Page 168 of Filthy Promises

“Was there always something there?” I have to know. “In your heart?”

“From the moment you walked in on me that day.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks. “I just didn’t know what to call it. Didn’t know how to face it.”

“And now?”

“Now, I know exactly what to call it.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I love you, Rowan St. Clair. I fucking love you.”

The words wash over me like a baptism, sweeping away every last doubt, every fear, every shred of resistance. I am born again. I am purified by his love.

I throw my arms around his neck. “I love you, too. I’ve loved you for so long.”

His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s different from any we’ve shared before. No domination, no power play, no battle of wills. Just pure, naked emotion flowing between us.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“I’ll make this right,” he promises. “I’ll give you the proposal you deserve, the ring, everything. Just as soon as?—”

“I don’t need any of that.” I slide my hands into his hair. “I just need you. The real you.”

“You have me, Rowan. All of me.”

And then he’s kissing me again, backing me toward the couch, his hands already working at the buttons of my blouse.

“Wait,” I gasp against his mouth. “What about Arkady? Is he still…?”

“Gone,” Vince murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck. “He knows how to make a quiet exit.”

Relief flows through me, followed quickly by a different kind of heat as his hands find my skin.

“I need you,” he whispers, reverent and desperate at once. “Need to feel you. All of you.”

I nod, unable to form words as his mouth continues its devastating journey down my throat, his tongue soothing the marks his father left.

He lowers me onto the couch, following me down, his body covering mine with familiar weight that somehow feels entirely new.

This isn’t like before—not the frantic coupling of lust and danger, not the power games we played to avoid what we really felt.

This is slow.

This is tender.

This is everything.

His hands undress me with worship in every touch. When my blouse falls open, he presses his lips to the curve of my stomach where our child grows.

“Ours,” he murmurs against my skin. “A miracle.”

Tears sting my eyes at the reverence in his voice. I reach for him, tugging at his shirt. “I need to feel you.”

He strips quickly. It’s the same body I’ve memorized in our stolen moments together. But I’m seeing it with new eyes now—seeing the man beneath the scars and tattoos, the heart beneath the armor.

When he slides my pants down and off, he finds the stretch marks on my hips—silver lightning bolts of teenage growth—and trails his tongue along each one, like he’s seeing me with new eyes, too.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

My panties come off last. I raise my hips to let him take them away, but no sooner are they gone than do his lips press against the place where our child will come into the world. As if he’s blessing the space before it is called into service.

“Mine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound possessive.

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