I'm still in his arms, the towel slipping from my shoulder, when his mouth finds mine again—slower this time, deeper, his tongue tracing my lower lip like he's memorizing the shape of me. His hands slide down my back, fingers pressing into the damp skin above my hips, and I feel the tremor in his palms, the restraint he's barely holding. I pull back just enough to look at him, my forehead against his, my breath mixing with his. "I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, and I feel the words land in his chest, feel the way his whole body exhales against mine. His hand finds the edge of the towel, fingers brushing the knot at my sternum, and he waits—his eyes on mine, asking without asking, the question hanging in the lamplight between us.
I reach up and take his hand, the one hovering at the knot, and I press it flat against my chest. The towel shifts, the fabric loosening a fraction of an inch, and I feel the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton, feel his fingers spread over my sternum like he's trying to hold my heartbeat in his hand. "I want you to," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected it to be. "I want you to untie it. I want you to see me."
His breath catches, a small, broken sound, and then his fingers find the fold of the towel and pull. The fabric falls, puddling at our feet, and I'm standing in front of him in the warm lamplight, naked, still damp from the shower, my skin prickling where the air hits it. His eyes move over me—slow, deliberate, like he's cataloging every inch, every curve, every shadow. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing the outside of my breast, tracing the line of my collarbone, the hollow of my throat.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and his voice is rough, scraped raw. "I don't think I've said it enough. I don't think I've said it in the right way." His thumb traces my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "You're so beautiful, and I love you, and I'm never going to stop saying it."
I feel the sting behind my eyes, the heat building, and I blink it back. I don't want to cry right now. I want to feel him. I want to be with him. I reach for the hem of his shirt, the gray one he pulled on after the shower, and he lifts his arms, letting me strip it off him. My hands find his chest, the faint trail of hair below his navel, the sharp line of his hips. I press my palm flat against his heart, feel it pounding under my fingers, and I lean in and kiss the center of his chest, just above where his pulse is thrumming.
"Lie down," I whisper against his skin. "I want to take my time."
He doesn't argue. He steps back, his hands finding mine, and he pulls me with him until the back of his knees hit the bed. He sinks down, then stretches out on the tangled sheets, his body pale and lean in the lamplight, his cock already hard, curving against his stomach. I climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him, and I let myself look. The scar above his eyebrow. The way his chest rises and falls, quick and uneven. The way his hand reaches for me, not to grab, but to touch—his fingers brushing my thigh, the curve of my hip, like he needs to confirm I'm real.
I lower myself, my mouth finding his, soft and slow, my hair falling around us like a curtain. His hand slides up my back, fingers tracing my spine, and I feel the slight tremor in his touch, the restraint he's still holding. I pull back, just enough to look at him, and I see it—the fear, the want, the desperate hope all tangled together in the blue of his eyes.
"I chose you," I say. "I keep choosing you. And I'm going to keep choosing you."
His jaw tightens. His eyes go bright, and he blinks, hard, once, twice. "Sofia—"
I kiss him before he can finish, my mouth covering his, my tongue sliding against his, and I feel the sound he makes, a low, broken moan that vibrates through his chest. I shift, my thigh brushing his cock, and his hand finds my hip, gripping hard, guiding me. I reach down, my fingers wrapping around him, feeling the weight of him, the heat, and I stroke him once, twice, watching his eyes flutter closed, watching his head press back into the pillow.
"I want to taste you," I say, and his eyes snap open.
"Sofia, you don't have to—"
"I want to." I lean down, my mouth hovering over the head of his cock, and I look up at him through my lashes. "I want to feel you in my mouth. I want to hear you say my name."
He swallows. His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through the damp strands. "Okay."
I take him in my mouth, slow, my tongue tracing the length of him, and I feel the shudder that runs through his body, the way his hips twitch, the way his hand tightens in my hair. I take him deeper, my lips sliding down his shaft, and I hear his breath catch, hear the low, rough sound he makes—a sound I want to pull out of him again and again. I move my mouth over him, my tongue finding the vein on the underside, the spot that makes his whole body tense, and I feel the pulse of him against my tongue, taste the salt of him, feel the way he trembles under my touch.
"Sofia—" His voice is broken, barely a whisper. "Sofia, I'm—if you keep doing that, I'm not going to last."
