Page 31

Relief washes through me like a cleansing rain. The tightness in my chest—the ache that's been building all week—dissolves beneath the weight of Sanderson’s confession. He's falling in love with me. The words echo in my mind, sweeter each time I replay them.

His arms around me feel different now, weighted with more warmth and safety. His heartbeat thuds beneath my ear, steady and reassuring as we stand in his kitchen, neither of us willing to break the embrace that feels like coming home.

"You should rest," I whisper against his chest, mindful of his injury. "Those pills will kick in soon."

"I don't want to waste a minute of this," he murmurs into my hair. "Not when I thought I'd lost you."

I pull back just enough to look up at him, really look at him. The cut along his cheekbone has stopped bleeding, but the bruise spreading beneath it has darkened to a mottled purple. His left eye is swollen, though not completely shut. Despite it all, he's impossibly beautiful to me—not because of his physical perfection, but because of the vulnerability in his gaze, the way he looks at me like I'm the only girl in the world.

"You haven't lost me," I assure him, reaching up to trace my finger gently along his jaw, careful to avoid the injured area. "I was hurt and confused, but I'm still here."

His eyes—those warm honey-amber eyes I've come to crave—soften with something deeper than desire. "Thank you," he says simply. "For giving me a chance to explain. For listening. For seeing me."

I rise on my tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his uninjured cheek. "I see you, James. And I really like what I see."

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with surprising gentleness from someone so physically commanding. His touch telegraphs a question, and I answer by tilting my face upward, meeting him halfway.

Our lips connect in a kiss that starts achingly tender. His mouth moves against mine as if memorizing every sensation, every subtle reaction. I sigh against him, my hands sliding up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palms.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in silent request. I open to him without hesitation, the taste of him—beer and something just him—flooding my senses. Heat builds between us, slow and inexorable, a tide rising rather than a wave crashing.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, his forehead rests against mine. "I've missed you," he admits, the words surprisingly vulnerable from someone so outwardly confident. "Even though it's been days, not weeks. Is that crazy?"

"If it is, we're both crazy," I reply, my voice hushed in the quiet of his kitchen. "I missed you too."

His smile—that slow, genuine smile that transforms his entire face—makes my heart flutter. "Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Let's get somewhere more comfortable than the kitchen counter."

I follow him down the hallway to his bedroom, the space now familiar after our previous night together. The queen-sized bed with its dark blue comforter, the bookshelves lined with unexpected titles, the desk with its meticulously organized notes—all of it feels like a secret part of him that only I get to see.

As he turns on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm glow, I'm struck by a moment of decision. This is a threshold we've already crossed three times, but somehow tonight feels different—more significant, more deliberate. Not driven by circumstance or impulse, but by something deeper.

My hand drifts to my purse, fingers finding the small foil packet I'd tucked inside earlier today. Not with any specific expectation, but with hope, with possibility. I pull it out, watching Sanderson’s eyes widen slightly at the sight.

"You planned ahead," he observes, his voice dropping to that deeper register that sends shivers dancing across my skin.

"I was optimistic," I admit with a small smile. "Or maybe just prepared for any outcome."

"The eternal planner," he teases gently, taking the condom from my fingers and setting it on the nightstand. "Always thinking ahead."

"Not always," I counter, thinking of how impulsively I'd kissed him that first time in my dorm room. "Sometimes I surprise myself."

"You constantly surprise me," he says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "In the best possible ways."

He steps closer, his hands finding my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my sweater has ridden up. The contact, simple as it is, sends electricity racing through my veins. I reach up, carefully avoiding his injury as I thread my fingers into his hair, drawing him down to me.

This kiss is less restrained, need rising between us like a physical presence. His hands slide beneath my sweater, palms warm against my back, as mine explore the solid planes of his chest through his shirt. We move together with increasing urgency, every touch revealing the tension that's been building during our days apart.

"I want you," I whisper against his mouth, the confession both obvious and necessary. "All of you."

"You have me," he promises, echoing his words from earlier but with new meaning, new depth.

With careful movements, mindful of his injury, I help him remove his shirt, revealing the now-familiar landscape of his body—the defined muscles, the scattered scars from years of hockey, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his jeans. I trace a particularly prominent scar near his collarbone and smile. My favorite place to kiss.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the mark, a silent acknowledgment of all the stories written on his skin. He shivers beneath the gentle contact, his hands tightening at my waist.

His turn now—he lifts my sweater over my head with a reverence that makes me feel beautiful, desirable in a way no one else ever has. My bra follows, his eyes darkening as I'm revealed to him in the soft lamplight.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His fingers trace patterns across my collarbone, down the center of my chest, circling but not yet touching where I want him most. The teasing exploration is torture, building anticipation with each passing moment.

