Page 114 of Double Down

I slide my forearms beneath her thighs and hold her there, anchored. My mouth finds the soft place below her ear. “Tell me if you need anything different.”

“Just…don’t let go,” she whispers.

“Not a chance.”

I lift her a breath and sink her back down. It’s not about forcing my way into her body. It's about keeping time with her—the tiny shivers that run through her, the way her shoulders soften when I kiss her neck, the way her fingers lace over mine where I’m bracing her. She sets the rhythm; I follow. Every rise and fall is an apology I mean with every heartbeat.

“I should’ve sent her away at the door,” I say, voice quiet, steady. Her breath hitches. “I should’ve remembered what this feels like—how you fit, how you look when you’re trying not to smile.” She does, a small, wrecked curve that makes my chest hurt in the best way. “That’s on me. I won’t forget again. Never again.”

She tips her head back to my shoulder, eyes closing as she moves. “Keep talking,” she breathes, and I do—small truths between kisses. The first time I knew I was gone for her. How her laugh lives in the back of my throat. How the room feels different when she’s here and how I hate myself when I make it colder.

I tighten my arms, lifting her a little higher and then guiding her down slow so she takes all of me, so there’s no distance left to pretend with. “Right there?” I ask.

She answers with a shiver, wordless, trusting.

We find a rhythm that feels like a promise. I press my forehead to her shoulder and breathe with her—four in, four out—until the air steadies. When her hands tremble, I cover them. When her breath stutters, I kiss the sound back into her. When she begins to break apart, I hold her through it and keep holding after, rocking us through the aftershocks until she melts against me.

“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ll be here.” She turns her face, finds my mouth without looking. It’s not frantic. It’s home.

When I finally follow her over the edge, it’s with her name in my teeth and her fingers dug into my forearms like she’s keeping me from floating off. We stay like that—joined, quiet, the chair steady under us—until our pulses fall into the same slow pace.

“I can do better than sorry,” I say into the hush, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I can be better.”

Her answer is a soft nod I feel in my bones. “Then stay,” she says, and I hold her closer, because that’s the easiest promise I’ve ever made.

She’s boneless in my arms as I clean us up and carry her to the bed.

There’s a savage satisfaction to be had from holding a blissed out woman in your arms. From knowing you did that to her. You’re responsible for her pleasure.

No one else.

When Conrad had me tend her after he used her, I didn’t mind. Time with my girl is time with my girl. It didn’t bother me that I wasn’t the one who took her there.

It doesn’t bother me now. I should have seen it. I should have known.

She’s different after Conrad. Different after Atticus. Storm never lets her out of his sight after they play, but I’d bet she’s different with him, too.

Not better. Not worse. Just different.

I just wish that were enough to make me worthy of her.

“I can hear your mind spinning,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. “Are you ready to talk?”

My shoulders sag, and I hold her tighter.

I don’t deserve her, but she deserves the truth. “Okay,” I tell her, “rip me open.”

“Not in here.” She gets up and grabs one of my T-shirts. It’s long enough to hit her mid-thigh, and I have to admit… it’s a good look on her.

“Why not?”

“Because I meant what I said. I want this room to be sacred. Just you and me. A place for the two of us to escape all the bullshit. This conversation is going to be a lot of bullshit.”

I bark out a laugh, but she shoots me a deadly glare that serves as a very important reminder. Fucking Phoenix into oblivion will never be enough to get me out of trouble.

Why do I like that?

I get dressed and follow her into the living room. It’s still and quiet, everyone somewhere else, thank fuck.