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He unlocks the door to my apartment, keeping one arm wrapped around me. We’re both flushed from walking outside, down quiet alleys and streets, away from the crowds, out in the fresh summer air.

I glance up at his face. He looks so... happy. Relaxed. Healthy, his tall body no longer emaciated, thick muscle and sinew wrapping around strong bones, his dark hair growing thick and glossy, curling at his temples.

God, he’s hot... Hottest guy in the whole world.

The door swings open. Dark eyes shiny, he hauls me inside, then pins me against it and kisses me.

He’s been clean for the past six months. Scans, bloodwork, all has come back clear. I know it’s still early days, and he has to keep doing check-ups for years. Maybe for all his life.

But he’s healthy now, the doctor says the odds are good, and I’ll take it, take him now, today, tomorrow, for as long as we both have, and...

Oh wow... I can’t think, not when his tongue pushes between my lips, stroking mine, making me dizzy with need.

God, he’s a good kisser. A great kisser, and the way he’s holding me... like he’s hungry, desperate for me. His arm locks around me, his tongue tortures mine, sending delicious shocks of pleasure into my belly, lighting up my blood.

My arms curl around his shoulders, and I rise up on my toes to better fit my mouth to his, to better let our tongues spar and pleasure roll.

This is... everything. Being in his world, in the circle of his arms, sharing every day and night with him.

Well, as much of the days and nights is left when you’re both working and studying. He’s got a handful of small jobs, tending gardens and doing landscaping in the suburbs. And I’m back to my classes and office work.

It’s a start, and he’s so content outdoors, without suffocating walls closing around him, I’m happy for him.

“I can hear your mind ticking,” he pants against my mouth. “Looks like I need to step up my game.”

“Griff—”

He grabs my waist and lifts me up. “Our bed, now.”

Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his lean hips, and tighten my hold around his neck. “Yes, sir.”

Our bed.

We finally got a double one, where we can curl around each other at night, and make love in every waking moment. After all this time when I’d lain in my bed alone, thinking about him on the other side of the wall...

“My daydreamer,” he whispers and smiles down at me, a wolfish baring of teeth, his eyes sharp and bright under his fall of dark hair. “Distracting you will be my pleasure.”

God, mine too. My face burns as he easily carries me into the bedroom—our bedroom, boy, life is good—and lays me on the bed. He’s so frigging strong now that he’s recovered.

So frigging handsome and sexy. Mouthwatering. Lickable. Hot.

And I’m still so excited every time he kisses me, holds me, makes love to me. I don’t know if it will ever fade, this disbelief that I could be so lucky after all. This heat that flows through me when he’s around, setting my blood on fire and melting my heart.

I don’t think it ever will.

He kneels on the bed and cups my face, kisses my mouth, then rips my clothes off. He has so much patience, but not with buttons and zippers. One of his favorite things is to pull my dresses over my head, peeling them off until I’m left half-naked, sprawled on the bed.

And then he drags my panties down my legs and considers my bra with a hunter’s gleam in his eye.

Leaving me shivering on top of the covers as he gets up, steps back and gives me a once-over—then another, gaze moving from the top of my head, over my breasts and pressed-together thighs down to my toes and back up. His eyes darken more and more, until I see lights dance in their cores like stars.

He’s a magical person. A wild thing, rising from the ashes, dark and powerful. When he starts undressing, his hot gaze never leaving me, I burn for him and have to clench my thighs to relieve the pressure.

But the pressure never lets up when he’s near. And I’m torn between desire and pride when he hauls his black sweater and T-shirt off in one smooth movement, baring his scarred chest. When he then unbuckles, unzips and shoves down his pants and briefs, baring his scarred leg.

He’s not ashamed of his scars anymore, not caring, because his focus is on me. Not minding me seeing, because he knows I love his body, that I’m hot for him.

That I’m his and that he’s perfect, from his handsome face, to his defined abs and his cock. It’s rock hard, jutting out in front of him, flushed, and thick, and...

I bite back a moan just at the sight of it, knowing how it will feel inside me, how good it will feel for both of us.

But he takes his time, gripping his big cock and stroking, legs spread apart, those chiseled abs taut. Clear liquid beads at the head of his cock, spilling over as he works himself with long, sure pulls.

Always such a quiet guy. So intense. So focused.

God, there’s no hotter thing than Griffin slowly jacking off in front of me, gaze pinned on me, head slightly tilted to the side as he watches me. Cataloguing my every expression and every twitch of my body, the tightening of my nipples and the heat pooling between my legs.

“Sophie,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse growl. “Spread those legs for me.”

My face is on fire. This is a new game he’s playing, getting me to do things I’d have never done in a thousand years, displaying myself to him like this, letting him see how wet I am, how aroused.

And then he pounces, lifting my legs over his shoulders and going down on me. His rough tongue splits me open, his soft lips suck on every throbbing part of me, his bristle scrapes on the sensitive inside of my thighs, and I cry out, grabbing at his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor me as I arch and buck and writhe, lost in tortured pleasure.

Okay, I was wrong. This is even hotter. Much hotter.

Good lord. He’s gotten really... good at this, and... Oh shit. His tongue spears into me, his fingers stroke and dip and press, and I moan his name as he brings me right to the edge and keeps me there, hanging on the brink of a release that will blow me apart.

I’m begging. I hear myself begging him to let me come, to push me over, oh please, please...

... and the pressure breaks, the pleasure crests, and I’m falling through starbursts and buffeting winds until I land back on the mattress, gasping and panting, my body turned liquid and heavy.

He lifts his head, a pleased smirk on his face, and before I can catch my breath, he takes hold of his cock and pushes inside me.

Oh crap.

His cock slips into me, sliding deeper and deeper, stretching me and filling me until the stars are filling my vision, bright explosions, and that night sky of his gaze.

He’s bent over me, strong arms on either side of me, warm dark eyes scanning my face. Did I say warm? No, hot, scorching, all his arousal and need plain to see.

All his love.

“Griff,” I whisper, “please.”

“Please, what?” So much gravel in his voice.

“Make love to me,” I whisper.

His expression softens, just for a moment, lashes lowering to hide the flicker in his eyes, that starburst. Love, the mention of it, the reality of it, always hits him like a blow, cracking his walls open. The walls he’s already lowered for me.

But now, he’s bent over me, his soul bared, letting me see that faint smile curl his mouth, that sheen in his eyes that tells me he’s happy.

Happy here, with me.

The next moment, the flicker is gone, and he’s moving, deep, long thrusts that have me gasping his name, holding on as he rocks into me again and again.

I want him to come, to feel him shudder and groan and lose himself in pleasure, but the pressure inside my belly is building once more, and I lose myself, too, rocking with him.

Holding on as the orgasm starts deep in my core, so deep it crashes into me, as he comes, spilling wet heat and making every nerve ending sing, every sensation sharper, stronger.

Turning everything so dark, and so bright.

“Sophie...” He groans, rolling off me with an effort, hauling me into his arms. “God...”

I settle against his chest, listen to his pounding heart, my lids heavy.

This man...

He says that, one day, he’d like to rent a house with a garden, and show me how to trim the hedges and roll on the grass and stare up at the passing clouds in the summer sky.

He says he’ll find one with a fireplace so we can sit in front of the fire and read poetry, and with a room where he can paint me frowning, crying, smiling, laughing.

He says I can help him choose the house. And the furniture. And the colors.

Have I mentioned I love him?

“I love you,” he says then, “love you forever, Soph,” and it all comes full circle.