you, over everything.”

And what happens next?

It’s pure possession. Pure domination. A pure show of force that my husband means what he says.

His thrusts are powerful, lingering, and all-encompassing. I meet his rhythm. I meet his intensity.

This is not sex. This isn’t even reconnection.

This is a promise.

A vow.

He groans into me. I moan against him.

“Sylvie...”

“Baptiste...”