I reach out for her and touch her gently on the shoulder, just to make sure she’s real.

She is. Her skin feels soft enough to sink into, though she’s still got her muscle. She’s still got everything I love about her.

And now she has art.

And now she has me.

I grin to myself and spin her around so I’m staring down at her beautiful face, those deep dark eyes that look up at me with a need I’ve never seen before.

“Welcome home,” I tell her before I grab her and kiss her. She tastes as sweet and spicy as I remembered and melts into my arms, into my touch. We kiss with deep heat and fired intensity, which only makes me hungrier for her, for everything about her.

I can’t believe she’s here.

Gemma is here.

She pulls away, breathing hard, her hands gripping me tight.

“Josh,” she nearly whimpers in my ear, her voice soft and on the edge of breaking, “I love you.”

My heart does a warm somersault in my chest—the best kind of ache.

“I love you,” she says again, placing her hands on either side of my face and staring at me with those deep eyes of hers, now wet with waiting tears. “I couldn’t stop loving you. You’re so easy to love.” She kisses me again, soft and slow, and murmurs against my lips, “I’m so sorry I didn’t realize it before, that it took me so long. I never meant to break your heart.”

“Gemma,” I say through a groan, my body and heart igniting. “Don’t be sorry. I couldn’t want for more. You’re here. And I love you.” I place her hand on top of my chest. “See, it’s not broken at all.”

“You still love me?” She sounds so shocked, so vulnerable. I can’t help but smile.

“Always,” I tell her and pull her tank top over her head, unable to keep my hands off of her, my skin from her skin. I need to be closer than this, I need to feel her in every way that I can. I need her to be real, to stay real in this room full of art.

She shoots a nervous look to the door, and as she swiftly removes her bra I head over and lock it, ensuring us privacy. When I’m back at her side, my lips graze her nipples before sucking them, and she moans in response. Such a gorgeous sound, one I never thought I’d hear again.

She’s here.

She loves me.

I pick her up in my arms and stride across to the counter in the corner of the room, placing her ass up on the edge beside the sink before pulling down her jeans and underwear.

“I’m having déjà vu,” she says, her smile wanton, her voice throaty. “Though I think the pool table was more comfortable.”

“You won’t be complaining in a moment, sweetheart,” I tell her with a grin as I pull her legs to the edge of the counter and unzip my jeans.

“I like when you call me that,” she says as she wraps her strong legs around my waist.

With one hand I position myself against her and brush a strand of paint-coated hair behind her ears with the other. “Good. Because you’re going to be hearing it for a long time.”

I want nothing more than to take this reunion slowly but I’m fueled by the almost delirious desire to be inside of her again. She holds me close as I push myself in, my eyes squeezing shut as she envelops me, tight and warm, the most decadent feeling.

She gasps then moans, and I do the same.

She’s here. She’s home.

“Please tell me you’re here to stay,” I say to her, my lips finding hers again as I slowly thrust in and out.

“I’m here to learn,” she says softly, her hands gripping my shoulders, my hair. “Not just at school . . .” She breaks off and gasps as my fingers slide around her. “I’m here to learn from you. About art, about love, about everything. I’m not going anywhere.” She looks me in the eye. “You’ve got me.”

She then punctuates those beautiful words by moaning softly, her head thrown back as we sink into the feel of our love for each other. It is so, so impossibly good.

As we move as one, slow then fast and frantic, she gets paint on me, staining my skin, my clothes. We make love in the art room like lovers reunited after war. It gets messy.

But life is messy.

And life is good.