Page 18 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"Look at me," I whisper.

Her eyes find mine. Hold them. And I start to move.

This isn't like two nights ago—frantic, desperate, overwhelming. This is slow. Deep. Every thrust deliberate, our eyes locked together, breathing each other's air. I feel everything. The way she tightens around me. The way her nails dig into my shoulders. The way her breath hitches every time I bottom out inside her.

"I love you." The words spill out before I can stop them. "I love you, Mara. I've loved you for seven goddamn years, and I'll love you for the rest of my life."

Tears slide down her temples into her hair. "I love you too. I think I always have."

Something breaks open in my chest. Something that's been locked tight for so long I forgot it existed.

I kiss her, deep and desperate, and when she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, I have to stop moving or I'll lose it completely.

"Let me—" She pushes at my chest gently. "I want to feel you. Let me..."

I roll us over, settling her on top of me, and the sight of her nearly stops my heart.

Mara, above me, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her breasts swaying as she adjusts to the new angle. She's all soft curves and warm skin and she's mine. After seven years of wanting, she's finally mine.

"God, you're beautiful," I breathe, my hands finding her hips. "Every inch of you. I could look at you forever."

She starts to move, rolling her hips in a slow rhythm that makes my eyes want to roll back in my head. I watch her find her pleasure—the way she tilts her head back, the way her lips part, the way her hands press flat against my chest for leverage.

"That's it." I grip her hips harder, helping her move, thrusting up to meet her. "Take what you need, sweetheart. Use me."

She moans, picking up the pace, riding me harder. I reach up to cup her breasts, rolling her nipples between my fingers, and she cries out.

"Ryder—I'm close⁠—"

"I know." I can feel her tightening around me, feel the tremors starting in her thighs. "Come for me, Mara. Let me feel you."

She shatters with my name on her lips, her body clenching around me so tight I see stars. I flip us again, hooking her leg over my hip and driving into her through her orgasm, chasing my own release.

"I love you," I gasp against her throat. "I love you, I love you⁠—"

The climax tears through me, emptying me into her, and I swear I feel something shift in the universe. Like everything that was broken is finally clicking back into place.

We lie there afterward, tangled together, breathing hard. Her head rests on my chest, over my heart, and I stroke my fingers through her hair, unable to stop touching her.

"Marco knew," she says softly, after a long silence. "He knew you loved me. He knew I felt something for you, even if I couldn't admit it. And he still..."

"He wanted us to be happy." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "Both of us. He was the best man I've ever known, and his last wish was for us to stop suffering."

"So we honor that." She lifts her head, meeting my eyes. "We stop suffering. We stop hiding. We stop feeling guilty for something he gave us his blessing for."

"Can you do that?" I ask. "Really let go of the guilt?"

She's quiet for a moment. "It won't happen overnight. But I want to try. For him. For us." A small smile curves her lips. "For the seven years we wasted being noble idiots."

I laugh—actually laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. "Seven years. Christ. We could have had this the whole time."

"We have it now." She presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. "That's what matters."

"What happens now?" I ask, pulling her closer.

She settles against me, warm and soft and here.

"Now we stop hiding," she says. "From everyone. From each other. From this."