The trust again. Marcella seems to see the best parts of me even when I’m second-guessing myself.
I don’t know what it is about this woman. Her steady fire. Her insight. Her wit. Her body, for fuck’s sake. She makes me want to be better. Want to fight harder for the life I actually want. My thumb skims the back of her hand. “Can I say something ridiculous?”
“Is it about how hard you are? Again?” She raises a brow.
I laugh. “No. Though, thank you for the segue.”
She rolls her eyes, grinning.
I lean in, heart thudding. “I love you. I’m going to marry you.”
Her smile slips. Not in fear—more like awe.
“I know it’s early and it may not happen for a while,” I add quickly. “I also don’t expect you to be ready yet. I just want you to know where my head is at. This isn’t about sex, though it certainly sweetens the deal—you’re the woman I want to wake up to. Every. Fucking. Day.”
Marcella stares at me like she’s trying to process my confession. Then she stands, walks around the table and straddles my lap.
I look up at her, breath stuck in my throat.
“I love you so much,” she whispers. “I’d marry you tomorrow.”
I’m gone.
My hands slide under her hoodie, up her thighs, until I’m palming her ass and kissing her like I’ll never stop. She moans into my mouth, grinding against me, and I feel myself harden beneath her.
“Are you sure?” I murmur.
She grins against my lips. “We haven’t had kitchen table sex.”
I don’t argue.
We knock over a salt shaker. She tears off my shirt as I hike up her hoodie and slide her leggings down just enough to give me access. Her fingers are yanking down my waistband when I turn her and ease her over the edge of the table, spread her legs and slide in. She’s slick and ready, as always.
Her hands slide down the table, anchoring her as I start to move. Intense, reverent thrusts sending sparks flying up my spine. She meets me stroke for stroke, her neck craned and eyes locked on mine.
This isn’t just sex.
It’s communion.
Her lips part in a whimper and I watch her come undone for me, again, and again—until I follow and fall against her, completely wrecked.
A few minutes later, as we clean up—laughing, breathless—she wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my back. “I’m not looking forward to work either,” she says softly. “I’ll be back in the office full-time next week and I’ll miss this so much. We’ll get through it, though.”
She’s right. We’ve been living in a world of our own—slow mornings, bare skin, quiet laughter.
The outside waits. Work. Pressure. Noise.
When she assures me we’ll be fine—voice steady, eyes clear, conviction carved into every word—I won’t brace for a crash.
I’ll believe her.
Even if I know it isn’t true.
twenty-seven
Marcella
A Few Weeks Later
