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Christopher was right when he said we weren’t the same people. He’s softened. His heart has become impossibly bigger. And he was even more right to not want to go back to being the same people.
I don’t want to be the same person as before. Everything that’s happened has led me to this. The attack, Carina dying…all the shit with Charles and Tomasz.
There’s strength in being broken.
There really is, far more than I thought.
There’s beauty in being scarred.
And even in loss there’s a mountain of love.
And Christopher is taller than Everest. He’s a bit like Mauna Kea—the surface is just the peak, and then you go beneath and it is bigger, deeper, taller than you could have ever imagined.
I follow the line with my eyes. I like that it’s all one element, changing colours and curving and twisting to form our family. It accurately flows with our story, and as I follow the line to the edge of the frame, I’m not ready for it to end.
Chapter 46
Christopher
My heart beats wildly as I watch Arabella take in the artwork with tears in her eyes. Her hands flatten over the glass. I can tell she’s overwhelmed with the way she chews at her plump lips. Her chest rises and falls shakily.
Pushing off from the desk, she stands. Her ivy-green cashmere dress stands out in the midst of the dark furnishings and light grey walls. It brings out the jewelled hues of the old leather-bound books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind her.
The pounding in my chest picks up as she stands in front of me and then slowly brings herself down to my level. I lower from a crouch onto my knees, and with a shuffle forward, she touches hers to mine.
Warm fingers trace up my black jean-clad thighs. Up, up, up to my stomach, where her hands fist in my black sweater.
“I love you,” she murmurs, studying the tangle of fingers and black wool. Peering up at me with shining eyes, lashes clumping a little from the moisture of her emotions, she says, “I more than love you, Christopher Sinclair.”
Heat erupts in my chest, like scorching hot lava. “I more than love you too, Mrs. Sinclair.” She smiles, pulling on my top with one hand as she rises to her knees and cups my jaw with the other.
“Always more,” she breathes across my lips, leaning into me.
“Always, always so much more,” I barely finish before she’s licking into my mouth.
The hand in my top comes up to my shoulder, squeezing as she explores my mouth. Hums morph into throaty moans as my hands find her hips and my tongue duels with hers.
I let her taste and kiss until she’s gradually straddled my thighs. Her hands find the hems of my jumper and the T-shirt I’m wearing underneath. Pulling them off, she tucks her face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in so hard, I think she might overdose on air.
Her tongue licks over my pulsing jugular. Hands trace up and down my sides, and I am so struggling to hold on to my composure. The feel of her bare skin in my hands as I cup her arse is intoxicating. It makes my mouth water to taste every warm inch.
“You keep doing these things,” she heaves. “And I am about to burst with your love.”
“About to?”
“I’m trying really hard not to.” Her hands press to my chest, thumbs tracing the lines of muscle and swirling over the light hair. “I want to keep it all inside me. Every drop.”
Pressing her to me with a hand at the small of her back, I lean forward, taking her with me as I brace myself over her writhing body.
With a gasp as our groins touch, her hands slip from my chest. Steadily she holds my gaze as she pulls the hem of her dress over her curves.
Soft thighs are banded with lacy black stockings, matching her knickers. She doesn’t stop there; she keeps going, baring beautiful golden skin inch by inch. Pulling it off completely, she drops it beside us before grasping my wrist.
Our eyes lock as she moves the hand on her hip to her belly. I think I might burst.
“Do you feel it?” Arabella asks. Hooking her hand around my neck, she pulls me down on her. “Do you feel it too?”
“Yeah.”
