Page 88 of Perdition
He arched an eyebrow, his lip curling. “BBS?”
Her cheeks grew hot as she answered, “Er…body betrayal syndrome.” At his sideways glance at her, she knew he was waiting for her to explain. She huffed, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s when you’re mad at your man so your brain says ‘no way,’ but your body betrays you by making you all horny, and says ‘let’s jump on his dick.’”
He laughed that sexy as hell laugh again, then drawled, low and rumbly, “I think I like BBS.”
Seconds later, he turned into their drive way. As soon as the truck was in park and the keys were in hand, he was out the driver’s door and around to the passenger side. She barely gotherself unbuckled before he pulled her door open, grabbed her, and swung her up over his shoulder.
She squeaked, breathless, and forced herself not to move for fear of falling right off.
It had been a long time since he’d last carried her, and she’d gained a few pounds since then.
He slapped her ass, and she shrieked, “What are youdoing?”
“I can hear you thinking, and I want you to stop. You are perfect, just the right size, and I can’t wait to toss you down on the bed and remind you just how well we fit together.”
She swallowed, speechless, and waited for him to input the key code—which she hadn’t changed since he’d last been there—and swing the front door open.
For a second she wondered if they’d walk in on the kids home for the weekend, and things would get super awkward, but the house was dark and silent.
As soon as he was inside, he slammed the door shut with his foot, and took the same path he’d taken thousands of times before. Right to their bedroom.
Once Mads crossed the threshold, he stopped, his large body seeming to thrum with unspent energy, with kinetic potential, with unspoken need for her.
Slowly, achingly slowly, he slid her down his body, all of her rubbing against all of him—every soft inch of her against every rock hard inch of him—until her feet touched the floor.
They stared at one another, breathing heavy, skin flushed, mouths slightly open.
And then…they undressed one another, taking their time to uncover each other, unwrapping the gift of bare bodies and interwoven hearts.
Trembling, Emily stood naked before the man who broke her heart, but instead of the pain and betrayal she should have been feeling, she felt…adored.
His gaze on her was like reverence, praise without words, a carnal benediction. He was devotion and desire, awe and exaltation. He was the rite and the ritual—eager to fall to his knees and sacrifice his very body on the altar of her.
How had she ever thought she could live without him?
“Mads,” she whispered, and lifted his eyes to her, tearing his gaze from his wicked admiration of her breasts. “I need you to touch me.”
It was a beautiful echo of all the nights he’d come home after a long deployment, and they came together, husband and wife, long without the other.
Under the hush of the night, the moon’s glow stitched silver seams across the windows, and the city beyond the four walls breathed slow and indifferent. Inside, the bedroom felt like a secret kept between two conspirators—warm lamplight pooling on hardwood, and the hush that falls when the world outside is finally allowed to wait.
Mads watched Emily for a long, quiet moment before he crossed the room.
He moved as though reluctant to hurry, savoring the seconds like a favorite sentence you read twice. His hand landed at the nape of her neck with the practiced gentleness of someone who has learned the exact pressure that calmed her. She leaned into him as if returning a long-owed kindness. For both of them, the touch was a greeting and an answer, a language they'd learned and refined over years: small gestures accumulating into something profound.
“As my goddess demands,” he rasped.
And then he was kissing her, touching her….
Their kisses began as whispers, soft, asking rather than claiming. Mads tasted the faint sweetness of the Moscow Mule she had been sipping at Cool Hands earlier—every flavor a memory. Emily's fingers threaded through his hair, tentativeat first and then with the steady certainty of trust. The slow unbuttoning of restraint—literal and otherwise—felt reverent. Inhibitions slipped away like pages of stories read aloud; what remained were the margins of their lives where every scar, every crease, every familiar contour had a history.
Mads was careful, as if discovering a long-hidden map. He explored with the attentive curiosity of a lover who remembered what mattered: the lift of a shoulder, the soft intake of breath at the base of the throat, the way her pulse fluttered under his fingertips. Emily answered with small sounds—a whimper, a moan, a sigh—each one a bright thread tying them closer. There was no rush, only the slow ritual of two bodies reacquainting themselves with wordless devotion.
They found rhythms that belonged only to them. Kisses deepened like chapters turning; hands learned new translations of old promises. Mads pressed gentle questions against Emily’s skin, and she answered with the plain, bold truth of touch—anchoring him with a palm at his chest, guiding him with hips that remembered the same easy closeness. When a stray pain in his shoulder surfaced, she paused to press a thumb there, smoothing it away with a softness that was more medicine than mere comfort.
The room became smaller and more intimate—a world of shared breath and whispered names. Light pooled in the hollow of their entwined limbs; shadow kept watch at the edges. Outside, thunder rolled distant and forgiving, a low chorus that matched the slow rise and fall of their chests. Between Mads and Emily there was a steady give and take: he offered strength, she offered surrender; he held steady, she trusted; both offered an unwavering presence that felt like home.
Words were spare but reverent.