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It was everything.

“I love you.”

He froze.

He couldn’t—he couldn’t have heard her right.

Slowly, Wolfe lifted his head. Her eyes were clear, her cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-swollen from his.

Beautiful. She was beautiful and he—

“You heard me,” she said, lips curling. “You’re awake.”

He bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut to the point of pain. She knew him. In every way that mattered. She saw his soul, his past, his life, his death—all of it—and still, she’d chosen him.

“Avery—”

“You don’t need to say it back.” She brushed a curl from his eye. “I just needed to tell you. Just once.”

He slid from between her legs on a wince, already aching to be back inside her. He shifted long enough to grab a blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over them, tugging her against his chest. She came willingly, head settling over the heart that beat purely for her.

“It’s not a matter of if I love you, Avery,” he whispered, angling her face up toward his. “It’s if I can find the right words to convey just how much I do. How thoroughly and completely you own me. How desperately yours I am.” He kissed her, long and slow. “I loved you the moment I saw you fighting with my desk. I never had a choice.”

Her lips met his again. This kiss was a sear against his soul, a brand on his skin. She kissed him until he saw stars, until his hands began to shake.

When she climbed over him, he let himself be taken away.

When she sank down on him, head thrown back, he prayed it would never end.

Chapter 30

I woke to something heavy and warm draped around my middle.

Sleep clung to me, coaxing me back down to the depths, but I shoved it off. Soft, gentle breaths came against my shoulder and I smiled, wondering what his first words would be.

We’d barely made it to bed last night, kissing our way up the stairs, turning each other breathless with our touches. When we finally made it, he’d laid me down in the bed and turned me into a trembling mess below him. There was nothing hard or rough about it. Every touch was gentle, every roll and thrust of his hips was an exercise in devotion. One hand stayed on my jaw, keeping my face turned toward his, our eyes locked. The other was linked with my own by my head, fingers laced so tightly together my knuckles ached. I set my free hand right over his heart, the wild thump of it tattooing itself against my palm.

He murmured my name over and over again, a mix of Irish and English rolling off his tongue until the words tumbled together. The intensity of his stare, the grip he had on me, the scent of his skin, the press of him inside me—all of it was enough to send me over the edge, tears flooding my eyes.

He went with me, kissing my eyes, my brow, my nose. Anything he could reach. He let me go long enough for me to brush my teeth but brought me right back, both arms banded around my waist like I was the one who was going to disappear in the morning.

I yawned, stirring against him, but no movement came against my back. No jokes, no laughter, no lazy smirk that made my blood run hot. I shifted slowly, careful not to disturb him, and rolled over.

He was asleep.

Long lashes fell over his cheeks and his chest rose and fell on another deep, even breath. One arm was pillowed under his head, the other still sat right on the curve of my hip.

He looked so peaceful, so at ease.

Gently, I ran my finger down the curve of his cheek. So many freckles. Some were paler than others, hidden below some of the darker spots along his jawline. His hair had more red and gold in it than I first thought. It fell across his brow in messy waves, like the wind was always tangled in it. His brows were a shade darker, adding a level of severity to his otherwise playful features.

Even his chest and shoulders were covered in freckles. I mapped them like stars, connecting the lines between each. He had no tattoos but plenty of scars. Knicks and scrapes that left thin, pink lines up his arms and his shoulders. His hands were wide, his fingers long and rough. Calluses sat at the base of each knuckle. I felt every single one of them. Every scrape, every brush.

He looked like a hero out of a storybook—like he should be scaling a tower and rescuing a princess from inside, brandishing his sword and pledging his undying love to her and her alone.

I watched him sleep for a while, cataloguing every single one of his breaths. For a moment I envied anyone who was able to wake up next to the love of their life day in and day out. I hated knowing most of them took it for granted, that they rolled from bed without kissing them awake, without cuddling them close—like it wasn’t the greatest gift in the world to have the person you loved most beside you. That their face was the first thing you were lucky enough to see day in and day out.

Looking at Wolfe now…