Page 138 of Stand Your Ground
We slipped inside through the sliding door like teenagers at a house party, and it was ridiculous how quickly the two of us could go from sweet to stupid. The hallway was dim, a runner soft under my bare feet. Carter checked doors with the exaggerated caution of a cartoon burglar until he found a quiet guest room with a lamp left on low and a pile of beach towels tossed on the loveseat. The window was cracked to the water and smelled like salt and laundry detergent.
“Romantic,” I said.
“The romance is me,” he said, and then his mouth was on mine again, eager and greedy, reverent and ridiculous. His hands learned my body all over again like they did every day — this new curve here, this stretch of skin that had gone extra sensitive. He knelt when he kissed my belly, and I carded myfingers through his hair and cursed softly because the sight of him would never not undo me.
He was gentle because I was his, and he was hungry because I was his, and I pulled him down with a hand knotted in his shirt because he was mine. My world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on my throat, his palm cradling my belly, the little hitch in his breath when I whispered something filthy in his ear because I could, because we were us.
And there were a million things we still needed to figure out — what we would name our daughter, what color we’d paint the nursery walls, whether we’d buy an old house on the water or build a new one of our own.
But one thing was certain.
I was a better woman for having that man’s love, for letting him in when it felt impossible to do.
And I’d always be thankful that, even at his most insecure, he was never too afraid to shoot his shot when it came to me.
