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“Jesus, Iris,” he groans, forehead pressed to mine. “I need you so goddamn much.”

“Good,” I mutter as he thrusts into me, hard and slow, holding on tight to my ass. The position is brutal, every movement hitting deep. I claw at his back, desperate for something to hold on to.

He kisses me, and I bite his lip. “Faster,” I demand, and he gives it to me. He traps me between his body and the cold marble wall.

The tempo builds, bodies slapping together, the wet sound almost obscene. My head thumps the wall, and I don’t care; I just want to keep him inside, keep this feeling forever.

He fucks me like he owns me, and I let him. Because he does. He already owns me, heart and soul. There’s no space for thoughts. Just his cock pounding inside, his mouth on my neck, his hands everywhere at once.

The second orgasm sneaks up on me, sharper than before. My legs start to shake, and I cry out, voice going high and thin as everything tightens around him.

“Come for me, Sunshine,” he grits, barely more than a growl.

I do. I fall apart, body convulsing, nails raking his shoulders, screaming as I clamp down on his cock. He follows a beat later, slamming in and shuddering, the hot pulse of him filling me up. He holds there, breathing hard as we sag against each other, the spray of the shower gradually going from scalding to lukewarm. He nuzzles into my hair and whispers, “I love you.” My heart stops. I mean, actually stops. Like, I’m pretty sure I flatline for a millisecond before his words sink in.

Did he just…?

“I love you,” Hunter whispers again.

Oh my God.

My knees buckle. If he wasn’t literally pinning me to the shower wall, I’d slide right onto the tile and become a puddle of goo. My vision goes a little swimmy at the edges.

He said it. He said it. Real words, actual meaning, no takebacks.

My hands tremble as I cup his jaw, water streaming off my arms, and I have to look at him, really look, just to make sure this is real. His eyes are dark and golden, and so open that I know he’s telling me the truth.

I open my mouth, but my throat’s all locked up. Happy tears prick at my eyes. “I love you, too.”

I barely get the words out before Hunter’s mouth crashes over mine. He kisses like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear me say those three words, and now he’s going to devour me, right here, on the spot.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HUNTER

THREE WEEKS LATER

The sun’s barely cresting the horizon, but I’m wide awake. Not because I have to be. No alarms, no fire station, not even Buster’s need for an ungodly early morning walk. I’m just… awake, pinned under a deadweight tangle of soft skin and even softer hair.

Iris is curled against my chest, face smashed into my shoulder, her breath coming in slow, even puffs.

The light coming through the blinds slices the room into perfect stripes, landing across the arc of her bare back, the rumpled blanket, the mess of golden hair that’s somehow managed to take over the entire pillow. She’s got one arm thrown across my chest and a thigh hiked over my hip.

Buster’s on the bed, too, wedge-shaped between our legs, dead to the world. He’s the self-appointed king of our bedroom, snoring loud enough to rattle the headboard. Last night, he made three separate attempts to burrow under the covers; each time, Iris gently reminded him that he only sleeps on my pillow when I’m at the station.

I want mornings exactly like this every day for the rest of my fucking life. I want to keep her safe, make her laugh, and love her so hard that she’s addicted to me for life. I want the future, the kind I’d convinced myself wasn’t for me. A home. A family. Maybe even an ugly minivan, if she wants one. I want the noise, the mess, the chaos. All of it.

I reach up, careful not to disturb her, and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She mumbles something about “waffles” and burrows in closer, her bare stomach flush against mine. I wrap both arms around her and breathe in the scent of shampoo and vanilla and pure, unfiltered Iris.

I’m just about to drift back off when everything changes.

Iris bolts upright, nearly head-butting me in the face. “Shit!” she gasps, eyes huge and wild. Before I can even ask what’s wrong, she’s scrambling off the bed, stumbling on the blanket, and beelining for the bathroom with one hand clamped over her mouth.

Buster pops up, blinking, ears at full mast. I launch myself after her, years of emergency response hardwired into my nervous system. I’m halfway to the bathroom door before my brain catches up to my body.

The bathroom door is wide open. I find her kneeling on the tile, hugging the toilet. She’s shaking, sweat breaking out along her hairline, skin paper white and shiny. For a second, I think maybe she’s dying. Anaphylaxis, heart attack, stroke—my brain cycles through the worst-case scenarios at light speed.

“Iris!” I drop to my knees beside her, palm to her forehead, other hand at her back. “Are you okay? Shit, talk to me⁠—”