Page 96 of You've Got The Love
“Stay still,” he murmurs against my skin. It’s not a request.
I try, but then he’s kissing his way down my stomach, parting my thighs with his hands, and still holding me open when his mouth finally closes over me. The first stroke of his tongue is deliberate, slow enough to make me ache, then deeper, more insistent.
My hands fist in the sheets, but he pins my hips with his forearm, holding me exactly where he wants me. Every flick, every circle, is paced to unravel me one breath at a time.
“Bas—”It’s half his name, half a plea.
He lifts his head just enough to speak, voice low and rough. “I’m not stopping until you come on my tongue.”
The promise—and the control in it—has me right on the edge, and when he seals his lips around me again, sucking hard, I break, my back arching, a strangled sound spilling out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t let me go until I’m trembling, and when he finally comes up, his mouth is wet, his eyes dark.
Before I can catch my breath, I push him back onto the mattress and slide down his body, tasting salt and heat as I take him into my mouth. His hand threads into my hair, not forcing, just guiding, but the weight of his control is there in the way his fingers tighten when I draw him deeper. I keep my eyes on his, watching his jaw clench, his chest rise and fall faster with every pass of my tongue.
“That’s enough,” he says finally, pulling me up. His voice grits on the words, and it sends a shiver through me.
The last space between us disappears when he pushes into me, slow, inch by inch, until I’m full and stretched around him. My legs wrap around his hips instinctively, pulling him deeper, chasing the connection like I’ll die without it.
We move together—slow at first, breaths syncing, finding a rhythm that feels inevitable, like we’ve been working toward this for years. His hips roll into mine with precision, the friction perfect, his body covering mine like a shield and a promise.
He whispers things into my ear—stuff he’s never said.I love you—things he’s always said.I’ve got you. I’m here. Each one lands in the quiet places where fear used to live, staking claim.
Heat builds quickly, coiling low in my belly until the rest of the room disappears. The glide of his palm along my waist, the scrape of his teeth at my jaw, the way his mouth finds mine when I need it most—it all blurs into the same desperate need to be as close as possible.
When I gasp, he stills, holding me in place, forehead resting against mine. “Tell me,” he murmurs, and the way he’s listening with his whole body makes me dizzy.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe, and he obeys instantly, driving deeper, harder.
He is gentle; he is not gentle. He is careful with me, but there’s nothing careful about the way his hips snap forward or the way he drags a groan from my chest with everythrust. It’s passion and hunger, but it’s also home—the place my body has learned to trust.
The tension snaps all at once. Pleasure crashes over me in a wave so sharp it’s almost too much, and I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, mouth finding his in a desperate, clumsy kiss. He follows me into it, groaning my name against my lips, his own release breaking through in a shuddering thrust.
When it’s over, we collapse together, chests heaving, the sweat cooling on our skin. His forehead rests against mine, both of us still catching our breath. He kisses me once more—soft, lingering, full of everything we just said without words.
Then his palm slides to my belly. He lays it there, warm and protective, fingers splayed like he’s sheltering a small, sacred flame. He doesn’t say anything at first, and he doesn’t have to. Something inside me goes liquid and certain.
“This is where I stay,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “With you. With our baby. Every day.”
I cover his hand with mine. The future is still terrifying—so much unknown—but terror has a different shape when the person beside you refuses to let go.
And he does refuse. Not just in moments like this, when it’s easy to feel safe, but in the small hours of the morning when he makes me tea before I’ve even asked. In the way he takes the long route home just so we can drive past the wildflower field he knows I love. In the way he calls Abelevery night, including me in those conversations makes me feel like I’ve always been part of them. In the way his eyes soften when they find me in a crowd, like I’m the only person he’s looking for.
He’s showing up. Every day, in a hundred small ways, he’s proving that this—me, him,us—isn’t just something he’s surviving. It’s something he’s choosing.
“Hope feels good,” I whisper, and it does. It feels like his hand warm over new life, like the steady thud of his heart under my ear, like rain softening against the glass while a new kind of morning waits on the other side of night.
We drift in the afterglow, and when sleep finally comes, it doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like being held.
Chapter 50
Amber’s Epilogue
It’s been a year since Grace Hope came into our lives—since everything changed in ways I never could have imagined.
The shop is closed for the afternoon, but the scent of lilies and eucalyptus still lingers, soft and fresh in the air. Bas and I sit side by side on the sofa, wrapped in one of those rare, golden moments of quiet. Grace sleeps peacefully in her crib next to us, her tiny breaths rising and falling in the rhythm of a miracle we almost didn’t get.
I glance at Bas, the late-afternoon sun catching in his hair, softening the hard lines I used to think would never fade. It’s strange to think how far we’ve come from the frightened, restless versions of ourselves—two people who hid in cabins and houseboats, who crossed borders with danger at our heels and fear lodged in our chests.
