Page 90 of Oathbreaker

He’s beautiful.

He’s mine.

And he’s been hurt again and again.

“What did they do to you?” I whisper, my fingers and lips and tongue gently stroking over the pink scars on his chest, his belly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I freeze, glance up, mouth opening to tell him it very much matters.

He keeps talking before I can.

“Because I could lose myself in the memories of you,” he says and even as I’m sitting in the beauty of those words, he’s moving, lifting me into his arms and carrying me to the bed. “You were in every thought, every dream, every fantasy I held tight to. And with you in my head, my heart, I wasn’t there.”

He sets me on the bed, crawls over the top of me, my legs instinctively parting so he can settle himself between them.

“Instead, in my head I was here.” He brushes his lips over my forehead, my cheeks, my nose. “Right here, baby.”

I exhale shakily, reaching up to touch his jaw, the bristles there abrading my fingertips in the best possible way. He presses his mouth to my palm, face soft in that way that settles deep, his eyes that gorgeous inferno, his body hard and lean and still regaining strength, but still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

“I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper.

Soft. Scorching. Mine.

“I’ve been in love with you for five years.”

Another thing to settle deep, another memory to hold tight to.

And when he kisses me, he gives me more.

Our mouths sealed together, tongues sleek darts, our lips moving in perfect sync.

When it feels as though I’m going to pass out, he kisses his way to my ear, laving at the lobe and making me shiver. Then his lips are dragging down my throat, softly pressing against my collarbone.

He’s gentle, worshiping me.

Touching me as if I’m the most precious object in the universe.

And I touch him right back, smoothing my hands over his back and torso, dipping into his hair and holding him to me when he makes his way to my breasts, kissing them, scraping his stubble along their undersides, gently taking my nipples into his mouth and suckling slowly and lazily.

It’s unhurried, as though we have all the time in the world.

And maybe we do.

Because when he’s spent long minutes lavishing attention on my breasts and is kissing his way down my stomach, lips tracing over each of the silvery stretch marks left over from my pregnancy, I’m not in any hurry.

Except to touch him, to hold him, to feel his hair on my skin and his hands pushing my legs wide and his mouth going in between.

Except to let him slowly bring me up to the precipice of an orgasm, to keep me there for long moments, both of us fighting the fall, knowing that this moment can’t last forever, but wanting to draw it out for as long as possible.

So, I don’t beg him for release when he gently kisses the inside of my thigh, I just touch his jaw and murmur, “Now, honey.”

His eyes on mine, holding.

Then he nods, slips out of his pants, and slowly comes back over the top of me, his long, lean body the sweetest type of weight.

He braces himself on one elbow and kisses me.