And when he slides his fingers between us, finding my achiest place, every cell inside of me cries out in response. My legs tremble around his hips as he moves again, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me. His fingers don’t rush, they just stroke and circle, coaxing me higher until I’m so close I can’t breathe.
But he doesn’t let me go there. Not yet.
Instead, he slows.
His forehead presses to mine, and I open my eyes to find him staring down at me. Those inky blue irises, so sharp and clear, feel like they’re looking straight into my soul.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
His mouth curves. But it’s not playful. It’s reverent.
“No,” he murmurs. “I’m loving you.”
The words hit like a blow to my chest. I don’t know if he means it. If he even realizes he’s said it. But my heart clenches so tight I can barely speak.
“Asher.” It’s a murmur. But I need to say it out loud, to make sure this is real.
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Tenderly. Like the kind of kiss you give somebody you don’t want to lose.
He starts to move again. Slow at first, like he’s savoring every second. The rhythm builds gradually, the way a song does when it’s about to hit that perfect, devastating note. My hips lift to meet his, greedy for every inch, every stroke.
And when his thumb brushes over my clit again, I shatter.
It’s not a quiet, gentle kind of orgasm. It’s a full-body unraveling. A cry rips from my throat as he drives me straight into oblivion. My hands cling to him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.
Maybe he is.
Because even as I’m falling apart he’s still here. His voice in my ear, telling me how beautiful I am. How perfect.
I’m still tightening around him as he groans.
“Francie. I can’t. Fuck, I’m so close.”
I cup his face, needing him to join me. “Let go,” I manage to whisper.
And he does.
With a final thrust he buries his face in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. He comes in thick, long, aching bursts, spilling deep inside of me.
We lie there tangled. Our hearts racing, our bodies slick with sweat. Aftershocks rush through me, making him groan every time I contract.
His voice is hot against my ear. “You’re mine,” he tells me.
It isn’t quite him declaring himself. But it’s close. And he’s right. Iamhis. I’ve been his for a long time. And I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.
thirty-one
ASHER
She falls asleep almost immediately. I barely get a chance to clean her up – or offer her a real dessert – before she’s sprawled across my sheets like she belongs here. Her hair is a wild halo on the pillow, one hand curled beneath her cheek and the other resting where I can feel the warmth of her on my chest.
I should be sleeping too. God knows I need it. But instead I lie here watching her, unable to look away.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger just long enough to memorize the softness of her cheek.
She sighs in her sleep, turning toward me like she knows I’m here and she needs me closer.
My chest tightens.