Page 44 of The Bastard's Lily
"Look what you've done," he says, reverence in his voice as his hands map the silvery stretch marks on my hips. "You carried our son," he whispers, his fingertips tracing the silvery marks with reverence.
We stand before each other completely bare, all pretense stripped away with our clothes. The moonlight spills through the curtains, painting his body in silver and shadow. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches for my hand.
"Come here," he says, voice rough with emotion.
He guides me toward the bed, his fingers warm and sure around mine. The sheets are cool against my skin as he lowers me down; the mattress dips beneath our combined weight. He hoversabove me for a moment, his gaze traveling over every inch of me like he's committing me to memory all over again.
"Is this real?" he asks, his hand cupping my cheek. "Tell me this is real."
I turn my face to press a kiss against his palm. "I'm here. We're here."
His body covers mine, skin to skin, and I gasp at the contact. It's overwhelming—the heat of him, the weight, the familiar scent that somehow survived four years of absence. My hands explore the landscape of his back, finding new scars, new stories written in raised flesh.
His lips trail down my neck, leaving heat in their wake. I shiver as he dips lower, his mouth finding the hollow between my collarbones. He takes his time, savoring each inch of skin like it's the first time all over again. And in some ways, it is.
"I need to taste you," he murmurs against my ribs, his voice vibrating through my bones. "Every part of you."
I arch as his mouth moves lower, his hands spreading my thighs with gentle insistence. My fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses down my stomach, lingering at the stretch marks there. He traces each silvery line with his tongue like they're sacred, like they're proof of something miraculous.
"Beautiful," he whispers against my hipbone. "So fucking beautiful."
When his mouth finally finds me, I gasp, my back lifting off the mattress. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me steady as his tongue explores with devastating precision. He remembers everything—every spot that makes me tremble, every rhythm that drives me wild. Five years apart, and my body is still a map he knows by heart.
"Rook," I breathe, his name a prayer on my lips. He holds me there, at the edge, his mouth relentless until I shatter beneath him, waves of pleasure crashing through my body. My thighs tremble against his shoulders, but he doesn't stop, drawing out every last sensation until I'm gasping his name like a litany.
When he finally moves back up my body, his eyes are dark with need, his lips glistening. He kisses me deeply, and I taste myself on his tongue, raw and intimate.
"I need you," he whispers against my mouth. "Now."
I reach between us, guiding him to me. We both freeze when he pushes inside, the connection so overwhelming that for a moment neither of us can move. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
"God, Calla," he groans, voice breaking. "You feel like coming home."
He moves slowly at first, each thrust deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. This isn't like before—no anger driving us, no desk rattling beneath us. This is a rediscovery, an excavation ofeverything we once were to each other. A slow, careful rebuilding of something we thought was lost forever.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he shudders against me. His hands frame my face as he moves, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling.
"I love you," he whispers, the words falling between us like stones into still water. "I never stopped. Not for a second."
My heart cracks open. "I love you too. God, Rook, I love you so much it hurts."
He captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises, like second chances. Our bodies move together in perfect rhythm, finding that familiar dance we thought we'd forgotten. But muscle memory runs deeper than time, deeper than pain.
I feel myself climbing toward that precipice again, my body tightening around him. He feels it too, his movements becoming more urgent.
"Come with me," he breathes against my ear. "I need you to come with me."
I shatter first, his name torn from my throat as pleasure crashes through me. He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck as he spills into me, his body shaking with the force of release. My name on his lips sounds like redemption.
We stay like that, tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing. His weight anchors me, keeps me from floating away on the tide of emotion threatening to drown me. I stroke his hair, feeling the dampness at his temples, the familiar texture between my fingers.
"I can't believe you're here," I whisper into the darkness.
He shifts, rolling to his side but keeping me close, one arm draped possessively over my waist. His fingers trace idle patterns on my hip.
"I keep thinking I'll wake up," he admits, voice rough. "Been having this dream for years. Never ends like this, though."
I turn to face him, our noses almost touching. "How does it usually end?"
