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Nothing else mattered, but this.

Him. Me. And a blistering orgasm that I wouldn’t have been able to stop even if I’d had a gun against my head.

“Don’t stop!” he groaned out. “Don’t…fucking…stop.”

A crude demand, but I did as I was told, grasping the unimaginable honour of watching him fall, his body tensed at an impossible angle, his hips shooting off the bed, my lips once again sucking at his neck, my hand guiding him to the finishing line in firm, rhythmic jerks.

His breathing stopped for those precious few seconds when the human body lets time stand still. When his eyes fell shut and a small droplet of water trickled down his cheek. When I loved him so much that it physically hurt. When this beautiful man was mine. When this bed was everything, and nothing else would ever matter again.

They were huge promises, but ones that suddenly seemed so blatantly easy to keep.

“I love you,” I croaked out, unable to hold it back. “I love you. Love you. Love you.”

“You,” he whispered. “You.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

We lay there, allowing ourselves to catch our breath, the duvet having slipped onto the floor, his naked form in sharp contrast to my white sheets.

It was wonderful to see how perfectly he fit in this space where I wanted him to stay forever. That was my hormones speaking, I got that. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and the fear was slowly creeping in as he turned and looked at me, him up there on the pillow, me slightly lower on the bed, having slid down the mattress. I had no idea how. My hand was on his hip, the wetness coating my fingers slowly drying against my skin.

I’d caught his seed. Mine to keep.

“This was way easier than I imagined,” he said softly. “It’s not supposed to be this easy.”

“You calling me easy?” I teased, and he laughed. God. I loved it when he smiled. His handsome face.

“Youareeasy. You’re so honest and straightforward and…easy. Easy to love.”

Good enough. I could take that.

We lay there in a comfortable silence, briefly interrupted when the train thundered past the bottom of the garden. There was nothing else in the air. Just him. Me. An infinite amount of space around us.

“I agree, though,” I said. “I thought this would be something to overcome. I don’t know why, but at the end of the day, you’re an incredibly attractive man.” I ran my finger up his chest, brushed a cluster of hairs around his nipple, skimmed the dip at his throat. “And in the end, this is just…lovely.”

“It is,” he whispered, grabbing my hand. “It really is.”

I had no idea what our words meant. I don’t think it mattered. But he crawled into my embrace and let me hold him. And I was absolutely certain.

My life was about to change, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

17. Stewart

Iwoke up with my head on his shoulder and a difference in my heart that was abundantly clear. This time, I didn’t want to flee. I didn’t question the feelings I had. Instead, I held on to them, as I held on to him. Wrapped my arms around this man with everything that I was.

Sweat. Blood. A small tear in the corner of my eye.

I was a sappy old thing, but I suppose maturity had brought gifts. The ones where I simply stopped caringabout things that had no importance. Like what other people thought. The labels cast at us. WhereUswould be something we would have to defend. I knew, because my son lived this life, and thus I had too.

Had I been jealous? No. Not in that way. Had I yearned for what he had? Of course, but in a way where I felt so incredibly grateful that he had Gray, and he was loved and cared for. That his heart would never be broken and that he walked around with that smile on his face.

And Gray. The messy, messy boy who had burst into our lives with nothing but a smile on his face and a backpack slung over his shoulder. I loved that boy. I had from the first time I noticed how he looked at my son. His eyes glittered, and his lips cracked into that blinding smile. The once-anxious boy had turned a corner and come out of his shell, and I had been honoured to witness it all, and it had made me happy.

And now I had this man. This incredibly beautiful man. I didn’t care about the scars. The past, the incredible amount of excess baggage he would forever carry on his shoulders. I would help him; the weight of it would be a small price to pay to make his life bearable.

I wanted it. This. All of this. Where he slept soundly in my bed, where his skin was against mine. Where I couldsmell the scent of him, the skin on his face now rough under the fingertip I traced down his cheek, his neck, over his collarbone.

Dylan Scotland. Who would have thought?