But Chloe had dealt with a loss far worse. The worst, most said.
And that pain never went away.
So they sat there, Chloe offering quiet support, feeling his big body shudder when he buried his face again, his grief coming in strong but silent waves. As if he’d just realized he would never see Jonah again.
When he turned his head, nuzzling his face into her neck, the moisture she felt on her skin tore her up inside. This big man she’d spent the last ten years believing was a cold-hearted snake with no soul was now baring it to her.
Crawling into his lap, she wrapped herself around him, her embrace as tight as she could make it, offering the only thing she could to ease his pain. Herself.
“Shh,” she murmured, lifting his face to hers and wiping away the residual tears. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”
Laying her mouth over his, she kissed him, sealing their lips for a long, sacred moment of connection. Whispered more words of comfort, some coherent, some not. And the longer she whispered and the tighter she held him, the more his body relaxed.
The more she kissed him, on his mouth and his cheeks and his neck, the more he came back to her, returning the comfort she gave with some of his own.
A simple hug of gratitude.
“You’re gonna be fine,” she murmured, cupping his face, staring into his red-rimmed eyes. “We’re gonna be fine together. Because even when we’re apart, we’re together. True love’s like that. It can never be severed.”
When he nodded, she gave him a watery smile, stroking along his hairline and adding, “Not by time, even if it’s ten years. Not by distance, even if it’s New York to Florida.”
Even if it’s East Hampton to Riverhead.
A short twenty miles, every inch of that distance reason for her to hate this man in her arms. And Lord knew, she had hated him.
Should hate him still. Because the past could not be undone.
Nothing had changed.
“Chloe,” he whispered, in a raw, guttural voice that gave her goosebumps. “I love you.”
Except that.
Her mind whirled, unsure whether she’d accept his love after so many years without, or reject it because of what she gave up for him. But before she could respond, he kissed her.
Kissed her with a desperation that was grief-induced.
When his mouth left hers, skimming along her jaw then down the side of her neck, sucking on that sensitive spot just below her ear, she whimpered, threading her fingers through his dark hair.
“I fought it,” he murmured. “My love for you. Didn’t want it. Didn’t want to feel it. Only wanted to hate you.”
Closing her eyes, she inhaled his spicy scent. “Right back at you.”
“But it never went away.” Nuzzling her, his tongue lashed out erotically. “You were always there, no matter how far I traveled. I circled the globe, trying to get away from you. From the feeling. But you were always there, reminding me.”
“Reminding you of what?”
“That I was human. That I was lost and wandering aimlessly even though I knew exactly where I was and where I needed to go. That you fucked up and I fucked up, and together, we fucked up the best thing that ever happened to us.”
She wanted to correct him. Tell him that no, she’d not fucked up. He had.
And truthfully, he still was.
Because he never asked. Never inquired about the best thing that ever happened to them. Not once.
“We’re human. Humans fuck up. But you’re not lost, Jameson. You made your way back to Maine Lane. To me.”
His hands were busy, molding her body through her thin white shirt and black silk pants. Pulling and tugging and nearly ripping the expensive outfit, purchased pre-mother of all mortgages.
Sliding off his lap, she kicked her black suede heels to the side and peeled the shirt over her head. Her hair fell in messy waves, and she pushed the flyaway strands away from her face. Then, she slipped out of her pants, leaving her in an ivory lace bra, matching lace thong, and a statement necklace made of pearls.
She watched him pull his own shirt off in one smooth move, using the nonsensical method most men did—not by lifting the hem but by tugging on the back of the neckline.
His masculinity was so raw and powerful it was mesmerizing. She went for the button fly on his jeans, her hands searching down inside the placket.
“Open your jeans.”
Fumbling to release him, she felt an urgent need to get him inside her. If she didn’t, he might fade from sight, leave her again. Never come back.
If they were physically connected, she could hold on to him forever.
Climbing back onto his lap, she moaned at the impressive erection she freed from the restricting denim.
“Take these off. I need access,” he demanded, his fingers tugging on each side of her thong, his breath warm against her neck. “Or I’ll rip them.”
Grinding against him, she didn’t have time to remove her undergarments.
“Slide it to the side. Don’t rip them, they cost a fortune.” La Perla, and her favorite pair.
Reaching down, their hands tangled as they both pushed the minuscule lace out of the way, allowing him entrance.
Testing her readiness with a brazen caress—no issues there whatsoever—he slid easily inside, filling her fully, then stilling as they swallowed each others groans. Savoring the intense connection.
“How’s it possible?” she asked, her question a breathy plea against his mouth. “That we’re still so in sync? That we still feel the pull?”
“It’s fucking annoying, isn’t it?”
She laughed, then whimpered when he shifted his hips, ramming up into her. Letting her feel that push and pull in the most primal way.
“It should have lessened by now. The hate should have numbed it,” she added, meeting his upward thrusts with a downward motion that hit her sweet spot. “How can you still make me ache for you?”
“Don’t bother fighting it. I tried. Doesn’t work.” He leaned back, propping himself up with strong arms, displaying the most gorgeous male torso she’d ever seen—in person or on the internet.
Movie star, porn star, fitness star, it didn’t matter. No other compared.
Using only his powerful hips, he drove into her, his thrusts methodical and deep, his gaze just as penetrating. And after those logical questions with no logical answers beyond spiritual, neither spoke for long, raw minutes of intense pleasure. She got her squat workout in, and he, his hip thrusters.
“I’m close,” he murmured, reaching down where they were joined, sliding his fingers inside the stretched lace and rubbing her in a guaranteed way to make her come in five seconds flat. “Is it okay? Can I?”
Meaning, could he come inside her.
Something he’d not questioned since night one when she told him she was on the pill. Something he’d done several times since then, come inside her. Pouring life.
And each time, magical.
“Yes,” she said, whimpering when he hit a sensitive spot deep inside, following it up with repeated butterfly flicks of his thumb over her clit. “It’s okay. Nothing will happen.”
Except that she might be soul-deep sad about that. About the nothing.
But then she came—hard—the waves vibrating her from the inside out, and her moans nearly drowned out his follow-up question.