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Amanda Perkins is my home.

And I’m hers.

She moans into my mouth, and I swallow the sound.

“Fuck, Rusty, you taste so damn good.”

I kiss her deeply, smoothing her hair back and swallowing her soft moans and pants.

She clutches at me, hands gripping my shirt, finding the hem and tugging it up.

I break our kiss and pull it over my head, grabbing the collar of the borrowed shirt she's wearing, and I tear it clean off her.

“Damn, Sweetheart, look at you,” I groan as she pulls me down for more.

We kiss and touch. Like we’re relearning each other—our bodies, our likes and dislikes—as we undress.

And it’s so good.

Even better than before.

I lick into her as we make our way to the bedroom, touching and feeling and memorizing every single thing I can about her as if I can’t bear not to.

And this is the whole damn truth—I need her. She makes me whole.

Without her? There’s no me. Only emptiness.

And I’ve lived through that hell once. Never again, though.

Once we’re inside, there's no slowing down.

No hesitation or doubt.

No stopping us at all.

Since the moment I boarded that plane to Los Angeles, I've felt alive for the first time in years.

Not because of the city.

Not because of the job.

Because of her.

Because somehow this stubborn, beautiful woman opened her heart again and let me back in.

Her pale green eyes are lust-glazed and captivating.

She whimpers as I reach between her legs and find her wet and hot and all for me.

“Fuck, you're soaked for me already, aren't you?”

She nods, and I am salivating for this woman.

I sit on the bed and slide back.

When I lay down, flat on my back, she just stands there, uncertain.

And that breaks my heart a little.