Page 140 of Dial L for Lawyer
He spreads my knees and leans forward, his hands warm and heavy on my thighs. "Say it."
"I love you." I thread my hands through his hair, my voice steadier every time. "I love you."
He launches himself up and kisses me so hard I topple backwards onto the bed, laughing and breathless. He's above me now, bracing his weight on his hands. There's a wildness to his grin, a raw and eager happiness that's so sincere it borders on embarrassing.
"I would pay good money to have a recording of those words," he whispers against my lips. "I'd play it every morning just to make sure I didn't dream this."
"You are such a sap," I say, but my chest fills with a strange, weightless feeling, like someone's removed all the fear I've been carrying and replaced it with helium.
He shifts his weight, propping himself on one elbow to look down at me. His free hand traces the curve of my cheek, and I can feel him cataloging every detail of my face—the tear tracks, the puffy eyes, the mess I've become in the last few hours.
"I want you to know something," he says, his voice suddenly serious. "No matter what happens with the ethics board, with my career—I need you to believe that this, right here, is worth everything to me."
"Don't say that," I interrupt, but he shakes his head.
"I need to say this. You need to hear it." His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. "You want to know why I really made that stupid deal with you? It wasn't because I thought you owed me something. It was because I was terrified you'd disappear again, and I couldn't handle that. I'd rather be unethical than lose you before I even had a chance to show you what we could be."
My heart does something acrobatic in my chest. "That's the most romantically problematic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm full of romantic problems," he says, lowering his head to kiss my neck. "It's one of my many charms."
I laugh despite everything, my hands fisting in his shirt. "Your many charms are about to get you disbarred."
"Worth it," he murmurs against my collarbone, and I feel the vibration of his words in my chest.
"This is insane," I whisper, even as my body responds to his touch. "We're in the middle of a crisis and you're?—"
"Making love to the woman I adore," he finishes, lifting his head to meet my eyes. "Yeah. I am."
The words hit me like a physical thing. Making love. Not fucking, not having sex. Making love. Like something precious and deliberate and real.
My heart catches in my throat, and I'm suddenly aware of everything—the weight of him above me, the sound of his breathing, the fact that I just said "I love you" for the first time in my adult life and meant it with every cell in my body.
"Caleb," I whisper, and his name in my mouth feels different now. Sacred somehow. "I need you to know that I'll be there. For whatever happens next. I'll testify, I'll tell them everything. I'll tell them nothing. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it. I won't let you face this alone."
He smiles, that devastating smile that's been undoing me since the first night we met. "I know you will. That's why I love you."
His lips find mine again, and I surrender to the feeling of being completely known and still wanted. His hands slide under my shirt, warm against my skin, and I arch into his touch.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling my shirt over my head and letting his eyes graze over me. "Every single part of you."
He traces the line of my collarbone with his lips, then lower, and I arch into his touch without reservation. No calculation, no performance. Just pure reaction.
"I love you," I say again, because I can. Because the words are finally free.
He stills above me, lifting his head to meet my eyes. "Keep saying it."
"I love you," I repeat, stronger this time. "I love you, Caleb. I love you."
Something breaks open in his expression. He strips off his shirt, then comes back to me with a hunger that's somehow gentle. Like he's starving but determined to savor every bite.
When he touches me now, it's different from every other time. Slower, more deliberate. Like he's memorizing the texture of my skin, the way I respond to his hands. I realize I'm doing the same, cataloging the way his breath hitches when I drag my nails down his back, the sound he makes when I bite his shoulder.
"I love you," I whisper against his throat, and he groans like the words physically affect him.
"Again," he demands, his hands mapping the curve of my waist.
"I love you." It's easier every time, like a muscle I'm finally learning to use. "I love you, I love you."
