Page 53 of Beyond Redemption

“Aren’t we lucky?” Olive mused, soft and genuine. The words left her on an exhale as she leaned her head against Bodhi, her steps finally unguarded beside the man who had just claimed the last word for her and meant it.

Back at our adobe, Olive and Bodhi rotated through the shower before settling in for the night. Stella had roused as I put her in the crib, and was resisting getting back to sleep, her small cries echoing softly off the plaster walls. But eventually, she surrendered to exhaustion.

I sat on the edge of our bed, dragging a wide-tooth comb through my wet hair, easing out the last of the tangles. Warm steam drifted from the master bath, carrying the faint scent of soap and clean skin. When I turned, Thomas stood in thedoorway, a towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders and collarbone.

Most times, we didn’t need to speak to know what the other was feeling or might say, and this moment was no different. Thomas leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching me with an expression that had softened over the years but never dulled. The lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced now, not just from time, but in how those years were spent.

“That was intense. You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though I knew he would read the hesitation in it. He crossed the room and stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the residual heat from his shower. I reached out without thinking, resting my palm against his abdomen.

“The last twenty-four hours have been a very long year,” I said.

He breathed out a single laugh, then sat next to me, turning to meet my gaze, his eyes trailing down to my lips. “I couldn’t have gotten through that if you weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t there. I feel like I left you to the wolves.”

“You took Olive on a walk and came right back. Liis…” He threaded his fingers through my hair, careful and patient. He typically handled me in these moments as if I were fragile, although we both knew I was anything but. The habit wasn’t about condescension, but of respect. “It’s a new place,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. “Stella is next door, Olive and Bodhi right down the hall… but I need you. I need to focus on you for a little while.”

I nodded a few times as he planted small, lingering kisses down my neck, although it was so subtle I had to hope he understood. It didn’t take long for me to know the answer.

His skin was still damp, heat lingering beneath the moisture, and I breathed him in. Soap. Steam. Thomas. The scent anchored me in a way nothing else ever had.

His finger slid beneath the silk strap of my pajama top and eased it down my shoulder. Tension left my body almost instantly. His lips followed, pressing against my skin as I let my head tip to the side, giving him more access to the sensitive curve of my neck. Each kiss slowed my thoughts, pulling me from the trepidation in the Longhouse and into the quiet certainty of my husband.

I tried to remember the last time we had been like this. A week, maybe? Ten days?

When we first moved in together, we were intimate every night, as if it were the most important part of our nighttime routine. Usually twice daily, and sometimes more. I had assumed it would lessen with familiarity, that years would dull the need we have for each other, that Stella or exhaustion or the simple fact of knowing each other so completely would erode the urgency. I thought intimacy would fade as our responsibilities increased and we became accustomed to one another.

It never had. Not until the night Olive came to live with us.

Thomas was consumed by guilt. His perceived betrayal of his brothers overpowered instinct, suppressed desire, and nearly ended the deep connection we once shared. He was stuck in a cycle of self-loathing, and it had proven to be the one thing capable of distracting him from the subtle curves of my body, from the warmth he knew so well, from the place only he could reach. Tonight, I was his only reprieve. There was a quiet, undeniable pride in knowing that I was his sanctuary, even as I battled with the guilt of finding solace in his dependence.

He eased me back onto the mattress and settled beside me. I hooked my leg over his hip and slid my arm beneath his, pulling him closer. My fingers pressed into his back, tracingthe skin, muscle and tendon I knew by heart. He rested his forehead against mine, drew in a slow breath, then let it go just as carefully. His fingers slipped inside his mouth, and then he reached down before sealing his lips on mine.

I let out the faintest sound as I shifted closer to his hand, my mouth opening to him while his tongue slid inside, exploring me with an intimacy that made my breath stutter and my body respond in ways it hadn’t in too many months.

As I worked to keep quiet, Thomas positioned himself between my thighs, his control nearly unbearable. He rocked forward, achingly slow, sliding into me as he’d done a thousand times before. The contact drew a sharp breath from both of us. Once he was fully inside, he stilled, pressing his forehead to mine, his arms tightening as if he needed to anchor himself there. He held me close, letting the heat and desperation settle between us before he moved again.

He was cautious only for a moment, as if he were trying to remember how to slow himself down. The restraint didn’t last. Whatever he’d been holding back cracked open, his rhythm turning rougher, more demanding, driven by something urgent and unfiltered. My breath broke as his body pressed harder into mine, his movements no longer careful, making love no longer possible. He needed to fuck me, and without conversation, without hesitation, I gave into him.

My fingers dug into the muscles of his back, feeling the tension there, the barely contained force warring inside of him. This wasn’t the Thomas I knew in our bed. Here, only need remained, brutal and bare, fear, adrenaline and relief colliding all at once. Every movement pulled a sound from me I fought to silence, my body responding before thought, before caution.

He held his hand over my mouth but quietly groaned my name as if it were torn out of him, the word rough against my mouth as he pulled his hand away to kiss me. His grip locked atmy hip, driving into me as if he needed proof—of life, of now, of someone who loved him solid beneath his hands. I could feel it, the edge he was on, and instead of holding him back, I gave myself over to it. I wrapped around him, meeting the pain and rage pouring from him, and letting him take what he needed. The world narrowed to heat and motion and the raw, almost feral intensity of a man coming apart and finding his way back through me.

He broke with a low, fractured sound, his body locking against mine as the last of the tension tore through him. His grip tightened once, involuntary and helpless, before his weight collapsed forward, every ounce of control spent. His breath came apart in short, ragged bursts, exhaustion shaking through him as he pressed his face into my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered between breaths. “I’m… sorry.”

The ferocity now absent, the urgency burned out, leaving only the aftermath. He lay above me, barely holding himself up, chest heaving against mine, his body trembling as if he hadn’t yet trusted himself to move. When his eyes finally opened, he didn’t pull back. He drew in, his forehead lowering to my shoulder, his arms folding around me.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, holding him tight, my hand at his neck. “You’re okay.”

He struggled to control his breathing, each inhale just short of a sob. He swallowed, hard, then once again, desperate to force his emotions back to a place he could manage them. I refused to move, holding him while he gathered himself from the wreckage he’d just burned through.

“I’m okay,” he repeated. “We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” I reassured him.