Page 146 of Lighting the Lamp
When his hand slides down over my hip, the warmth of his palm radiates through me. I press into him, fitting my body against his, and his quiet groan vibrates between us. He trails kisses along my jaw and down my throat, lingering over the flutter of my pulse.
“Alise…” My name is a rough whisper. “This isn’t just tonight for me.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging until his gaze lifts. “I know. It’s not for me either.”
The space between wanting and having dissolves. He eases me back into the cushions, his knee sliding between mine. His gaze drags down my body, unhurried, reverent. He lowers himself until our chests brush, the heat of him sinking into me, his mouth finding the curve of my shoulder in a lingering kiss.
“Tell me what you want,” he breathes against my lips.
“I want all of you. No barriers.” I swallow, my voice steady even as my pulse stutters. “I’m on the pill. There has never been anyone else.”
“Clean. Tested after my last physical. I haven’t been with anyone but you since.” His thumb brushes my cheek, gaze searching mine. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I want to feel all of you.”
He kisses me again, deeper, his hands gliding over me, relearning every curve. My own hands wander over the ridges of his stomach, the cut of his hips, until I wrap my fingers around his length. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping to mine.
“Slow,” he murmurs, but his hips rock subtly into my touch.
I guide him lower, my legs falling open in silent invitation. He settles between them, pressed exactly where I want him. We stay there for a breath, foreheads touching, the moment stretched taut between us. Then he pushes in slowly until I’m full of him, the stretch a sweet, aching heat that has my lips parting on a gasp.
He stills, eyes locked on mine, giving me time to adjust. My hands frame his face, and I nod. We move slowly at first, his thrusts deep and measured, each one winding the tension higher. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me like he’s afraid to break me, like I’m something precious.
My nails rake down his back as the pleasure coils low in my belly, tightening with every deep stroke. I wrap my legs around him, holding him where I need him most. His control slips, hips rolling harder, deeper, his forehead pressed to mine, and our hearts pounding in sync.
When I finally break apart, it’s with a shudder that rips through me, my nails digging into his shoulders as heat floods every inch of me. He follows soon after, a low groan in my ear, his body tightening before he spills into me, the last thrusts slow and lingering.
“I’m not letting you go again.”
“Then don’t.” I smile against his skin, my fingers threading through his hair.
He exhales as if he’s been holding the promise in his lungs for weeks, his hand splayed wide at my back, keeping me close. We stay like that, our bodies still joined, the world outside this room distant and unimportant.
Eventually, he shifts, guiding me to roll onto my side. The couch creaks softly under us as he slides in behind me, fitting his body to mine like we were made to slot together. His arm comes around my waist, pulling me back against the warm, solid length until there’s no space left between us. I lace my fingers through his, holding his hand over my heart. The steady weight feels like an anchor.
“We’ll figure it out.” His fingertips trace slow circles at the small of my back. “The hard stuff, the good stuff… all of it.”
I turn my head just enough to catch his eyes over my shoulder. “Together?”
“Every day. Even the ones that scare us, especially those.”
“You’re going to get sick of me.”
“Not possible.” His lips brush against my forehead. “You’re it for me, Lisey. Always have been.”
I press his hand tighter to my chest, closing my eyes and letting the weight of his arm around me push away every doubt. The world outside can wait. Right now, there’s only this. With his warmth at my back, his heartbeat steady against me, and the quiet, certain promise that no matter what’s ahead, we’ll keep showing up.
Just like he promised.
Chapter Forty-Three
Alise
The boxes are winning. They’re stacked like fortresses around the kitchen, my neat handwriting declaringFRAGILEorDON’T BE A MENACEas if cardboard and Sharpie could tame chaos. Every time I peel back a flap, the universe rewards me with more bubble wrap than answers.
Beau leans against the counter in sweats and a worn Timberwolves tee, forearms flexing in a way that should come with a legal disclaimer. He’s got a box cutter in one hand and brows pulled down in concentration, wearing that focused look that means he’s about to do something either incredibly useful or borderline criminal.
He lifts a wineglass into the light like he’s auditioning it for Broadway, then crouches to slide it into the lowest cabinet.
