It begins with a tangle of breaths.

Christian’s lips on mine, my hands roaming his shoulders.

My name on his lips.

We shed clothing as if peeling away layers, as if stripping away the miles and the sorrow. The months spent apart, the ache of missing each other, the acid of hating each other with all the power that only deepest love can engender, the tragedy we share, it all falls away, thrown aside with his jeans, my shirt, his socks, my bra, his underwear, my skirt, until we’re naked together, skin to skin once more.

When was the last time?

I don’t remember.

Before Henry’s death.

So long. Too long.

I’m starved for this. For him.

His kiss is intoxicating, and I drown myself in the bliss of it, sweeter and stronger than any wine. I drink my fill of him, sipping at his mouth, nipping, gasping, raking my nails on his chest, luxuriating in the familiar heat of his skin, the shift of his muscles, the way his voice sounds as he groans in pleasure when his hands find my breasts, when our hipbones meet.

There is desperation, but no rush.

This is not the mad and furious assault of frenzied hormones. No, this is something else. Something deeper. This need between us burns hotter than the sun itself. I can’t breathe for the need. But rather than claim the union as fast as possible, we draw it out. We indulge in the need, drown in desire. He kisses my lips, and then my breastbone, and then the valley between my breasts. His fingers trace my curves, and I clutch at his strength, caress the throbbing evidence of his desire. We roll in the blankets, tangle in the sheets. I kiss his shoulder, and he lifts my thigh to his hip. His breath is in my ear, and his lips move, and I know the syllables he chants like a song, like a prayer—my name.

Ava.

Ava.

Ava.

He fills me, and my voice breaks at the perfection of our joined bodies. It is more than I remember—more of everything. His movement is tender at first, punctuated with kisses, and then his teeth pincer my lower lip and my fingers knot in his hair, and my toes are curling and my thighs quaking, and I’m breathing his name the same as he is mine, because it’s all the prayer of love we need.

Fire breathes between us.

My cheeks are wet, and his lips kiss away the tears, but he knows these tears are not of sorrow or shame or guilt or pain, but of joy, a deeper, sweeter joy than any I’ve ever known, a desperate relief. I’m laughing, as well, crying and gasping, all at once, as I cling to him and move with him, meet his wild, powerful thrusts with my own.

He rolls, and I’m above him.

“Christian…” It’s my turn to chant his name. “Christian…”

I lean over him, and my hair drapes around his face. His hands slide up the backs of my thighs to my buttocks and then roam the curve and hollow of my spine.

For a moment, we are motionless, thus, eyes locked on each other.

The curtains are parted, letting in a sliver of sunlight that bathes us in a golden glow.

“I saw this moment,” Christian murmurs. “You, above me, just like this. The sun, your skin…and that look on your face.” His hands explore me, touch me, caress me everywhere, and his touch sets me alight, sends a flurry of emotions exploding through me—chief among them is love.

“Yes, that look,” he says, his voice quiet but intense.

“Which look?”

“That look of love on your face right now.” His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “I saw this moment a thousand times. I thought it was a memory, but it was this. This moment.”

I begin to move, rolling my hips. My hands are planted on his chest, my weight on my forearms. I let love expand through me, burgeon, billow, and explode through my eyes. Let love rule my movements, let love morph into desperation as heat builds into a nova in my belly, in my soul.

His hands frame my hips and guide me to climax, and his eyes never leave mine.

My name is on his lips, his every breath as he comes apart beneath me, shattering with a shout, clinging to me, and then I’m falling with him.

I bury my face in the side of his neck and let myself weep with the searing beauty of this, finally reunited with my husband, my lover, my Christian.

“I love you—I love you—” his voice breaks again. “I love you, Ava. I love you so much.”

I can’t speak, can barely summon breath, but when I can, I speak through a scintillating million kisses, scattered across his skin wherever my lips can reach. “I love you, I love you—Christian…god, I love you—” this, whispered and chanted until we devolve into laughter and kisses, rolling across the bed together.

We end up, hours later, tangled in each other’s arms. My head on his chest, my thigh across his, his hand on my hip.

He kisses my temple, and I twist my head to meet his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Ava,” he murmurs.

“Merry Christmas, Christian.”

And, for the first time in nearly two years, I fall asleep in my husband’s arms, sated, and truly loved.