I said that to her once. When I risked it all and thought I’d lost her. She’s giving my words back to me. A slow smile spreads through me. I feel it down to my toes, on the back of my neck, in the pounding center of my chest.

I want to say something, tell her what she means to me, but she’s tugging me down, her mouth fitting over mine.

For a long time, we simply kiss, slow and easy, whispering nonsensical things, exchanging small touches just because we can. Lazy contentment steals over me. She’s warm and delicious, her mouth a wonder, her body my most covetous dream. If all I had of her was this—lying in her arms, tasting her mouth—I’d take it.

But she’s given me everything. The knowledge fills me up, has me threading my fingers into her hair and holding on.

Brenna’s gaze is soft as she rubs the scruff of my beard. “What were you going to tell me in the hallway?”

“Oh, that?” My smile is self-deprecating, the heavy desperation of that moment replaced by buoyant satisfaction. “I was going to engage in a little light begging. Tell you that I was a bonehead coward when I said it was a mistake to ask for more.” I tug her closer. “It was a lie, Bren. I wanted you. So fucking badly, that I said what I thought you wanted to hear so I could keep you in my life.”

“We spent a long time protecting ourselves from each other.” She strokes me to gentle the words. “Made us both a little boneheaded.”

“Now I want to make a joke about bones,” I confess with a laugh. Because it feels so fucking good just to laugh with her.

Her lips purse, but she can’t stop the smile. “Of course, you do.” The smile breaks free, and her lips press to mine. “You gonna?”

“Going to what?” I ask against her lips, distracted.

She snickers. “Bone me?”

I blink—and then burst out laughing, my body quaking with it. God, I adore this woman. So much, my hands are clumsy as I lift her shirt to free her from it. The sight of her pert, pink-tipped breasts has me groaning low in my throat. “Hello, lovelies, oh, how I’ve missed you.”

She huffs a laugh, as I lean down and kiss each rosy tip with due reverence. But the sound dies as I gently suckle one nipple, and her fingers thread through my hair. “Rye…”

“Yeah?” I rasp, nuzzling under the curve of her breast. She smells so good, feels like satin.

“I’ve missed you too.”

The confession, softly spoken and filled with longing, has my heart clenching tight. With dreamlike slowness, I map the silken dips and lines of her body, drawing off her pants as I go. She opens her legs for me, and I find the heat of her, swollen and slick, and all for me.

I need a taste. She is luscious, melting against my tongue, dripping honey that I lap up with growing fervor. I drown in her flavors, the musky scent of her desire. It feeds my own, and I grind into the bed to ease the ache. I am utterly lost, working her as she comes and comes.

Until she grabs at my hair, tugging with impatience. “Up here,” she demands, all dewy pink and panting. Greedy hands pluck at my shirt. Grinning, I help her out, whipping it off, easing down my pants. My dick slaps against my abs, it’s so damn hard.

I palm it, squeezing hard to get it under control. But her hands are on me now, running along my shoulders like a balm. I surge up to kiss her, needing those lips, needing to feel her skin pressed to mine. It’s been too long. Forever. Fucking agony.

But she’s wrapped around me now, easing the pain. Legs locked with mine, her hands stroke my back, grasping my ass. I love it. Love everything about her.

I murmur words of reverence as I cup her cheek, kiss her mouth. Tell her how much I missed her, missed this, how she’s the only one I think of, the only one I want. She shivers, moans against my lips.

“There’s only you,” she whispers. “No one else will do.”

Has she any idea what that does to me? My lids prickle, emotion clogging my throat as I ease between her spread thighs. Staring down at her softly smiling face, auburn strands of her hair sticking to her flushed skin, my arms bracketing her slim body, I push into the snug clasp of her and shudder, undone, pleasure flowing down my limbs like liquid heat.

I move slowly, going in deep and holding there for a long moment before pulling back and doing it again. Again. Working myself home, claiming my place, making her moan.

I kiss her mouth, touch her cheeks, the curve of her neck. This is love. I know it now. The utter adulation in our touches, the perfection of it. It is peace and comfort and pleasure all in one.

The knowledge swells between us, reflected in her eyes. And she touches me with trembling hands, moves with me, taking me just as I take her. In that moment, I know the truth: I am home.

After a long journey, I am home.

Brenna

The little house in the woods just beyond the lake started life as a gamekeeper’s cottage. Like something out of a fairy tale with its thatched roof, eyebrow dormers, and walls of timber and stucco. It had fallen into disrepair until Uncle Xander renovated the place in the 1990s. Now, the floors glow mellow honey and marshmallow-cream walls contrast with the dark old beams stretched over the low ceiling.

As kids, Killian and I used to sneak in here from time to time, pretending to be Hansel and Gretel. Or, in our teen years, to smoke pot and read books, or listen to music while lounging on the overstuffed sofa set up before the river-stone fireplace.

At some point last night, an envelope was thrust under Rye’s door, containing a heavy iron key and a note from Killian that read:

For the love of all that’s holy (and my freaking ears), please, please, please take the cottage. Love you, Bean (& Rye, I guess).

—Kills

I suppose Rye and I had gotten a little too loud, and the note was Killian’s way of saying he supported our relationship, something I think we both needed to hear. So we happily decamped to the cottage, heading directly for the massive oak tester bed, draped in butter-colored toile that took up nearly the entirety of the bedroom alcove.

Though the house has a fully stocked kitchenette, later the following day, Whip delivered us a lunch basket, smugly speculating that we needed real sustenance in the form of a hot meal.

A grinning Rye thanked his friend at the door then crawled back in bed to feed me bites of savory steak pasties with a buttery crust that melted on the tongue and left little golden flakes on my lips for Rye to lick off.

We devoured lunch, washing it down with cold, hoppy beers, before Rye shoved everything to the side and then spread my legs to have his “dessert.” At some point, we drifted off to sleep, but it must not have been for long, because the fire still crackles behind the grate when I wake.

It begins to rain, a steady fall that taps against the windows and turns the outside light weak and gray. Inside, however, is quiet and cozy and beautiful. Cream-colored rag rugs over mellow wood floors, tobacco-velvet club chairs, and the slouchy long couch covered in faded cream-cabbage rose print lend the room a soft and pleasing feel, while emerald-green gourd lamps with deep red shades cast a rosy glow to the room.

Rye is still asleep, his muscled body a sprawl of firm, golden skin and mosaics of colorful ink. One big foot hangs over the edge of the bed, the white sheets twisted around one beefy thigh. Smiling, I run a hand over the back of his spiked hair. In the dim of the alcove, it’s the color of old bronze with glints of gold. He grunts in his sleep, turning his head my way. There’s not a gentle line on his boldly shaped features, save his lips. Those are wide and soft, the bottom lip plush and utterly biteable.