Stella

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to explode into a million little pieces.

Rivers looks up, and asks, “Are you okay?”

“No.”

Sitting up in alarm, he eyes me. “No?”

“This feels too good.”

Then that gorgeous smile of his shines, and he chuckles. “Is too good a thing? Kissing you, touching you, making out with you is incredible and feels good, but I don’t want to stop. I mean, too good means too much, right?”

“No.” Please don’t stop.

“No?”

We’ve been making out for at least an hour like teenagers, taking things slow. He rounds each base with deliberate care. More like deliberate torture for me, but it feels too good to rush this.

I’m about to lose my mind, but I pull him to me again anyway, ready to lose my mind to the ecstasy. “Not too much. Perfect. Keep going.”

He chuckles against my neck and starts kissing me again. A hand is up my shirt just below my bra, tentative, careful, taking things so slow that I’m going to burst. My eyes close, my head falls back against the wall, and I moan in delight. “God, yes. This so much. More of this.”

If him kissing my neck feels this good, I might legit die under his magic mouth if he goes any lower. My memory still serves me well when it comes to that act. He says, “This shirt is big on you,” and then tugs the collar to the side exposing my shoulder and quickly staking claim to the bare skin with his mouth. “Do you know how good you taste?”

“No,” I repeat the word, mindless of anything else to say because I’m feeling too much, the universe in every one of his delectable kisses.

“Then you’re missing out.” He licks his lips and waggles his eyebrows before tracing my collarbone with the flat of his tongue and moaning as if I’m his favorite dessert.

With his other hand, he finally attempts to go further, the tips of his fingers just under the wire of my bra. “Am I going too fast?” he asks. “Tell me if you want to slow down.”

“Slow down? No way. I want to speed up.”

“I’m starting to think you’re sex starved.”

“Famished.” I wiggle until my back is against the wall and he’s no longer over my chest. I touch the top of his head, driving my fingers into the thickness of his dark hair. Pushing enough to get him where I want him—his face to my vagina, I ask, “Ready for the second course?”

“Famished.” He leans in, kisses me between the legs, then tugs the material back between his teeth. “Ready to take these off?”

Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. “So ready.”

He pops the elastic waistband of the boxers he loaned me and chuckles lightly, then starts to slowly pull them down as if he’s savoring every new exposed inch of my skin. The shirt still hides my torso, but when the boxers go flying over his shoulder, he eyes me in a way that makes me want all my clothes off—deep umber-colored hungry eyes. His tongue drags over the fullness of his bottom lip, and then he says, “I want to see my tattoo.”

His tattoo.

Not mine. His.

Just like me.

With him still positioned between my legs, I take the hem of the shirt in hand. Why is my heart beating so fast? “Don’t look, okay?”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to. I do. It’s just . . .” I look away from him. “I feel like I’ll disappoint you.”

“Never. You could never, Stella. You’re better than any memory I had. You. Here now. You’re . . . I don’t feel deserving to be here.”

Sitting forward, I run my nails through his hair to the back of his neck and pull just enough for him to know I want him to come to me. Moving against my body with ease, the muscles in his shoulders flex as he kisses me. He leans back enough for me to hold him lightly under the jaw. How can he still love me so much? After all this time, after all the hurt and pain? I lost myself years ago, and this is the first time I feel myself again. I want to bathe in the hours I get with you. God, I want that too. “How does someone who has the world at his feet miss someone who only held him back from his greatness?”

He was always mine. He was my reward at the end of all my long days in student teaching and hard work at school. Though his muscles were firm and strong, his soul was my soul’s soft place to land.

After The Crow Brothers’ second nomination and first win—big win—for Band of the Year at the Austin Music Scene Awards, my man has never been sexier owning that stage. I used to think his beats matched my heartbeats, but I was wrong. My heart beats to his—musically, physically, emotionally, I’m in sync with this man.

Jet accepts the award with Tulsa piping in his ecstatic two cents. Rivers doesn’t need the glory. He’s won for doing what he loves to do, for doing something that pays the bills for us to have a better life one day. While his brothers thank the fans, Rivers stands in the back with his eyes on me, thanking me.

When his brothers head for the side stage with the award in hand, Rivers hops off the front. Coming up the aisle, he starts into a jog.

I know what he’s doing. I would do the same—our breath, our beats in sync.

The auditorium isn’t that big, but guests aren’t allowed where the nominees are seated. The bands themselves take up too many seats. That doesn’t bother me. He deserves all the glory.

He’s been my rock, my partner, my lover, my whole heart since the day we first spoke. Even though I don’t need any recognition for loving him, he needs me.

God, do I love how much he needs me. He’s not alone in his needs because they’re rivaled by my own. We’ve been inseparable for years and taken this journey together.

Although I’m trapped in the middle of the aisle, I stand so he can find me in the crowd. Other musicians and fans here to celebrate the best Austin bands watch one of the best there is run toward me. He stops at the end of the aisle and huffs his disapproval. Not deterred, he steps up on the armrest. The fans lift their arms, letting him walk right over them until he drops back down in front of me amongst cheers and hollers. Taking my face between his hands, he says, “None of this would be possible without you, without your support. My win is your win, baby. I wouldn’t be here without you. I love you.”

He kisses me with no hesitation, my lips meeting his in a kiss that speaks to my heart and my head. The clapping starts slow and builds fast to a loud roar as we get lost in each other like we do every other time. Though, it’s usually without an audience. Our lips part but hearts are hooked together. “I love you,” I whisper, opening my eyes slowly.

. . . He didn’t return to his seat up front after that kiss or the next four. He chose me instead. That night, we celebrated by making out until my lips were swollen and his beard had scraped along my chin so much that my skin was pink.

Consumed was a word others always used to describe us.

Rivers and I preferred in love.

This is the Rivers that has come back for me. The way he kisses my neck, the movement of his hard body against mine as we lie on this bed feels so much like my cherry on top for the hell I’ve been through.

“How can you look at me the same when so much has changed?”

A hand slinks under the side of my shirt and rests on my bare hip. Leaning down, he kisses my chest over the fabric still covering me. “Loving you is my greatest honor and hurting you my biggest regret. No matter where I was in the world, my heart stayed here with you. You were more than my girlfriend. You were my sanctuary, my haven.”

“What am I now?”

“My home.” And somehow, I think he’s my home too. Again.