Page 64 of Brazen Being It

I nod. “Say it again.”

He kisses me, slow and deep, then pulls back just enough to say, “You. Passed. Cambria, you’re brilliant.”

Something in me breaks open at that, and I launch myself into his arms, pulling him into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and a little desperate.

He lifts me without hesitation, one hand under my thigh, the other in my hair. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the bed like I weigh nothing.

We fall into it together, mouths never parting, hands hungry.

But it’s not rushed. No, this is celebration.

He slides my hoodie off slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Presses kisses to my collarbone, my shoulder, the spot just below my ear that makes my spine arch.

“You did it,” he says again, his breath warm against my skin. “You worked for it, and you earned it. That makes me wanna worship you.”

“Then do it,” I whisper.

He makes love to me like I’m something holy. Like every inch of me tells a story he’s finally allowed to read.

His hands move over my body with purpose—memorizing, claiming, praising.

The way he touches me, it’s not just about sex, never has been. It’s about every damn thing I’ve survived. It’s about the girl who used to hide behind staying quiet and sleepless nights, who now gets to be a woman with goals and a man who believes in her.

I moan his name, and he smiles against my skin like he’s never heard anything better.

When we’re finally joined—bodies and breath in perfect rhythm—I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold on like he’s the only anchor I’ve ever trusted.

And he is.

It’s intense. It’s consuming. It’s everything.

The world narrows to this moment. This bed. This man who’s never once made me feel like too much or not enough.

We move together in a pace that builds slow and hot, growing with each kiss, each whispered word, until we’re both trembling from it.

I cling to him as he thrusts deeper, the edge building inside me like a tidal wave waiting to crash.

“Let go,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Let me see you.”

And I do.

I come undone with a cry, body arching, heart open.

He follows with a groan, burying his face in my neck as he pulses inside me.

It takes a long time for the shaking to stop.

Even longer for my heart to calm down.

But he stays wrapped around me the whole time.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers again, brushing sweaty hair from my forehead.

“I’m proud of me too.”

We fall asleep wrapped in each other, the scent of sex and love and something earned lingering in the air.

And when I wake up the next morning, I know one thing for sure:

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