"James," I breathe, the name a plea and permission wrapped into one.

He understands, his hands finally cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing across sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. His mouth follows the path of his hands, trailing kisses down my neck, across my shoulder, until he's drawing one nipple between his lips, the wet heat making my knees weaken.

We move to the bed, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing, laughter bubbling up when he winces as I accidentally brush against his injured cheek.

"Sorry," I gasp, horrified.

"Worth it," he assures me with a crooked smile. "Just maybe let me take the lead on this side."

He does exactly that, guiding me onto my back, his body a warm weight above me as he continues his exploration. His mouth maps a path down my stomach, fingers working at the button of my jeans as he goes. I lift my hips to help him slide them off, along with my underwear, until I'm bare beneath his heated gaze.

"You too," I insist, reaching for his jeans.

He obliges, standing to remove the last of his clothing. The sight of him—fully aroused, utterly masculine, extra large—takes my breath away. This is Sanderson—my James—stating he’s falling for me with complete awareness, complete intention.

He returns to me, careful to keep his weight off his injured side as he settles beside me rather than above. His hand traces lazy patterns up my thigh, each circle bringing him closer to where I'm aching for his touch.

"Last time was rushed," he murmurs against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "This time I want to take my time with you."

I nod, though the need building inside me makes patience difficult.

His fingers finally find me, exploring, discovering what makes my breath catch, what draws soft sounds from my throat. I reciprocate, my hand wrapping around his thick cock, marveling at the contrast of velvet skin over steel hardness.

We learn each other this way, unhurried, each touch a conversation, each response a secret shared. When neither of us can stand the anticipation any longer, I reach for the condom on the nightstand, tearing open the foil packet with trembling fingers.

He watches, eyes hooded, as I roll it onto him with careful movements. Then he's shifting our positions, guiding me to my side, his body curving behind mine. His hand lifts my top leg, opening me to him as he positions himself.

"Is this okay?" he asks, always checking, always making sure.

"Perfect," I breathe, turning my head to capture his lips as he pushes forward, entering me in a single, fluid motion.

The angle is amazing, allowing him to reach places inside me that send sparks shooting behind my eyelids. His arm wraps around me, hand splayed across my stomach, holding me against him as he begins to move with slow, deliberate thrusts.

We find our rhythm together, unhurried yet building in intensity. His lips trace patterns on my neck, my shoulder, wherever he can reach without disturbing his injury. My hand finds his at my waist, our fingers intertwining as our bodies move in perfect synchrony.

"Hannah," he murmurs against my skin. "You feel so good. I love this."

The praise washes over me, heightening every sensation. I turn my head again, needing to see his face, needing that connection as we move together. What I find in his expression—the raw emotion, the vulnerability beneath the desire—pushes me closer to the edge.

"I love this too," I admit, the words escaping on a gasp as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside me. I arch my back into him. "So much."

His rhythm falters momentarily, his eyes widening at my words. Then he's kissing me, deep and desperate, his movements becoming more deeper, more thrusting. His free hand slides between my legs, finding my clit and rubbing it softly.

The combination is too much—his body inside mine, his fingers working their magic, the emotion passing between us in waves. The tension builds, coils tight, and finally breaks in a rush of sensation that has me crying out his name. His real name. He comes inside the condom alongside my orgasm. He’s watching me watch him.

We stay connected, breathing hard, neither willing to break the perfect circle we've created with our bodies. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest as if he can't bear any distance between us.

"Our perfect moments," he whispers, the word carrying more weight than he can understand.

I turn in his arms to face him, careful of his injury as I settle against his chest. "In our imperfect circumstances."

"Wouldn’t want it any other way." He kisses my forehead, my nose, finally my lips in a series of gentle affirmations.

We clean up, take a quick shower, neither of us wanting to be apart for long. When we return to bed, he pulls me close again, arranging the comforter over us both. My head finds its place on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns up and down my spine.

I stay awake a little longer, savoring the weight of his arm around me, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. It's strange to think that the most disastrous night of my life—that confused, mortifying encounter in Cade's bed—has led to this perfect moment. That what began as the worst mistake I've ever made has somehow transformed into the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Life doesn't follow outlines or rulebooks. It's messy and unpredictable, full of wrong turns that lead to unexpected destinations. But some wrong turns, I'm beginning to believe, are actually the universe course-correcting. Putting us where we need to be, even if it's not where we thought we were going.

As sleep finally claims me, I'm filled with a certainty I've never felt before. Whatever happens tomorrow or next week or years from now, this moment exists. It's real and perfect and ours. Sanderson's arms around me, his heart beating against mine, the quiet understanding between us—these things can't be undone or erased, no matter what happened in the past or what the future holds.