Page 55 of The Love Clause

"I missed you too." His fingers trace patterns on my skin, following the constellation of freckles on my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone. "My apartment felt empty without you. I kept expecting to hear you singing off-key in the kitchen or find dog toys under the furniture."

The admission makes me smile. "You hated those things."

"I thought I did," he acknowledges, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat that makes my breath catch. "Until they were gone. Until you were gone."

Our remaining clothes disappear slowly, each new expanse of skin revealed and explored with a thoroughness that borders on worship. This is nothing like our previous encounters—the practiced kisses in his apartment, the desperate claiming in the canoe, the possessive passion of our last night together. This is deliberate, unhurried, every touch infused with the knowledge that we're building something lasting.

When he finally settles between my thighs, both of us naked and breathless with anticipation, he pauses. His eyes find mine, searching, making sure I'm with him in this moment.

"I love you," he says again, the words clearly still new on his tongue but gaining confidence with repetition. "I need you to know that. To believe it."

"Show me," I whisper, my hands framing his face, keeping his gaze locked with mine as he pushes slowly inside me.

The physical connection is exquisite—our bodies remember each other, fit together perfectly—but it's the emotional intimacy that steals my breath. The way he watches my reactions, adjusting to every gasp and sigh. The way his control gradually fractures, giving me glimpses of the raw need beneath his careful surface. The way he whispers my name like a prayer, like salvation.

Our bodies move together in a rhythm that feels both familiar and entirely new. I watch his face as pleasure builds, the way his perfect composure dissolves in increments, his expression more open and vulnerable than I've ever seen it. I want to memorize this—Elliot Carrington completely unguarded, walls down, heart exposed.

"I love you," I tell him, the words falling from my lips like a revelation even though I've known it for weeks. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

The declaration pushes him closer to the edge, his movements becoming more urgent, more intense. His fingers find where we're joined, circling with deliberate pressure that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"Look at me," he commands softly when my eyes start to close. "I want to see you. All of you."

I force my eyes open, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with physical nakedness. Our gazes lock as pleasure crests, my body tightening around his, drawing him deeper. He follows me over the edge moments later, my name a rough benediction on his lips, his arms tight around me as if afraid I might disappear.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my back. The silence between us is comfortable, weighted with everything we've said and everything we no longer need to say.

"Stay with me," he murmurs eventually, his voice rumbling beneath my ear. "Not just tonight. For real this time."

I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him with mock seriousness. "Are you asking me to move in, Counselor? That's a big step for someone who color-codes his sock drawer."

His smile is soft, unguarded. "I'm asking for everything, Josie. Moving in. A future. The chance to figure out how your chaos and my order can coexist in the same space. The opportunity to wake up to your off-key singing and your dog's toys under my furniture for as long as you'll have me."

My heart feels too full, too large for my chest. Three weeks ago I was staring at a blank canvas, convinced I'd never feel whole again. Now I'm here, in his arms, being offered everything I didn't dare hope for.

"You're sure?" I ask, needing the confirmation. "This isn't just post-orgasm endorphins talking? Because I come with a lot of baggage. Literal baggage. And two roommates who might need time to find a replacement. And three dogs who will definitely shed on your Italian leather."

"I'm sure," he says simply. "We'll figure out the details together. Just…stay. Please."

I lean down to kiss him softly, my answer pressed against his lips before I even speak it: "Always."

He pulls me closer, arms tightening around me as if even now, with promises exchanged and bodies sated, he can't bear any distance between us. I settle against him, perfectly content in a way I've never experienced before—not just physically satisfied, but emotionally secure. Known. Valued. Loved.

For the first time in my life, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Elliot

Central Parkin autumn isn't a place I would have willingly spent my Saturday mornings a year ago. Yet here I am, surrounded by falling leaves in shades of amber and gold, my Italian leather shoes replaced by practical boots, my briefcase exchanged for a collection of leashes connected to five dogs of varying sizes and temperaments. Josie walks slightly ahead, instructing a new client on the proper way to manage a hyperactive retriever puppy. She wears a green beret, cocked to one side, and a loose-knit sweater that looks like it's been mauled by a pack of fashion-conscious dogs. Her hair escapes in wild curls from beneath the hat, and there's a smudge of paint on her wrist that she missed in her morning shower. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

"You're staring again," she calls back to me, not even turning around to confirm it. "I can feel the lawyerly judgment boring into my back."

"Not judgment," I correct, lengthening my stride to catch up with her. "Appreciation."

She glances back, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth. "For my expert dog handling or my ability to make this beret work despite your repeated claims that it makes me look like a 'displaced Parisian street performer'?"

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