Page 196 of Camp Bliss
Right here is where I belong.
I can make her come again. I’m sure of it. Just like this.
I can make her come all night. Show her again and again how much I love her. Drain her of every drop of doubt.
“Please, Zach… Please…”
My Greta is begging, and it’s only when she says please that I understand.
She’s inviting me inside.
Inside of her.
And, damn, I should be the one begging. Begging to be allowed in.
With one last kiss to her swollen, sublime clit, I draw back and take her in.
Flushed and breathless, her hair spilling around her in a tangle of curls, her lips plump from kissing, and her nipples erect from suckling, she is the most arresting, most erotic, most holy sight I have ever seen.
It hits me then that if there’s any logic to the universe, any divine plan behind it all, that this moment is the reason I survived my body’s attempt to do itself in a decade ago.
This is why I am alive.
To love Greta Ste. Marie.
To know her love.
If that, indeed, is the why—why I made it here, why she made it here—then I bow to the heavens. In gratitude. In awe.
“I love you,” I swear, unable to take my eyes off her. The words don’t seem to be enough to capture all I’m holding. I try again. “You are the why.”
Her smile grows. She might not understand all that I mean, not get all that is clear to me right now, but that’s okay. I have a lifetime to make it clear to her.
She reaches for me again, her hands landing on my hips. Greta tugs at my jeans, attempting to finish the job she started before I took her in my mouth and discovered the meaning of life.
Judging by the swift work of her hands, she already knows.
“I’m done waiting,” she says, a little breathless. “No more taking it slow. No more worrying about what might happen if I trust you with everything.”
I still her hands at my hips and search her face. “Youcantrust me with everything.” Because, God, I want her to know I’ll safeguard all of it. Her life. Her body. Her heart. Her dreams. Her purpose. Her babies. Her treasure. Her time. “Every damn thing.”
Greta’s bottle green eyes sparkle in the fairy lights as her smile lifts. “Zach, I know.” She slips one hand from my grip and lays it against my cheek. “I know. And you know you can trust me…”
She runs her thumb over my lips, causing my cock to leap. But she surprises the hell out of me when her eyes soften with immeasurable tenderness. “What you might not know is that, with me, you have nothing to prove. Everything you are is already proof.”
Her words shake me like a thunderclap. Like a shotgun blast.
A sonic boom.
Because for as long as I can remember—and at least since I got sick—I have been striving to prove myself.
To prove I could do it. That I was good enough. That the life in my veins, in my cells, mattered.
That I meant something.
Here, in the middle of the woods on the banks of a muddy river with the night pulsing around us, for the first time—maybe in my whole life—I feel understood.
“Greta—” Her name is a gruff prayer. A plea.
