Page 218 of Forsaking Midnight

He crawls back up my body, kissing every inch of skin along the way, and when his face is level with mine, he’s smiling like a man who just won something he didn’t know he was competing for.

“Good?” he asks.

“You know it’s good.”

“I’m confirming.”

I pull him down to me and taste myself on his mouth, and he groans and settles his weight between my thighs and I can feel how hard he is against me.

He gives me a moment to catch my breath, but I’m greedy for him.

“Your turn, Champ,” I whisper.

He pushes inside me with a steadiness that makes my back arch and my breath catch and my fingers curl into the musclesof his shoulders. And then he moves, slow and deep, and we find the rhythm together—the one that belongs only to us, in this bed, in this cabin, in this life we’re building out of stubbornness and seven-second memories.

The morning light pours through the window. Cavall barks at something outside. The French press sits empty on the counter, the dishes are drying in the rack, and there’s a list on the fridge in my handwriting that saysPrep: saffron, lobster, cream, call Papa.

And Lance is looking at me the way he did the very first time, like I’m the center of something he didn’t know how to orbit.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.” I press my hand to his face. “Now stop talking.”

He laughs. I laugh. And somewhere beyond the window, past the mist and waterfalls, the Lady of the Lake smiles.