Page 143 of This Life of Mine

He watches my face, searching for cracks.

“I can live with who you are,” I continue. “Because you don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it. Because you don’t enjoy power over the innocent. And because you didn’t try to cage me when you could have.”

My voice softens. “That matters.”

I step closer now, closing the space between us. I’m nearly as tall as he as he sits.

“As for trust,” I add, “I don’t give it lightly. But you’ve shown up. Over and over. When it counted.”

I meet his eyes. “I want you.”

His breath catches, and his eyes roam my face, looking for a but…

“And if this scares you,” I say gently, “that’s okay. It scares me too. But I’d rather walk into something real with my eyes open than protect myself from anything that could be amazing because I’m too afraid.”

The room feels like the world is holding its breath. And in that moment, with everything laid bare between us, I understand this isn’t a leap of faith. I’m making a choice.

He doesn’t give me time to convince him any further.

One second I’m standing over him. The next he’s towering over me as he stands, the words between us still vibrating in the air. Then he’s moving—decisive, hungry, done pretending restraint is an option. His hands are on me before I can catch my breath, and when he reaches to lift me, my body moves before he does.

I launch upwards at him, legs wrapping around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders like instinct already knows where I belong.

He catches me easily.

“I’ve got you, love,” he says. And I believe him.

We barely make it down the hall. Everything blurs into heat and momentum and need—need that's been building for days, ready to snap. The bedroom door appears and disappears as he carries me inside, the door closing behind us with a soft, final click.

This is different from before.

There’s no careful pacing this time. No checking in. The first time, he held himself back—measured every touch, slowed himself for me. Now he’s urgent, rougher at the edges, like he’s been wound too tight for too long and I’m the only thing that makes sense. And I love it.

I don’t want tender. I don’t want slow. I want him—all of him—with a need that feels feral and unrestrained.

His mouth crashes into mine, full of heat and hunger, the scent of him overwhelming. I cling to him, fingers digging in, steadying myself against the solid press of his body as he looms over me—built to shield and consume simultaneously.

His presence fills every corner of the room. Yet instead of shrinking me, it steadies me. Grounds me. Gives me the freedom to want him without reservation, to surrender to the urgency between us without fearing what comes after.

Everything about him feels sure. Locked in.

And as he holds me there—firm, unyielding, utterly present—it hits me.

This isn’t chaos. This is trust colliding head-on with desire.

As soon as we reach the bed, we’re moving too fast to think. Hands everywhere. Clothes torn away without ceremony. We’re not here to admire—we’re here to feel.

I try to push Alex onto the bed, ready to climb over him, aching to have him inside me. But he stops me, lifts me again, and in one smooth motion positions me hovering over his face.

I peer down at him, stunned by how effortless it was.

Then his mouth meets me.

His tongue slides through my folds, slow and deliberate at first—then he latches onto my clit, licking and tugging with intent that makes me cry out instantly. I buck, overwhelmed, but his hands hold me down, keeping me where he wants me as he devours me.

God, it feels so good.

I grab the headboard to keep myself upright as his mouth works me relentlessly. Then my body lifts an inch—his forearms flexing as he raises me just enough to slide me back and forth over his face.