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“I don’t either,” I replied in a small voice, remembering our last fight with painful clarity, but I relented when he opened his eyes and held a hand out to me. I went to him in spite of myself, dropping my towel and slipping under the covers beside him.

“Your hair’s wet.” He kissed the top of my head as I tucked it under his chin, resting my cheek against his chest, a heartbreakingly familiar position. His arms were strong and warm and I let him hold me for the first time in a very long time, closing my eyes and drifting.

When his hand moved under the covers, sliding up over my hip, fitting my body more fully against his and sliding a thigh between mine, I welcomed his intimate heat and weight. I let him kiss me, his tongue probing, letting myself go soft and open beneath him as we rolled, our bodies joining in silent apology to one another.

I was still wet from last night, from touching myself and listening, and the memory served as kindling to our fire. I was desperate for him, something in me awakened, brought to life again, a Frankenstein’s monster charged with energy, reborn and hungry.

“Dani!” He gasped in surprise at my wild response, probably shocked that I was responding at all. I had been a rigid sheet of ice in my own corner of the bed for months after Isabella was gone. Then he had left the permafrost of our marriage for warmer climes, a catalyst that had allowed me to finally melt into a flood of tears.

He was hard and thick in my hand, thrusting in spite of himself. I saw the doubt in his eyes. I saw it and felt it and pushed past it, squeezing and rubbing him up and down against my slit, teasing us both. We both hesitated, breathing hard already with the gravity and weight of the moment. This was the act that had begun and ended our whole life together.

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“Are you sure?” He nuzzled my neck, sucking at my skin, my wet hair. No, I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The world had turned upside down and I was walking on the ceiling all the time now, always afraid of falling.

My only response was to slide him into me, opening my thighs and letting him thrust, taking him deep. I hid my face against his chest, wrapping myself around him, arms and legs, so he wouldn’t see me welling up with tears. It was the first time anything, anyone, had touched me inside since Isabella.

“Oh Dani,” he whispered, taking everything I had to give him, his breath hot against my hair. “Oh you feel so good.”

“So do you.” I squeezed him hard, making him groan and thrust faster. I couldn’t get enough and I shoved my pelvis up to meet his, again and again. For that moment, everything else disappeared and it was just us, as it had been. He was mine and I was the girl who loved him completely, without restraint or regret.

I panted and clung to him, digging my heels into the well of his back as if I could drive him in further, take him wholly into me. He moaned and slowed, gasping, “Wait, wait,” in my ear, but I wouldn’t let him go.

“Don’t stop,” I begged, my nails digging into his upper arms as he held himself over me. “Please! Don’t stop!”

His eyes met mine, half-lidded with lust, his mouth slightly open. I whimpered and he dipped his head to kiss me, sucking my tongue into his mouth as he began again, his groan swallowed in the press and roll of our tongues. I planted my feet on the bed and lifted my hips, seeing his eyes roll back as he bottomed out inside of me.

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“Harder!” I urged, my fingers seeking my own heat, searching between us for the place where we were joined, slick and hot and wet. I rubbed myself as he fucked me harder, giving me just what I’d asked for, although I knew it was going to cost him everything. His cock twitched inside of me and he rolled, pulling me on top of him and lifting me off the bed with one final thrust.

“Noooo,” I howled, almost there but not quite, feeling him coming, knowing the look on his face, brow knitted, eyes closed tight, his lower lip pulled between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he panted, reaching up and grabbing my breasts, thumbing my nipples. “I couldn’t stop.”

I whimpered, still rubbing myself, and he glanced down, his fingers tracing over my ribs, my belly.

I saw him cringe, seeing the bruises there. “Did I do that?”

“It doesn’t matter.” It did, but I didn’t care, not then. I wanted him in spite of everything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands petting me from my breasts down to my pussy. “I’m so sorry.”

“Mason,” I pleaded, and he knew, he gave me just what I needed, he always had.

I let him pull me up to his face, moaning softly when his mouth settled over my mound.