Page 117 of Mended Fences

“You’re right, Sweetness. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

With a defiant nod, I started to take him in my mouth again—but he stopped me.

“Wait, Elena.” He reached down and pulled me to standing by my biceps. “I don’t wanna come in your mouth, baby.”

I should’ve felt deprived of that power, that control—but the look on his face had me softening instantly.

“Let me make love to you,” he whispered against my lips. Then he kissed me. Sweet and sincere. Hungry and desperate. Reverent and loving. Chase shifted, trying to spin us so he could lie back, let me lead. Let me take control.

But this time, I stopped him.

“No. I want you—” I sucked in a deep, cleansing breath and swallowed hard. I met his eyes, hoping he could read what was written all over my face.

Trust.

Hope.

Love.

“Ineedyou on top.”

Chase’s eyes turned glassy. His throat bobbed. He nodded. “Anything you need. You know that.”

Slowly, gently, he helped me back onto the bed. Not flat—he knew better. He stacked pillows behind me until I was propped up at an angle, legs curled to the side, belly resting comfortably.

Then he knelt beside me, hand gliding over my thigh with a reverence that made my chest ache. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Need your words, Sweetness.”

“I’m okay. I promise.” I cupped his cheek. “I trust you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, and a lone tear slid free. I caught it with my thumb then leaned in, brushing my lips to his. “Make love to me, Chase.”

He didn’t rush.

He kissed me like he was trying to memorize every second—sweet and deep, slow and grounding. His hand moved between us, guiding himself to my entrance. He didn’t push in, not yet. He looked at me one more time.

I gave the faintest nod, and he moved.

The stretch was intense—my body already swollen, already sensitive—but it wasn’t too much. It wasn’t pain. It waspresence. It washim. And it was everything.

When he was fully inside me, he stilled. Our foreheads touched.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured.

I did.

He began to move, slow and reverent, one hand braced beside my head, the other cradling my hip, grounding me with every gentle thrust. His eyes never left mine.

“You feel like home,” he said, voice shaking.

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Every stroke was a vow. Every kiss a promise. He worshipped me—not in spite of my scars, but because of them. His hand skimmed over the curve of my belly, fingers splaying wide as if to shield both of us at once.