Page 63 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

Every part of me goes on red alert as Sloane drops to her knees in front of me. “Fuck, corazón, you don’t have to—”

I try to stop her, but the words fall apart somewhere in my throat, dried up by the way she looks at me. Powerful. Undaunted. Like she’s making a choice, and I’m the one she’s choosing.

When her hands slide over my hips and she leans forward, every nerve I have comes alive. Not with urgency—with awe.

I brace myself against the cabinets behind me, barely breathing as she starts to move. Everything about her now is slow, deliberate, devastating. Her touch, her warmth, the softness of her lips—it’s all too much and not nearly enough. I feel like I’m being memorized. Rewritten. Composed.

And when she glances up at me through her lashes, eyes wide and shining, something inside me pulls tight and doesn’t let go.

Because this isn’t a game. It’s not about winning or losing, dominance or control. It’s about surrender—mine, not hers. I would do anything for this woman, and she knows it.

I tangle my fingers gently into her hair, not to hold her but to hold myself. To ground myself in the only thing that matters. Sloane.

“Jesus, Sloane…” I gasp, my voice ragged with a heady combination of love and longing. “What are you doing to me?”

She pulls back just enough to answer, voice rough and wicked and beautiful. “Whatever I want.”

And somehow, that only makes me want to give her more.

But the pressure builds fast. Too fast. The need rising in me feels like a wave I can’t outrun. And I’m too damn old for that.

“Sloane,” I say again, barely managing to keep my voice steady. I reach down, lift her into my arms, and kiss her like I’m starving for it. Because I am.

I place my hands around her waist, turn her toward the counter, and slide a condom out of my pocket. I move slowly, not because I don’t want to tear the world apart to get closer, but because I want her to feel safe. Seen. Adored.

Not because she’s the Black Widow, but because she’s Sloane. And she is everything.

“I love you,” I whisper against her skin as I press into her. “I love you, Sloane.”

She doesn’t say it back. She doesn’t have to. Not when her body is singing with mine, not when she’s falling apart in my arms, whispering my name like it’s the only thing holding her together.

It’s more than I ever thought we’d have. And it’s enough.

“I love you,” I say again as we move together, slow and aching and infinite. “I love you so much…”

The words fall apart when I shatter inside of her, her breath catching, voice breaking.

And when she follows me over the edge, I know I’ll never stop falling.

Not for her.

And not for us.