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The whiplash is real, but the ache in my chest does little to dampen the one in my groin. I stick my nose into the flowers, breathing in the country-garden scent, letting the calmness it brings wash over me. My clairalience sparks, images flashing through my mind: immaculate lawns, red-brick Georgian mansions covered in wisteria. They flit through my head, a pretty picture book.

“What’s got you all romantic?” I ask sweetly, setting the flowers down on my altar before taking my spot on the floor across from him.

He’s silent for a second, jaw ticking as he thinks, distracting himself by shedding the apron and pouring the wine. Eventually he looks at me with such ardent admiration it makes every atom of my being stand to attention.

“Bellamy…” he begins. “You are the most selfless person I know. It’s one of your best qualities, and I hate that someone saw that as a weakness and hurt you. I won’t ever forgive myself for contributing to that hurt but… I know you might not be ready for what I’m about to say, but I need to say it.”

My pulse quickens, a steady drumbeat in my ears. I set my fork down and cradle my hands in my lap, unable to look away from the stunning blue-gray eyes boring into me, seeing straight through to my soul. I have a feeling I know what he’s going to say, and it’s going to gut me in the best way.

“I love you. I never stopped loving you. And I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of stopping. No one compares to you. No one. You are the sunlight in my darkest days, and I don’t know how I’ve survived without your warmth all these years. I don’t want to be your almost, or your maybe, or your could have been. I want to be yours, and I want…I want us, Bels. Before I fucked it all up, I want that version of us back.” When the last word leaves his mouth, he takes a great, shuddering breath.

My eyes and my throat are burning, and I have no idea how to make words come out of my mouth without sounding like a squeaky toy, so I do the only other thing I can think of. I shove my plate away and stand, stepping up onto the coffee table, and leap off it.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Sunday

Iwasn’t expecting Bellamy to swan dive off the table and nearly knock my teeth out, but I take it like a champ. He buries his head in my neck, wrapping his arms and legs around me. I squeeze him back, not caring that he didn’t parrot back any version of what I’ve said. If he’s not ready, he’s not ready. I’ll wait.

I hold him tight and just enjoy having him plastered to me, even if there’s something about it that feels morose. We’re in a shit situation, and all I want to do is make him feel better. I rub my hand across his back until he’s ready to unwrap himself from me.

I keep my arm around his waist as he slides to the floor, the fabric of his tee catching on my belt buckle on the way down. When his socked feet hit the ground, the air around us pulls tight. I tuck my palm into the curve of his face, dragging my thumb across his plush lower lip. That golden hue of his eyes shifts in such a way that it wants me to beg him to ruin me. Rip away my being and flay the corruption and decay from my body until all that’s left is the wanting.

When he reaches up to kiss me, I surrender completely. His mouth leads me through a soft, unhurried dance that still manages to rob the air right out of my lungs.

“Do you trust me?” he breathes, pulling away and kissing my jaw.

I nod frantically, trying to get back to his mouth, my hands skating down to paw at his peachy ass. He pulls back enough to look me in the eye, his expression asking me something only I know the answer to.

He wants.

He needs.

And he doesn’t have to ask me to give him control.

Not breaking eye contact, I run my hands down his sides as I let my knees drop to the floor, coming to rest at his feet. There’s something about being like this, submissive on my knees for him, that makes me feel just as powerful as it does powerless.

“I will always kneel at your altar, Bellamy. Liberate me, desecrate me, do whatever you want to me.” I slip my hands under his shirt and lift it, pressing a kiss to the spot between his navel and the edge of his waistband. His belly contracts under the heat of my lips. “I’m yours.”

And I mean that, with every fiber of my being. My mind, body, and soul are his. He’s perfection embodied, the kindest soul, the sweetest smile, my pretty boy.

My witch.

His fingers card through my hair, swooping the black strands away from my face as he drops to my level. No word is spoken from his lips, but his hands split me down the middle, removing my shirt, dipping into every curve and valley of my muscles. Tracing every gap in the ink, chasing after the flashes of flushed skin. I respond in kind, obsessing over the way my skin looks against his and how easily his slender waist fits into my hands. His fingers cascade down my abs again, making short work of my belt and slipping it through the loops.

“Is this okay?” His voice wavers, and I feel my brows knit together at the shudder in it. It’s not his nervousness that’s confusing me, but something else.

My arms cross over my head as he pushes me down onto my makeshift indoor picnic blanket. He loops my belt expertly around my wrists, tugging it tight but not enough to pinch me.

His hair falls in curtains, framing his face as he leans over the top of me. Soft heat settles across the high point of his cheeks as his teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip. There’s pain sitting behind the fire in his eyes, a layer of worry and uncertainty.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re okay, you’ve got this.” I encourage him, empower him. Let him reclaim himself and use me to do it. I don’t fucking care, as long as it’s what he wants.

I’m aching to touch him, lust pulling deep from my stomach as my hard cock fights against my zipper. I don’t move though, don’t even buck my hips as he settles his ass down on me and relaxes. He roves over my chest, sinking his fingers into my pecs like he’s trying to remember every curve of me in case I disappear.

He shuffles backward, flicking open the button on my jeans, dragging the zipper down to offer me relief. It’s not enough, but like the good boy I am, I don’t fidget when he stands up, leaving me leaking precum on my stomach. He stands over me, unbuttoning his own jeans, slipping his thumbs into the waistband and dropping them slowly. The room is so quiet I can hear the rough fabric scrape against his skin.

I lose my remaining brain cells when the black lace comes into view, his little pink cock leaking pearls of liquid through the panties.