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“Okay, okay, I get the point,” I groan, breathless.
He slows our rhythm. We make love slowly and tenderly, savoring every moment.
It feels so perfect, it’s like the first time.
“I love you,” he whispers as my body arches and the first spasm of pleasure spirals through me.
“I love you,” I echo, as he groans in ecstasy, on the cusp of climaxing.
“Come with me,” he whispers in my ear. “I want us to remember this. I don’t want to forget.”
I close my eyes and nod.
He holds me against him.
My eyes fly open when another thrust nearly threatens to split me apart. Another makes me moan for him, and his final thrust pushes me right off the edge of oblivion as he whispers words of love and devotion. His body shudders with pleasure, and with a groan of ecstasy, he empties himself inside me.
We collapse in each other’s arms, exhausted and content. I think we doze a little. Opening my eyes, I find him half on me, half sprawled on the bed, his perfect body like a carved statue of a god.
It already looks like his wounds are healing.
“Are you Superman?” I ask.
“If I am,” he says with a wry smile, “you’re my kryptonite.”
“I’m honored, kind sir.”
He chuckles. “There she goes again. Are you hungry, baby?”
“Only for you.”
We make love again, joined in our mutual apology.
And then we sleep. Actuallysleep.It’s long and blissful and restful.
We wake up the next morning ready to talk.
I thread my fingers through his.
“So what exactly does groveling look like?” I ask in a sweet voice, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “You’ve already killed the corrupt politician who wanted to kill me, so it can’t be that…”
News stations all over the country are up in arms over the story of Montague’s “suicide.” I’m not sure what kind of strings Thayer pulled for that one, but it’s poetic justice after what Montague did to Rousseau.
I had no relationship with François Montague. He might as well have been a sperm donor for all I cared. The pain of his rejection is something I may deal with for the rest of my life, but I’ll make peace with it.
Still, I appreciated Lyam’s deferring to me just as I appreciated him saving my life in the end.
We have his confession and have made it public, and now it’s clear to the citizens that Montague couldn’t handle the public shame of his illicit affair and illegitimate daughter.
They’ll talk about it for weeks.
Lyam and I, on the other hand, are done talking about it.
Done.
As far as I’m concerned, we need never talk about it again.
“Late night palmiers for the remainder of your pregnancy?” he offers. We’re lying in the deluxe bed at Le Marquise. He knows I love it here, and Lyam loves knowing how safe it is.
