Page 67 of The Convict Gets His Girl

Before he could respond, she pulled his head down. Her lips met his in a kiss that was frantic, consuming, a kiss that seemed to say everything words could not. Her breath shifted, transforming into something else—something more urgent, more physical, more primal.

Unable to deny her—unable to deny himself—Chase pressed her against the shower wall. The cold tile made her gasp, her body arching instinctively against his.

The water continued to fall around them, a relentless, indifferent witness.

His hands found her curves, gripping her ass firmly. In one fluid motion, he lifted her. She responded instantly, legs wrapping around him, holding him with an intensity that made him groan. The contact—skin against skin, wet and urgent—felt impossibly good.

She moved against him, a subtle, desperate rhythm. Her hips rocked, whimpering sounds escaping her lips. "Please," she breathed, the word barely audible over the shower's steady cascade.

Those soft, needy sounds speared through him, igniting something ancient and uncontrollable. He was beyond rational thought, driven by pure need. With deliberate precision, he aligned their bodies, and then—slowly, achingly slowly—slid inside her.

Her scalding pussy was hotter than the water around them, but he wanted the burning brand of her love. He pressed harder, pulled out almost all the way, then plunged inside once more, joining them in a timeless dance. She was deliciously tight, and he hissed with every thrust.

Her gasp was sharp, her body tensing and then relaxing around him as she gripped him. His hands remained locked on her ass, supporting her weight, controlling their connection. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, impossibly closer, pressed together from lips to heart to core.

They settled into a rhythm—slow, deep, consuming. Each thrust punctuated by shared breaths, by the slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Their lips never separated, tongues dancing in time with their bodies. A kiss that was both a claim and a surrender.

He didn't want to let her go again, and the thought made him drive in harder. The shower continued its steady rhythm, a counterpoint to their more urgent music.

His heart expanded, cracking open with a sudden, overwhelming realization. He loved her—truly, completely. Not just in this moment of physical connection, but on a soul level. Perhaps he always had.

The knowledge settled into him like a deep, unshakable truth. He wanted to give her the world, to smooth every jagged edge of her pain, to protect her from anything that might ever hurt her again.

This wasn't just desire. This was something deeper, more profound.

Her body began to tense, muscles drawing tight. A soft cry escaped her—not of pain, but of building pleasure. She froze, clenching on him in quivering waves, her hand at his nape going up to grip his hair as she tipped her head back and cried out, echoing off the shower walls.

Her orgasm triggered something deep inside him. He thrust harder, deeper, with a wild abandon that came from somewhere beyond conscious thought. Each movement became more intense, more urgent.

His body tightened. Muscles coiled. His balls drew up, and then he was pouring all his love into her, a love without words, a soul connection without explanation.

Slowly, they came apart. Her legs trembled—delicate, vulnerable. He set her carefully on her feet, ensuring she was stable. Her body swayed slightly, spent and sensitive. Without breaking contact, he stepped under the shower's stream, rinsing away the evidence of their moment, letting warm water wash over both of them.

Fuck, he loved this woman. She was strong, to have weathered all she'd gone through in her life, but if she didn't learn to lean on him, trust him… love him… he didn't know what he'd do. He squeezed her tightly and stroked her back, just holding her.

When she shifted on her feet and stood on her own, he stepped out of the shower, droplets cascading down his skin. The terry cloth towel absorbed the moisture, wrapped snug around his hips. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, drying himself methodically while his mind replayed fragments of their intimacy.

The old cabin's tub beckoned—massive, built for comfort. He twisted both faucets, watching lavender-scented bubbles bloom and multiply. The cabin's plumbing groaned softly, a familiar sound that spoke of age and reliability. While it filled, he went to the kitchen.

With deliberate movements, he gathered wine, cubed cheese, and crackers. Each item selected with the same care he'd use selecting a gift for someone precious.

When he returned, she had already slipped into the bath. Her head rested against a folded towel, eyes closed, pale skin emerging from a cloud of iridescent bubbles. The sight made his breath catch. She looked so relaxed, yet fragile, and he wanted to hold her more.

He set the tray down carefully, reaching across her body to balance it on the ledge. Her eyes opened—liquid blue, vulnerable, holding something between exhaustion and tentative hope.

Their gazes locked, and he was mesmerized. She smiled, soft, uncertain, and indescribably beautiful. He didn't know where to go from here, how to tell her he loved her. He knew that it was probably too soon. He had to make sure she didn't run away again, like she had the last time he admitted that he wanted to take care of her.

A knot of tension clenched in his stomach. Something inside him—years of guardedness, of keeping people at arm's length—suddenly wanted to let this woman inside. He waved a hand, casual yet charged with intention, and dropped his towel.

"Sit up," he said, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. "I want in too."

Her eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and amusement dancing across her features. "Really? Guys take bubble baths?" A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "Did you draw this for you? I'm sorry, I'd just assumed?—"

The hint of vulnerability in her voice caught him off guard. Assumptions. They'd been dancing around those for weeks, for years maybe. Her words carried the weight of past judgments, of expectations that had likely disappointed her more times than he could imagine.

Chase watched her, reading the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers momentarily gripped the porcelain edge of the tub. One assumption after another had probably built walls around her heart—walls he was slowly, deliberately, determinedly dismantling.

He wanted her to see him, not as another man who would disappoint, but as someone genuine, someone who could surprise her, someone who would care for her like no one else.

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