Page 76 of Her Unending Horizon

God. There it was again—the raw honesty that always undid me.

I slid up onto my knees, pulling her with me. I took my time undressing her, peeling away clothes I’d dreamed about for months. Every inch of newly exposed skin was a memory I’d forgotten I owned.

When she was down to almost nothing, she swallowed and whispered, “Now you. Take off your shirt.”

My heart jerked hard against my ribs. I hesitated, knowing exactly what she was about to see.

But I did as she asked, dragging the shirt over my head with a wince.

Chloe sucked in a breath the second my torso was bare. “Jesus, Zarek.”

The bruises arced across my ribs in ugly purples and sickly greens, a roadmap of every hit I’d taken this week. The long sleeves had done nothing to hide the swelling.

“What did you do to yourself?” she whispered, reaching out but stopping an inch short of touching.

“It’s nothing,” I lied.

“It’s not nothing.” Her voice was so full of pain I almost flinched harder from that than the hits.

I didn’t let her finish the thought. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her again, swallowing her worry, drowning her in something better than fear. She responded instantly, fingers curling at my neck, her body softening against mine.

Clothes disappeared after that—hers first, then mine in slower stages because I was trying not to aggravate my ribs. She didn’t rush me, didn’t tease, didn’t look away. It was reverent in a way that almost broke me.

When we were finally close—really close—I paused, forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“Are you ready? Is this all right?” I asked, because hurting her was the one thing I would never do.

Something flickered across her face, brief and sharp, before she smoothed it away. She looked to the side for a moment, then back at me.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Yes.”

One hand cupped her jaw gently as I kissed her. My other hand drifted lower, finding damp curls. Then glided further and touched wet folds. She was as ready as I was. I closed my eyes, giving thanks.

I slowly parted her delicate flesh with two fingers, and she arched up. It had been a long time and she was tight. I watched her face closely and all I saw was pure need. Pure desire. My thumb strummed over her clitoris.

“Zarek!”

I circled. I stroked. I caressed. My eyes never left hers. I watched as she reached her peak and shuddered. Perspiration glistened on her forehead.

“Let’s try that again,” I whispered against her lips.

“Let’s.” Her hand grasped my cock, and it felt like lightening had struck. “Jesus, Chloe. You’ve got to stop. I’ll never last.”

“Then you'd better hurry.”

What happened after that felt like touching heaven.

Not because it was perfect—though it was pretty damn close—but because it was us. Because every sound she made felt like a stitch being sewn back into a place I hadn’t realized had torn open. Because she looked at me like I was still her home, and I held her like I’d been drowning for months, and someone finally threw me a rope.

When it was over, I drew her onto my chest and wrapped both arms around her. She fit against me exactly the way she always had, head under my chin, fingers on my ribs, legs tangled with mine. I breathed her in, shampoo and sweat and that warm, indescribable scent that was just Chloe.

I stroked her hair and stared up at the ceiling, feeling something dangerous and unfamiliar in my chest.

This.

This was what mattered. Not the gym. Not the fights. Not the noise in my head or the grief or the goddamn nursery.

This woman. This warmth. This quiet after. This sense that maybe the world wasn’t entirely made of knives after all.