Page 30 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

I give him everything, pouring myself into every thrust, until his whole body is shaking, until his hands are gripping the sheets and his thighs are trembling around me.

Until I feel him clench hard around my shaft, shuddering as he spills between us, his back bowing with a strangled shout of my name.

The moment takes me with him—tight, overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. I groan against his throat as I come, hips jerking, arms wrapped tight around him like I might fall apart if I let go.

We stay like that for a while—panting, tangled, half-drunk on each other.

And then Tex hums low in his throat, dragging lazy fingers along my spine. “Still think you’re bad at seduction?”

I nuzzle into his neck, grinning like a fool. “Shut up.”

We're still tangled up in each other an hour later, skin damp and hearts thudding in tandem. The world is hushed; the room lit only by the faint glow from the streetlamp outside.

Tex traces lazy circles on my chest, head resting in the crook of my shoulder. He sighs, a soft and content sound, but his voice breaks the quiet.

“I thought love meant pain. But you showed me it can mean peace.” He swallows and looks up at me with vulnerability shining in his blue eyes. “I’ve always confused attention with affection, and I thought that being desired meant being safe, even when it hurt. But you showed me I was wrong.”

My heart clenches at the truth in his voice, at the soft unraveling of all the armor he’s worn so long.

“I never wanted to fix you, Tex. I never saw you as broken. I just wanted to protect you because—” My voice catches, and I blink hard, swallowing back the tears pushing against my throat. “Because I don’t ever want you to hurt again.”

“Why, Mandy?” he whispers, barely audible. “Say it.”

My arms tighten around him instinctively, like I can shield him from everything that’s ever tried to ruin him. I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in—watermelon and sweat and something that’s just him.

This is it. This moment. The one I used to dream about in the sterile halls of hospitals, when I thought no one would ever look at me again. When I thought I was done with the world, and the world was done with me. The possibility of this —of him—was what kept me going.

“Because… I love you.” The words tremble out of me, unfamiliar but right. Like they’d been waiting their whole life to be spoken aloud. “I love you and I don’t ever want to be without you or your love. Never.”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.

Then he kisses me, slow, reverent, like he’s memorizing the taste of the truth.

“I love you, too,” he says softly. “And I think maybe I’ve loved you for a while now. I just didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like until you.”

I hold him tighter, our foreheads pressed together in the quiet dark. And for the first time in years, maybe for the first time ever, I believe that love doesn’t have to mean pain.

It can mean peace.

It can mean him.

After a beat, I shift gently out from under him, reaching for the drawer beside my bed.

“Wait right there,” I say. My voice comes out quiet and awkward, and suddenly I feel nervous, which is ridiculous considering everything we’ve just done.

Tex props himself up on one elbow, watching me with bleary curiosity. “What’re you doing? You better not be about to make a post-coital sandwich.”

I snort. “You wish. I can hear the sounds your stomach is making.”

I pull out the little bundle of yarn, careful not to tug the fibers loose. They’re soft and thick and just a little lopsided, but they’re the best I could do. I hand them to him without fanfare, just placing the unwrapped socks on his chest.

He looks down. Then up at me.

“You made me socks?” he asks, and there’s this quiet disbelief in his voice, like I’ve given him something rare and irreplaceable.

“They’re not perfect,” I say quickly. “The toes are a little weird. But… I picked the yarn before you even kissed me. Before I knew what we’d be. I just knew I wanted to make something for you. Something that might keep you warm when I can’t be there.”

He unwraps them slowly, almost reverently. They’re purple—a deep, rich violet. Soft and warm. His fingers brush over the stitches like they’re sacred.

“For my royal ass,” he says, teasing, but his voice cracks a little. His smile wobbles.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Exactly that.”

He doesn’t speak right away, just pulls one sock on, then the other, wiggling his toes. They’re too big by a hair, and he has to fold the cuffs, but when he looks at me again, his eyes are glassy.

“Best gift I’ve ever gotten,” he whispers. “You really made these?”

I nod, throat tight.

He pulls me back into bed, the socks still on, his legs tangling with mine beneath the sheets. “Now you’ve really done it,” he says against my neck.

“Done what?”

“Ruined me for everyone else.”

I smile into the dark. “Good. That was the plan.”

Tex presses a kiss just over my heart. “I’m yours, Mandy. All of me.”

“I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”

And for once, I believe it. Not just that he’s mine. But that I’m his, and I’m enough.