Page 22 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

I wake before dawn to the sound of waves against the shore and the feeling of Lianne’s body curved perfectly against mine.

For a moment, I lie still in the gray pre-dawn light, afraid that moving might wake her, might break the spell of this perfect moment.

Her head is on my chest, dark hair spilled across my shoulder, one hand resting over my heart like she’s claiming it even in sleep.

Her breathing is soft and even, completely peaceful in a way that makes something tight and protective unfurl in my chest.

This is what I threw away four years ago. This feeling of absolute rightness, of being exactly where I belong.

But even as the thought surfaces, I realize it’s not quite accurate.

Four years ago, what we had was intense and passionate and absolutely real, but it was also fragile in ways I was too young to understand.

We were both trying to figure out who we were individually while navigating the complications of coming from different worlds.

This feels different. Stronger. Like we’ve both done the work of becoming ourselves and can now choose each other from a place of strength rather than need.

The woman sleeping in my arms isn’t the junior event planner I fell in love with four years ago while she was coordinating Sophia’s wedding.

She’s someone who’s built an empire through sheer determination, who commands boardrooms and creates magic for other people, who’s learned to trust her own judgment even when it goes against conventional wisdom.

She’s more beautiful now, more confident, more herself in ways that take my breath away.

And somehow, impossibly, she’s chosen to trust me with this again—with her body, her heart, her carefully constructed sanctuary.

But she’s not the only one who’s changed.

I’m not the same man who let family expectations override his own heart either.

The man who ended things with her because my parents made it clear she wasn’t suitable for the family bloodline.

Four years of building companies like Sterling Industries into something meaningful, of learning that real success comes from purpose rather than just profit, of understanding that the approval I was so desperate for was never worth sacrificing what actually mattered.

Like the woman in my arms.

Like the way she responds to my touch like she’s been waiting for me all this time and the trust she showed last night when she let down every wall she’s built and chose to be vulnerable with me again.

Lianne stirs against me, a soft sound that’s half-sigh, half-contentment, and I feel her consciousness returning gradually. Her hand flexes against my chest, and when she tilts her head back to look at me, her dark eyes are still soft with sleep but completely aware.

“Good morning,” she says, her husky voice sending heat straight through me.

“Good morning, beautiful.” I brush a strand of hair away from her face, marveling at the way she leans into the touch without hesitation. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in weeks,” she admits, and there’s something in her voice that suggests she’s as surprised by that as I am. “You?”

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

As she smiles, I’m struck again by how different this feels from our night in Santa Barbara.

Back then, there was desperation, the urgency of rediscovering each other after years apart.

This morning, lying in her bed with the sunrise painting everything golden, it feels like we’re building something that can last.

“What time is it?” she asks, though she doesn’t sound like she particularly cares about the answer.

I glance at the clock on her nightstand. “Just after six.”

She shifts against me, and the movement brings her body into perfect alignment with mine, reminding us both that we’re naked under these soft sheets, that last night confirmed everything we both felt but were afraid to name.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

“Nowhere more important than right here.”

Lianne’s smile grows wider as she shifts to prop herself up on one elbow, the movement causing the sheet to slip, revealing the elegant line of her shoulder, the curve of her breast, and I have to fight the urge to pull her down for another kiss.

“You know,” she says, tracing patterns on my chest with one finger in a way that’s driving me slowly insane, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed. Even back then, you were always thinking about the next meeting, the next obligation.”

She’s not wrong. Even when we were together during Sophia’s wedding planning, part of my mind was always occupied with business or family expectations or the careful balancing act of keeping my relationship with her a secret.

But this morning, with Lianne’s finger drawing lazy circles on my skin and her hair catching the sunrise, nothing else exists.

“Maybe I’ve learned what’s actually important,” I say, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips to press a soft kiss to her palm.

“And what’s that?” she asks.

Instead of answering with words, I roll us over in one smooth movement, settling above her with careful attention to her response. She doesn’t tense or pull away—instead, she welcomes me with a soft sigh that sounds like coming home.

“This,” I say, brushing my lips against hers in a kiss that’s soft and reverent and full of everything I can’t quite say yet. “You. Us. The way you look at me like I’m someone worth trusting again.”

Lianne’s hands come up to frame my face, her thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with infinite tenderness.

“You are worth trusting,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.”

The confession breaks something open in my chest, some part of me that’s been holding back even in our most intimate moments. When I kiss her this time, it’s with the desperate gratitude of someone who’s been given a second chance at something precious.

This kiss is different from last night’s urgency. This is slow and deliberate, a claiming that goes both ways. I take my time relearning the taste of her, the way she responds when I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, the soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.

“Cam,” she breathes against my mouth, and my name sounds like a prayer, like everything she’s been holding back for four years.

“I’m here,” I murmur, trailing kisses down her throat to the sensitive spot that makes her arch against me. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The promise surprises us both with its intensity, but I mean every word. Whatever happens with family obligations or business pressures or the complications that destroyed us before, I’m not walking away from this. I’m not walking away from her.

When I return to her mouth, Lianne kisses me back with the kind of focused intensity that makes everything else disappear. Her hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, tracing the muscles of my shoulders, guiding me closer like she can’t get enough of the contact.

“I want you,” she says, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Again. Now. All the time.”

I groan against her shoulder as she pulls me closer. “Protection,” I murmur, though my brain is screaming that I don’t need it, that I should just take her right now, that the only thing standing between us and a future I never thought I could have is a single moment of trust.

