Page 88 of His to Destroy

"And maybe," I whisper, brushing my fingers along his jawline, "I love you too much now to ever doubt you again."

The words hang between us, more binding than any contract, more powerful than any vow.

Gaspare closes his eyes like he’s hearing a prayer answered after years of silence.

When he opens them again, they are full of a hunger so raw, so tender, that it robs me of breath.

Gaspare rises slowly, pulling me gently to my feet with him.

Neither of us speaks.

Words would only cheapen what’s burning between us now.

His hand cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone as if memorizing me all over again.

I lean into his touch, heart pounding, body aching with the need to be closer, to erase the years of pain between us with skin and breath and love.

He bends down, his lips brushing mine—softly.

I whimper, clutching the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, his mouth claiming mine with a desperate tenderness that shatters the last fragile walls around my heart.

His hands roam my body, slow and sure, like he’s relearning every curve, every scar.

I feel worshiped.

I feel whole.

Gaspare lifts me effortlessly into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and carries me toward the master bedroom.

He lays me down with a reverence that brings fresh tears to my eyes.

He hovers over me, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath ragged.

"If you want me to stop..." he rasps.

I shake my head fiercely, threading my fingers into his hair.

"Don’t you dare," I whisper.

The first touch of his hands on my skin is like a balm, like a prayer.

He peels my clothes away with agonizing slowness, his mouth following the trail of exposed skin, kissing every inch with a tenderness that steals my breath.

When I’m bare before him, he just looks at me for a moment.

As if he can't believe I'm real.

"You’re beautiful," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "You always were."

Tears sting my eyes again, but I blink them away.

I want to feel him.

All of him.

I reach for him, fumbling with his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

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