I pull off, just enough to look at him, my lips wet, my breath uneven. "Then don't." I crawl up his body, straddling his hips, my thighs brushing his ribs. "I want you to come. I want to feel you." I reach down, guiding him to my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against me, and I hold still, letting the moment stretch, letting the anticipation coil tight between us. "But first, I want to feel you inside me."
I sink down, slow, inch by inch, and the sound he makes—a broken, desperate groan—is the most honest thing I've ever heard. I feel the stretch, the fullness of him, the way my body opens to take him, and I let myself feel it, every sensation, every ripple of pleasure. I pause when he's fully inside me, my thighs pressed against his hips, his hands gripping my waist, and I look down at him. His eyes are dark, his mouth open, his chest heaving.
"I love you," I say, and the words feel like a prayer, like a promise I'm making with my whole body.
He reaches up, his hand cupping my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "I love you, Sofia. I love you so much it scares me."
I start to move. Slow at first, a gentle rocking, my hips rolling against his, and I feel him inside me, deep, so deep I can feel him in my chest, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. His hands find my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, and I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. I pick up the pace, riding him, my thighs burning, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and I feel the pleasure building, a slow, coiling heat that starts in my core and spreads outward, through my limbs, through my skin.
"Look at me," he says, and his voice is rough, commanding, and I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. "I want to see you when you come." He reaches down, his thumb finding my clit, pressing in small, tight circles, and I feel the world tilt, feel the pleasure spike, sharp and bright and overwhelming. "I want to see you fall apart on my cock."
The words undo me. I feel the orgasm building, crashing, and I let go, my body arching, a cry tearing from my throat, my cunt clenching around him in a rhythm I can't control. He groans, his hips bucking up into me, and I feel him come—feel the hot pulse of him inside me, feel his whole body shudder beneath mine, his hands gripping my hips so hard I'll bruise, and I don't care. I don't care about anything except this, except him, except the way he's looking at me like I'm the center of his universe.
I collapse onto his chest, my face pressed into the curve of his neck, and I feel his arms wrap around me, pulling me tight against him. His heart is pounding, a wild, uneven rhythm, and I press my ear to his chest, listening, feeling. His hand finds my hair, stroking, gentle, and I feel the tears before I hear them—the slow, steady wetness on my shoulder, the hitch in his breathing.
"Liam?" I push up, looking at his face, and I see the tears tracking down his temples, his jaw tight, his eyes squeezed shut. "Liam, look at me."
He shakes his head, his hand covering his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm—"
"Don't apologize." I take his hand, pulling it away from his face, and I lean down, pressing my lips to his forehead, his closed eyelids, the corner of his mouth. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He opens his eyes, red-rimmed and raw, and he looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "I was so scared," he whispers. "When you didn't answer her messages. When she kept calling. I was so scared you'd realize you made a mistake."
I shake my head. I stroke his cheek, my thumb brushing away the wetness. "I didn't make a mistake. I made a choice. And I keep making it. Every day. Every time I wake up next to you. Every time I hear your voice. I choose you, Liam."
His hand finds mine, pressing my palm flat against his heart. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You don't have to deserve me," I say. "You just have to keep choosing me back."
He laughs, a wet, broken sound, and he pulls me down into a kiss, soft and slow and full of everything he can't say. I feel him soften inside me, feel the shift as he slips out, and I curl up against his side, my head on his chest, my hand resting over his heart. His arm wraps around me, pulling the sheet over us, and we lie there, tangled together, the lamplight warm and golden around us.
The phone is still face-down on the nightstand. I don't look at it. I don't think about it. I think about the weight of his arm around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his thumb traces lazy circles on my shoulder. I think about the knot behind my ribs—the one that's been there since I got off the plane, since I watched my old life disappear through a window—and I feel it loosen, just a little, just enough to breathe.
"Sofia?" His voice is soft, drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"Stay."
I press my lips to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine, and I feel the tension drain from his body, feel him sink into sleep, feel his breath even out against my hair. I stay awake a little longer, watching the shadows shift on the ceiling, feeling the warmth of him against me, thinking about nothing and everything and the way his hand fits perfectly in mine.
I close my eyes, and I let myself sleep.