Page 89 of Guarded from Havoc

Then he tilts my hips. Hits that spot one more time.

Like a shuttle taking flight, I explode into space.

Its flames bursting to life in a flash of light.

An intensity of sensation that steals my breath.

All my muscles lock up, from my fingers to my toes.

As I convulse around Erik, he goes impossibly hard, thickening and pulsing inside me.

Feeling him filling me, not just with his body but his seed, is something far deeper than just a physical bond.

It’s trust.

Love.

Two people fully becoming one.

Since we’re sitting, Erik just hugs me to him as the aftershocks ripple through us. His heart is pounding, just like mine. He presses soft kisses to my head, over and over. Between each one, he murmurs, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I wrap my arms around him, or at least as far as they’ll reach given the breadth of his back, and squeeze hard.

Protectiveness sweeps through me.

No, I’m not strong enough to protect him from a physical threat. Not without a ton of training, and maybe not even then.

But I can protect his heart. I can look out for him. I can pay attention to things that might be triggering and find ways to help him.

I can put him above everyone else, in every way.

It might not have been long. But of this, I’m certain.

“I love you,” I tell him. “I love you so much. And you’ll always come first. I promise.”

Erik goes still. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then he leans back to look at me, his gaze dark with emotion. “Tate. So will you. Always.”

CHAPTER 17

ERIK

“Do I look okay?”

Tatum walks into the bedroom and does a cute little spin. “Is this proper game night attire?” she continues, “or should I be wearing something nicer?”

“Nicer than what you’re wearing now?” I cock my head as I inspect her outfit, which looks pretty damn perfect to me. She’s wearing dark jeans that accentuate her legs and show off her peach-shaped ass, a pale pink wraparound shirt that dips into a slight V in the front, showing a hint of voluptuous cleavage, and sandals that expose her cute little feet, decked out with matching pink on her toes.

I drop my phone on the mattress and get off the bed, crossing the room and taking her into my arms. “You look amazing,” I tell her. “Absolutely perfect.”

“How can you tell when you’re looking at the top of my head?” Tate teases. She steps out of the hug and spins again, this time more slowly. “Are yousureI look okay?”

This insecure Tate isn’t one I’m used to. Not that I expect her to be confident all the time—shit, I’m not, so that would be prettydamn hypocritical—but this is the first time she’s ever expressed concern about what she’s wearing.

In my opinion, she has no reason to be worried about anything she puts on. Tate could wear a literal garbage bag and still look great.

“Tate,” I start, gentling my tone. “Is something wrong?” Catching her hand, I give it a little squeeze. And I try really hard not to let my attention wander to the tempting curve of her breasts or the kissable pink shimmer of her lips.

As I wait for her to respond, I remind myself that it’s only been a week since I got back from Idaho, not even a month since the island, and it’s natural for Tate to have moments when her emotions overwhelm her.

---