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Because his love is strong, just like him.
“You falling asleep, sweetheart?” he murmurs.
“No.” I let his scent and the warmth of the fire fill my lungs as I finish my food. Cheek pressed tight to his chest, I stir. “Your heart isn’t racing. It’s supposed to be. In a book, I’d be able to hear it thundering, and that would clue me and the readers in on the fact you must like me for real, for real.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I’ve known you too long. You don’t perpetually make me anxious or anything. Sometimes, you’ll do or say something that gets stuck in my throat and drives me to the brink of madness, but right now?” He swears, wraps his arms around me, and keeps me secure in a bear hug. “Right now, I’m just so happy you’re here. Right now, it feels like everything is finally right.”
The paper bag crinkles against his stomach as he breathes.
“I told you I missed you, right? Well, I really missed you. If you wanted to hear my heart pound, you should’ve come by any night over these past few months while I tossed and turned and cussed and thought you never wanted to see me again.” His fingers dig into my curves as his heart relapses with the memory. “I thought I broke something I could never fix. But, by some—” He swears. “—miracle, I didn’t. And now you’re here. So what else am I supposed to feel other than peace?”
Daring, I murmur, “Insatiable desire?”
His chest bounces once. “Apart from peace and the obvious.” His thumb coasts over my hip. “Anything else you’d like me to feel?”
I lift my eyes to find his fixed on me. I say, “Love?”
“I said apart from the obvious, sweetheart.”
I bite my lip. “Agony?”
“You do love your tortured leads, don’t you?”
“A little bit. Sorry.”
His head shakes. “Stop apologizing. I’ll tell you whenever I want you to grovel for me.” His warm palm slips up my body to cup my cheek. “We had a misunderstanding, but it’s over. It’s over, and we’re done with those now, aren’t we?”
I nod. “Yes. No more miscommunication tropes allowed.”
“Good. If anything ever happens that makes you uneasy or confused, you come right to me, and you tell me everything. And we’ll talk until whatever it is gets sorted. No matter how much time it takes…or how tired you get…or how hopeless it feels. How long have we known each other, Dece?”
“Ten years, seven months, thirteen days.”
He swears.
I bite my tongue.
Heat scorches his freckles as a dastardly smile curls his lips. He locks my hand in his, then presses my arm to the backrest of the couch. I’m seated on him and pinned while he looms—surrounding me in nearly every possible way, filling my vision with him, pouring his touches into my skin. “You’ve been counting?” he rumbles.
Blush rises, matching his, and I glance off him. “Maybe.”
“There’s no—” He cusses. “—maybe about it, babygirl. You’ve been counting the days since we met.”
Air just barely makes it into my poor starved lungs. “W-well…I…suppose. Just a little bit. I…might journal it. Or scrapbook a little. You know. Normal stuff like that.” When you meet a man like Wynnter, you start counting. Just in case. August isn’t wrong about me; I am a hopeless romantic. I wanted to know the exact moment I first met my husband, so I wrote down the minute and the temperature and the weather. I described exactly where I was when my eyes landed on him. I went online and dropped a pin on Google Maps to get the precise latitude and longitude, then I scrapbooked all of it.
There is, as he said, genuinely no maybe about it.
From the minute we met, I’ve been counting the moments, breath held, waiting for this.
His mouth opens against my chin, teeth nibbling my jaw. “What am I gonna do with you?” He pauses his tormenting. “No.” Hair tousled, he pulls back and hovers over me. “What would you like me to do with you?”
I swallow, entranced.
“You’re—” He sweetly curses. “—perfect.” He kisses my forehead, my nose, my face. He nibbles the exact place a dimple would be in my cheek. “I always knew it, but—” Breath leaves him as he mutters yet another swear. “—I can hardly believe the perfection goes this deep and far.” Face red, eyes dazed and heated, he looks at me—obsessed. “I’m your slave, Dece.”
