Page 91 of Filthy Lies

As afternoon fades toward evening, we swim together in the shallow water. Vince holds Sofiya while I float beside them and watch, unable to stop myself from grinning like a fool. Her tiny hands pat his face with complete trust.

That’s the freeze frame that I’ll die remembering: five pink, tiny, chubby fingers splayed out across a scarred, bearded jaw, both wet with ocean droplets glowing in the sunlight.

Hang it in the fucking Louvre.

“Thank you,” Vince says quietly as we trek back to the blankets. “For today.”

I take his free hand. “It doesn’t have to be just today, you know. This is what we’re fighting for—the chance to have more days like this.”

He nods, but I see the shadow return to his eyes. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last long, this peace. I guess I just kinda fooled myself into thinking maybe it would.

“One perfect day is more than most people get.”

I want to argue, to insist we deserve more. But I hold my tongue. For now, this day is enough. This stolen slice of normality amid chaos.

We eat dinner on the deck as twilight descends. Sofiya dozes in her portable bassinet. Vince touches me throughout the meal—my hand, my knee, the nape of my neck—as if reassuring himself I’m still here. That we all are.

When he kisses me as the first stars appear, I taste something different on his lips. Not possession or punishment or power.

Gratitude.

We put Sofiya to bed in the master suite, her bassinet stationed within arm’s reach beside the king-sized bed. Vince’s eyes never leave her as she drifts to sleep.

“I never knew I could feel this way,” he confesses in the half-dark. “Like my heart lives outside my body.”

“That’s parenthood,” I tell him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

“More terrifying than anything I’ve ever done.” His arm slides around my waist. “And I’ve done some terrifying shit, Rowan.”

We stand there watching our daughter sleep until Vince turns to me, his hands finding my hips. “And now, I think it’s time to properly thank you for today.”

The look in his eyes sends heat pooling between my thighs. Despite the soreness from last night’s rough treatment, my body responds instantly.

“I’m listening,” I whisper.

His fingers find the ties of my sundress. “No, you’re not. You’re talking.” He tugs, and the fabric falls away. “And what I want right now is to make you completely incapable of speech.”

I should be exhausted. Should still be recovering from the punishment he inflicted last night.

But as Vince lowers me to the bed, his mouth tracing the constellation of marks he left on my skin, all I feel is hunger. This time is different.

Last night was claiming.

Tonight isworship.

He kisses every bruise he created, every fingerprint branded into my flesh. Whispers apologies against each mark before reclaiming it with his mouth.

When he spreads my thighs, I’m already soaked for him.

“Still sore?” he asks.

“Yes.” I wind my fingers into his hair. “Do it anyway.”

His smile is pure sin in the moonlight. “So demanding.”

He takes his time with me, using his mouth and hands to build me toward a stuttering, drooling orgasm. My body, still sensitive from the night before, responds to the lightest touch.

Only when I’m post-orgasmic and limp does he enter me. It’s slow and soft and his eyes skewer mine the whole time.

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