Lianne’s fingers find the condom wrapper on the nightstand, and she slides it over me with deft fingers, making me shiver with anticipation.

And then I’m pushing inside her, filling her inch by inch until we’re pressed together in every possible way, and I can’t remember why I was ever afraid of this feeling.

This is where I belong. With her, for her. And nothing else matters.

I start to move, slow, deep strokes that make her gasp and arch against me. God, she feels so good, so right, that it takes everything I have not to lose myself immediately.

Her legs come up to wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and when she starts to respond, thrusting back against me with equal intensity, I can tell that neither of us will last long.

But it’s okay. This isn’t about technique or stamina or impressing her with my bedroom skills. This is about claiming her, owning her, letting her know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

And then she’s gasping my name, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she comes with a rush that pushes me over the edge, too. I come with her, holding her tight as waves of pleasure roll through me, and it’s the most intense orgasm I can remember having in a long time.

She collapses against me as the last tremors fade, her body fitting against mine with perfect symmetry.

“Wow,” Lianne says finally, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“Wow indeed,” I agree, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

We lie together in comfortable silence, watching the sunrise paint the sky in brilliant colors beyond her windows.

This is what I want, I realize. Not just the physical intimacy, but this—the easy comfort of being with someone who understands me, who challenges me, who makes me want to be better than I am.

“I should probably get up,” Lianne says eventually, though she makes no move to leave my arms. “Make coffee, start the day like a responsible adult.”

“Responsibility is overrated,” I reply, tightening my hold on her. “Besides, I like you better irresponsible.”

She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded in a way that makes my chest tight with affection. “Is that so? And what exactly constitutes irresponsible behavior in your expert opinion?”

“Staying in bed until noon. Making love until we’re both exhausted. Pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

“Tempting,” she admits, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone. “But I actually do make excellent coffee, and I’m suddenly starving.”

“Fair enough. But I’m helping with breakfast.”

She pulls back to look at me with raised eyebrows. “You cook?”

“I’ve learned a few things in four years. Nothing fancy, but I think I can manage eggs and toast without burning down your kitchen.”

“Now that I have to see.”

As we reluctantly disentangle ourselves, I catch sight of my phone on her nightstand and make a conscious choice. I pick it up and power it off completely, setting it aside without checking for messages.

Lianne notices the gesture, her eyebrows rising slightly.

“No interruptions,” I say firmly. “Not today. The world can survive without me for a few hours.”

Something shifts in her expression—relief, maybe, or hope. “Are you sure? What if it’s important?”

“Nothing is more important than this,” I say, pulling her close for another kiss. “Than us. I learned that lesson the hard way four years ago.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re in her kitchen, working together to prepare breakfast with the kind of easy domesticity that feels both foreign and perfectly natural.

“French press or espresso machine?” she asks, gesturing to a coffee setup on the counter.

“Whatever you prefer. I’m not picky about caffeine delivery methods.”

She starts the coffee while I handle eggs, and we fall into an easy rhythm of cooking together. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels significant somehow—like we’re practicing for a future that includes shared mornings and comfortable routines.

“So,” Lianne says as she arranges fresh fruit on a plate with the same attention to detail she brings to her professional events, “what do you think this means? Last night, this morning... us?”

It’s a fair question, and one I’ve been thinking about since I woke up with her in my arms. Four years ago, we never really defined what we were to each other during those months of wedding planning, never talked openly about what we wanted or where we saw things going.

That uncertainty, that lack of communication, was part of what made us so vulnerable to outside pressure.

“I think it means I want to try again,” I say. “I think it means I want to build something real with you this time, something that can withstand whatever complications the world throws at us.”

Lianne sets down the fruit plate and turns to face me fully, her expression serious and hopeful in equal measure.

“And your family? Your business obligations? All the things that came between us before?” She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What’s different this time?”

The vulnerability in her voice breaks my heart. This is what I did to us four years ago—created doubt that lingers even now, when we’re standing in her kitchen planning our future.

“What’s different is that I’m not the same man who let other people make decisions about my life,” I say, moving closer to frame her face with my hands. “I’m not twenty-six anymore, Lianne. I’m not going to let anyone else choose who I spend my life with.”

“But they’ll try. Your parents, your social circle—they’ll find ways to pressure you like they did before.”

“Let them try.” My voice is firm, determined. “I’ve spent four years building Sterling Industries independently, proving that I don’t need their approval or their money to succeed. The only approval that matters to me now is yours.”

Lianne searches my face, looking for any sign of the uncertainty that destroyed us before. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because her expression softens into something that looks like hope mixed with relief.

“I ran after Santa Barbara because I was terrified of believing in us again,” she admits. “I was scared that if I let myself hope, you’d choose them over me like you did before.”

“Never again,” I promise, leaning down to brush my lips against hers in a kiss that tastes like coffee and second chances. “You’re not just some unfinished business to me. What we have now... it’s real. It matters.”

“It matters to me too,” she whispers against my mouth. “More than I thought possible.”

When we kiss again, it’s with the certainty that this is real, that we’re both choosing each other completely this time. Last night confirmed what we both felt in Santa Barbara—that this is worth fighting for, that we’re both willing to risk everything for the possibility of us.

Right now, in Lianne’s kitchen with morning light streaming through the windows and the taste of forever on my lips, I have everything I need.

This time, I’m not letting anything tear us apart.

This time, love is going to be enough.