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In one motion, he hoists me up, lightly patting my ass before carrying me toward our bedroom. Each step he takes is a heartbeat pounding out all the words I can’t say—to Naomi, to my father, to his wife, to my sister.
I don’t need words.
I need him.
We crash onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heat, a desperate collision of need and escape. My fingers claw at his shirt, at my clothes, until there’s nothing between us but bare skin and urgency.
I lose myself in the sensation—the press of his body against mine, the weight of him anchoring me to the present, keeping me from drowning in the past.
His breath is hot against my ear, his voice husky as he whispers my name.
“Megan?”
I know what he’s asking.
“I’m okay,” I whisper back. Even though it’s only half true.
But he doesn’t push.
He never does.
When we finish, I press myself against him, burying myself in the comfort of his warmth, desperate for the contact to last longer than it ever does.
If I could crawl inside him, I would.
I always feel safest when our bodies are intertwined, when there’s nowhere else to run but into his arms.
Hunter strokes my back, his touch gentler now, grounding.
The quiet aftermath is filled only with our mingled breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
After a long silence, he speaks.
“You sure you don’t want to talk?” His voice is low, careful.
My throat tightens.
“Not yet.”
I rest my head against his chest, his steady rise and fall lulling me into something that almost feels like peace.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into my hair, “I’m here.”
I cling to those words like a lifeline.
Hunter is the one constant in my life.
I can’t wait to marry him, to make our bond legal.
I’ve been dragging my feet with planning, too focused on finishing my piece for the exhibit—but I need to fix that.
My relationship is just as important as my art.
Maybe more.
Hunter doesn’t normally offer words of comfort when we make love. We both prefer dirty talk, teasing smirks and breathless laughter.
But this is different.