Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Not long,” he says, his hand stroking gentle patterns on my back, tracing over the marks that are already beginning to fade. “Just long enough.”
I know what he means. Long enough for him to give Mads what she needed—the roughness and dominance and complete surrender that helps her feel grounded and loved in the only way she can accept. And now we’re here together—all of us, complete.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his eyes searching my face for any sign of distress or discomfort.
I take inventory of my body. There’s a lingering ache in my ass. I always love this—being able to feel the evidence of his wild but controlled passion in the tender spots where his hands gripped me. It brings such an indescribably satisfied heaviness to my limbs.
But underneath all of that is something else, something that makes my chest tight with emotion.
“Whole,” I whisper, the word carrying more weight than I can properly express. “For the first time in my life, I feel completely whole.”
His expression softens, understanding flickering in his eyes. “Both of you?”
I nod, tears starting to blur my vision. “She’s not fighting anymore. We’re not fighting anymore. We’re just... us. All of us, together.”
“Anna,” he says, my name a prayer and a promise all at once.
“I know she can’t always surface like that,” I continue, the words tumbling out as understanding crystallizes. “I know there will still be times when the walls go up or when she gets scared. But tonight... tonight she let you love her. Really love her. All of her.”
He cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize were falling. “I do love her. Both of you. All of you. More than I can ever properly say.”
“Then show me,” I whisper, leaning up to kiss him again.
This kiss is different from all the others—soft and sweet and full of promise, but also deep and consuming. It’s the kiss of lovers who have found their way back to each other through pain and loss and impossible odds. It’s the kiss of partners who trust each other completely, who know they can weather any storm as long as they’re together.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard again, desire rekindling despite everything we’ve just shared.
“Again?” he asks, his voice rough with want and wonder.
Instead of answering with words, I guide his hand between my legs, letting him feel how ready I am for him again. His eyes go dark with renewed hunger, and I feel an answering heat build low in my belly.
This time, when he enters me, it’s on the soft couch in our sanctuary, surrounded by the tools of our pleasure and the evidence of our love. This time, we move together slowly, savoring every sensation, every connection. This time, we make love with the knowledge that we’re complete, that we’re enough, that we’re exactly where we belong.
And when we finally reach our peak together, crying out each other’s names in the dim light of our private world, I feel something settle deep in my soul. A certainty that this is our happy ending—not because the story is over, but because it’s just beginning.
We are whole.
We are loved.
We are home.
FORTY-FOUR
DOMHNALL
The familiar scent of Dr. Ezra’s office—leather and old books mixed with something clean and medicinal—hits me as soon as we walk through the door. My chest tightens automatically, muscle memory from sessions where I’d sit in that chair and feel like I was being dissected, layer by careful layer.
But today feels different. Today, Anna’s warm hand is tucked into mine, her wedding ring catching the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. Today, our three-month-old son Connor is nestled against my chest in his carrier, his tiny fist curled around my finger like he’s anchoring me to something real and good.
“Domhnall. Anna.” Dr. Ezra rises from behind his desk, that same measured smile I remember. “And this must be Connor.”
“He’s perfect,” Anna says, and there’s such fierce pride in her voice it makes my throat tight. She reaches over to adjust Connor’s tiny knit cap, her movements gentle and sure. “Ten fingers, ten toes, lungs like a set of bagpipes.”
I snort softly. “Gets that from his da, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Ezra chuckles as he settles into his chair, pen and notepad at the ready. “How are you both adjusting to parenthood?”
“Exhausted,” Anna and I say in unison, then share a look that makes my chest warm. Even bone-tired and running on caffeine and stubbornness, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Dark circles under her eyes and spit-up on her shoulder and all.
“But good exhausted,” she adds, her voice soft. “Happy exhausted.”
Connor stirs against my chest, making those little mewling sounds that mean he’s working up to full-volume hunger demands. Anna immediately reaches for him, and I help transfer him to her arms, watching her face transform as she settles him against her chest. The way she looks at our son—like he’s made of starlight and miracles—still stops my breath.