Page 58 of You've Got The Love
I never thought I’d wake up next to someone again—let alone her. Not like this. Not tangled in warm sheets with my hand on her hip and my chest full of something I don’t want to name yet.
Her breathing is slow, lips parted just slightly, lashes resting soft against her cheek. I could stay like this forever. I could worship this woman every morning and never get tired of it.
My cock stirs against her thigh, hardening just from the scent of her on the sheets, from the memory of the way she moaned my name. I press my lips to her temple and force myself to breathe through it. It’s not about that. Not right now.
Not when I’ve never wanted someone this much and this gently at the same time.
Eventually, she stirs—stretching with a quiet sigh and nuzzling into my chest. I feel her lips curve into a sleepy smile before she blinks up at me.
“Morning,” she mumbles.
God. She doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“Morning,” I say back, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
We stay like that for a while—pressed close, wrapped in the kind of warmth that doesn’t demand anything more than breathing. Eventually, I feel her shift again, and beforeI can stop her, she’s up and moving through the cabin in nothing but my hoodie.
I watch her from the bed, propped up on one elbow. She moves like she’s starting to feel safe here. Like she’s not waiting for the floor to collapse under her. I don’t think she knows how much that means to me.
She fills the kettle and lights the stove, barefoot on the old floorboards, humming under her breath. That sound—it ruins me. Not just because it’s soft and unguarded, but because it feels like a glimpse into a life we might have had if things were different.
Every so often, she pauses to peek through the curtain, scanning the dark towpath outside before letting the fabric fall back into place. Then she goes right back to moving around the small galley kitchen, the scent of brewing tea beginning to drift through the air.
I drag myself out of bed when I smell tea and something vaguely burnt, padding across the narrow space toward her. The boat rocks faintly underfoot, and for the first time in days, the air between us feels more like home than like a hideout.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” I say, leaning against the counter.
Her head turns, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You do?”
“Yeah.” I rest one hand on the edge of the counter, the other hanging loose. My gaze drags over her face like I’m replaying it in my head. “One of my early runs from the Dutch markets. Van was packed with tulips and roses. Ipulled up outside your shop, and there you were—front window, potting plants. Hair piled in a messy bun, blonde ringlets falling everywhere, freckles across your nose.”
Her lips press together, a smile fighting to break through.
“They got me,” I say quietly.
Her brows pull in. “What did?”
“The freckles.” My voice drops, softer now, but deliberate. “Sun hit you just right, made every single one stand out. You didn’t even look up, but I couldn’t stop staring. You looked… alive. Not staged, not posed. Just… you. And that,” I pause, letting the weight of the words settle between us, “was dangerous for me back then.”
She glances at the curtain again, pulling it back for a quick look outside, though I can tell her mind’s still on what I’ve just said. When she lets it fall, her cheeks are warm with colour.
Her hand lifts almost unconsciously to her cheekbone, fingertips brushing across the light scatter of freckles like she’s just realised they’re there. It’s a shy, almost fragile gesture—and it hooks into something deep in my chest.
I step closer, closing the small space between us until I can feel the faint heat radiating from her. My hand catches her wrist gently, coaxing her fingers away, and I replace her touch with my own. My knuckles graze over her skin in the same path she traced, slow enough that my breath matches the pace.
“You know,” I murmur, my voice barely above the low hum of the kettle, “these still get me.”
Her breath hitches. My thumb skims just under her eye, dragging with deliberate care. “Even now,” I add, “especially now… after I’ve had you under me.”
She leans into my touch like she can’t help it, her eyes dropping for a second before meeting mine again.
“I don’t even remember seeing you that day,” she whispers.
“You didn’t,” I tell her. “You were lost in what you were doing, humming under your breath. I set the buckets down, signed the slip, and walked out. But I thought about those freckles all damn day.”
My mouth curves slowly into a smirk—low, wicked. “Still do. Just… in different ways now.”
Her laugh is quiet, but her blush deepens, and she doesn’t pull away. My hand stays at her cheek, thumb sweeping slow arcs over her skin like I’m committing every inch of it to memory.
