Page 94 of Call It What You Want
We shed our clothes piece by piece, then the distance between us vanishes. His breath mingles with mine, uneven, the rhythm of us finding its old, unspoken pattern. It’s not rushed, it’s desperate in a quieter way.
“I love you,” he breathes, like it’s the first truth he’s ever trusted himself to say.
The words hit somewhere deep, undoing me in ways nothing else could. “Say it again,” I whisper, my hands gripping him closer, needing to hear it one more time, to believe it.
His mouth brushes my ear. “I love you,Mrs. McKnight.” A vow, a confession, a surrender.
And when I say it back, it’s not just a reply—it’s an exhale. A release of everything I’ve been holding in since the night everything went wrong. “I love you, too.”
Every movement after that feels different—slower, deeper, threaded with something that’s no longer just need but belonging. The tension that’s held us apart finally unravels, replaced by something softer, but stronger.
Our mouths find each other again, slow at first, tasting, teasing, memorizing. His hands roam me like they’ve never left, mapping every curve, every shiver, every response he’s been craving. I pull him closer, hips meeting, grinding, the friction sharp and perfect, and he groans low in my ear, “Mine, only mine.”
His hands twist in my hair, holding me as tightly as he slides his cock into me. My back arches instinctively, breath hitching, heat building until it’s unbearable, every nerve ending singing. I feel him tremble against me, and it sends a jolt straight through me.
God, he’s already so close.
And then we let go together, my body clenching around him, his groan swallowed by the rise and fall of our shared climax. It’s messy, it’s perfect, it’s everything we’ve been holding back, finally spilling over in a rhythm that belongs only to us. We collapse into each other, gasping, hearts pounding, skin slick with sweat, and I finally allow myself to justbehere with him, in this, in the home we’ve made in each other.
Afterward, he pulls me close, tucking me beneath his chin. The silence feels safe now, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after surviving something that should have broken you.
I trace lazy patterns across his chest and whisper, “We’re okay.”
He presses a kiss to my hair, voice rough and quiet. “Yeah. We are.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Ava
Morning sunlight filters through the kitchen windows, painting everything in gold. We’re at Rush House, Jameson sits in his high chair, fists full of blueberries, chewing them to mush while Jackson pretends to be horrified.
“That’s it,” he says, mock-serious. “You’re grounded. No more fruit until you learn basic table manners.”
Jameson responds with a sticky grin and smears blueberry juice across his cheek.
I laugh from the counter, stirring batter in a mixing bowl. “You’re really gonna teach table manners to a two-year-old?”
“Yeah. He listens to me,” Jackson says, scooping Jameson up and blowing a loud raspberry against his neck until Jameson squeals. “See? Total fear and respect.”
It’s domestic chaos in the best way—Jackson barefoot and shirtless, our son shrieking with laughter, pancakes burning on the stove. Everything in me wants to freeze it, to hold this moment still.
Jackson’s grin softens when he catches me watching. He crosses the room, looping one arm around my waist and pressing a kiss to my temple. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I set the spoon down and look up at him. “You?”
We haven’t talked about his dad, or Chase, or Yates. When he came back to the bedroom yesterday, he was covered in blood and didn’t even glance at me—he went straight into the shower. By the time he stepped out, it was like he’d left all of it behind. The violence, the chaos, the weight of it—it had all washed down the drain.
He nods, the smallest flicker of awe in his expression. “You know, this—” He glances between Jameson, the messy kitchen, and the sunlight. “This is everything I never thought I’d get to have.”
My chest tightens. “You deserve it.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, eyes on Jameson. “But I know I wouldn’t have it without you.”
The back door swings open, and Roman strolls in like he owns the place. Well, I guess, according to Jackson, he does. A girl with long chestnut colored hair trails behind him, wearing an oversized hoodie and holding two travel coffee cups.
“Hey,” she says to me. “I’m Lux.”
“Ava,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
