Page 104 of The Secrets We Built Together

The moment I slid into her, we both stilled, breath caught between us. It was everything—the connection, the heat, the raw, desperate need. We moved together in a rhythm that felt inevitable, as though our bodies had been made for this, for each other.

She clung to me, moaning my name like a prayer, and I whispered hers back with every thrust, every kiss, every heartbeat. The studio faded away, the whole world narrowing down to the two of us tangled together in the heat of something sacred and shattering.

I slipped a hand between us, my fingers finding that bundle of nerves that had her grinding against me, hissing out in pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” she panted.

“Never.”

When she came, she arched beneath me, crying out, her fingers digging into my back. I followed moments later, groaning into her shoulder, undone by the intensity of her own release.

We lay there tangled on the couch, limbs still intertwined, sweat cooling on our skin. I kissed her temple, her cheek, her mouth, unable to stop touching her.

She looked up at me, hair tousled, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. "Xander?"

“Hmmm?”

“Take me to our bed.”

I smiled, finally hearing the words I’d heard whispered in my dreams. Feeling the weight of this one perfect moment where we crossed that final bridge to accepting the relationship neither of us had ever seen coming. Even if those around us had thought it was so obvious.

I nodded, brushing her damp hair away from her face. "Tonight and every night after."

She rested her head on my chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. "I feel like I've been holding my breath for months. And now... I can finally exhale."

I wrapped my arms around her tighter. "Then breathe, baby. I've got you."

I scooped her up in my arms, heading for the door, not caring for a single moment that we both as naked as the day we were born. I was taking my lady back to our bed, and we were staying there until this whole beautiful miracle finally started to feel real.

Personally, I was hoping it would take a very long time.

Chapter 37

Xander

Iwoke with a start, my arm instinctively reaching across the empty space beside me. The sheets were cold. Blake was gone.

For a moment, panic clawed at my chest. It was stupid—she had probably just gotten up with Amelia—but after everything we'd been through, that initial spike of fear was hard to shake. I blinked at the clock: 5:47 a.m. Even Amelia wasn't usually up this early.

I listened for the familiar sounds of Blake moving around the kitchen or the soft murmurs she made when talking to Amelia. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant chirp of early morning birds.

Throwing back the covers, I padded barefoot out of the bedroom. The soft glow of a nightlight spilled from Amelia's room. I peeked inside to find her still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, one arm flung over her head in complete abandonment. Relief flooded through me, but it still didn't explain where Blake had gone.

That's when I saw it—the soft light coming from the studio window from the studio just across the way.

I grabbed the baby monitor and silently walked outside, not wanting to disturb her but also wanting to be there if Blake was sitting in front of an empty canvas again, mourning the loss of her art.

Instead, the gentle sound of the scrape of a brush against canvas drifted across to me. The door was cracked open, spilling a thin line of light onto the darkened pathway.

I approached quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever was happening inside. When I gently pushed the door wider, the sight before me stopped me in my tracks.

Blake stood before an easel, her back to me, completely absorbed in the canvas in front of her. She wore one of my old t-shirts, hanging loose on her small frame, splotches of paint already staining the hem. Her pink hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, secured with what looked like a paintbrush. Several more brushes were tucked behind her ears, and her bare feet shifted unconsciously as she worked, creating small smears of blue and yellow on the hardwood floor.

The room was a hurricane of creative energy—tubes of paint scattered across every surface, reference sketches pinned to the walls, empty coffee mugs gathering like a small army on the desk. Music played softly from her phone, something classical and gentle that I'd never heard her listen to before.

But it was the painting that held me transfixed. Even from the doorway, I could see it was unlike anything she'd shown me before. It was us—Blake, Amelia, and me—sitting on a blanket under the massive oak tree at the edge of Booker's property. The light filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns across our faces, and Blake had somehow captured the exact look in Amelia's eyes when she laughed. In the painting, my arm was around Blake's shoulders, and I was looking at her with anexpression that left me feeling exposed—like she'd seen straight into my soul and painted what she'd found there.

And there, sitting proudly beside us, was a small, scruffy dog I'd never seen before.

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