I kiss him harder.Desperately. Because I need him to understand. Need him tofeelthis. Need him to stop looking at himself like he’s something ruined beyond love.
“I love you,” I breathe against his lips before kissing him again. “Jude, I love you so much.”
His forehead presses against mine. “You almostdiedbecause of me.”
“And I would do it again,” I say immediately. “If it meant getting you away from that horrible fucking man.”
Jude stares at me.
“I would survivehellfor you,” I whisper. “I don’t want to live without you ever again. Do you understand me?”
A devastated sound leaves him, and then he kisses me again, passionately. Months of fear and grief and longing collapse between us all at once as his hands slide into my hair, his mouth trembling faintly against mine while emotion pours out of him in waves too large for words now.
I feel tears on his cheeks. Mine too. Neither of us stops kissing anyway.
Jude pulls back only slightly, his nose brushing mine while his hands cradle my face with heartbreaking gentleness. “I don’t want to go further,” he whispers. “You’re still healing.”
I kiss him again before answering. “I don’t care.”
“Are you sure?”
My voice shakes. This man has always made sure that I was safe. Even with him. “Yes, Jude. I’m sure.”
And slowly, carefully, he guides me back to the bed. The backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I sink down onto the duvet, the soft fabric a definite contrast to the rigid tension in Jude’s body. He hovers over me, his damp hair falling into his hazel eyes. The clean yet musky scent of him floods my senses, calming me even as my heart hammers against my ribs.
He searches my face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of pain. But there is only need. Only a desperate, clawing hunger to be close to him, to seal the distance that the horror of the last few months had carved between us.
“Emma,” he breathes, my name a prayer on his lips. His thumbs brush over the damp tracks of my tears. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I whisper, reaching up to tug gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.
He groans when my fingers wrap around him, and finally, he lets himself go. He captures my mouth again, slower this time. His tongue sweeps against mine, tasting me, and I open for him. My hands roam over the hard planes of his warm shoulders, tracing the intricate ink of the tattoos on his arms, feeling the muscles coil and flex under my touch.
With agonizing slowness, he lowers his weight onto me, supporting himself on his elbows to keep the pressure off my healing side. The heat of his skin sears me through the thin fabric of my shirt. I can feel the heavy, rigid length of him pressing against my thigh, which makes my own arousal spike in a sudden rush of wetness between my legs.
“I’ve been so scared of what this has done to us,” he murmurs against my throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin just below my ear.
I arch my neck, giving him better access, my fingers tangling in his damp hair. “Nothing could ever take me from you. We were always meant to find our way back to each other.”
He stares into my soul for a moment. Last time I said that to him, he might not have believed it. But he needs to now. He sits back, his eyes darkening as he reaches for the hem of my shirt. He pauses, his gaze flicking down to my bandaged ribs. “May I?”
I nod, lifting my arms so he can pull the fabric over my head. The air in the room is cool, but his gaze is fire. He traces the edge of the white bandage with the tip of his finger before his hand moves higher to cup my breast. His touch is electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.
He leans down, first pressing his lips to where he was just tracing along my bandage. Emotion suddenly swells inside me, but before I cry again, he takes my nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, his teeth scraping enough to send sparks dancing down my spine. I moan, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He switches to the other side,giving the same attention, while his hand slides down my stomach, his fingers skimming the waistband of my underwear.
His hand slips beneath the fabric. He groans low in his throat when he feels how wet I am.
I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand.
He teases my clit with light, rhythmic circles, his touch maddeningly soft. It feels good, but I need more.
“Jude,” I beg, my voice breathy and high. “I really don’t want to wait.”
He pulls his hand away, and I whine at the loss, but he’s just moving to strip off his sweatpants. He kicks them to the floor, and then he’s back over me. His body is a map of scars and muscle, a testament to everything he’s survived, and I love every inch of him. He hooks his fingers into my panties, sliding them down my legs and tossing them aside.
He settles between my legs, his weight resting on his forearms again. “Look at me,” he commands softly.
I meet his gaze, drowning in the hazel depths. There is so much love there, so much intensity, it makes my chest ache. “I love you,” I say again, because it’s bursting from me.