“I love you,” he whispers, as if I need to hear it, as if his body doesn’t say the words a thousand times with each stroke. He takes his time, stopping at one point, looking down at me with so much love that all the heat in my blood rushes to my heart, pressing against his chest, trying to become one.

“I love you, too,” I answer, clenching as if pulling him inside more will somehow make the love between us stronger. How much of me can he touch? Is there a limit? When we move together, naked and vulnerable, craving and insatiable, can we move one more increment, one more standard deviation, one final drive toward a new connection that much more permanent than the last?

Or is the impermanence what drives us to new heights? Does he resume his thrusts while looking at me, so tender and consumed, because he’s so aware of our fragile transience?

Bodies last only so long.

Hearts, too.

Love, though—love can be found carved in rock, hammered in stone, forged in steel.

And passed down child to child, generation to generation, bone to bone.

As I ride my hands up the long, thick muscles of his arms, settling on his ribs, curling down to his ass, he becomes fire, body burning for me, his movements fierce and knowing, gaze on me and me alone.

I do not look away.

I cannot.

Declan gives me no choice, and as we come together, crying out each other’s names, sounds of joy and release mingling with the rasp and shift of skin and timelessness, he gives me what I’ve wanted all day.

Him.

Yes, we had each other this morning, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

“Oh,” I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes. My inner thighs tremble, the spasms short and brief, electric and involuntary. Declan’s full weight is on me, his mouth buried in my hair, his hot breath warming my jawline, the slack cover of his body a gift.

Being with him involves so much of society, from business colleagues to people who work for him to family and friends. I don’t get this very often—naked Declan.

And I don’t mean his state of undress.

He smells like woodsmoke and citrus, sweat and musk, and his hand, which is curled next to my nose, emanates a distinct odor I know all too well. When we merge like this, a tangle of legs and hands, of scents and licks, I find myself lost in a dreamlike place. As I slowly caress his back with my left hand, my rings brush against his spine.

He shivers.

“Am I hurting you?” He begins to peel off.

I grab his ass, enjoying the feel of his solidity in my hand.

“No.”

He laughs. “That’s one way to make me stay.”

“You need a reason?”

He nips my neck, then sucks, hard, sending a zing between my legs. I’m already throbbing, my blood pounding through me, the pace slowing as release ends, but this little bite reignites me.

“Thank you, Mrs. McCormick.”

“You’re thanking me?”

“For marrying me.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I know I don’t. But I am.” He moves, his cheek resting on my nipple, head on my chest now as he runs his fingers around my belly button.

“Then I thank you back.”

I feel his smile against my nipple, his knee moving up, his body relaxed and fluid, like a cat. The tickle of leg hair feels delicious, a sensation I shouldn’t love but do. It’s the mark of intimacy, of opposites, of acknowledging the foreign while reveling in it. The endless fascination I have with his body, heart, mind and soul feels almost criminal.

How am I allowed to get away with marrying him?

“Better?” His question sounds like a self-satisfied pat on the back.

“Much.”

“Hungry?”

I yawn.

“Sleepy?” he says with a laugh. Rolling over, our bodies separating fully as we reposition, we settle with Dec on his back, my ear over his chest, snuggled in.

His stomach roars under my ear.

“You’re hungry.”

“Yes.”

“Want me to ring Adele?”

“Who’s Adele?”

I clear my throat. “The flight attendant.”

“Oh. Is she new?”

“She’s been here since I started dating you.” More than two years ago, I don’t add.

“Oh.”

“You need to work on this.”

“Why?”

“Dec!”

He laughs.”I’ll call for some food.”

Resignation fills me. “Wait until we’re clothed.”

“Why? I don’t care if she sees me naked.” His stomach growls again.

“She might.”

“Why should I care what she thinks?”

“I care.”

“That’s different.” He stands and shrugs into a white bathrobe with the Anterdec logo on it. “I love it when you get possessive and jealous.” He holds up his hands like they’re claws. “Meow.”

“You’re invoking my cat?”

He laughs, brushing the front of his robe. “Better?”

I sit up on my knees and pull him by the neck of the bathrobe, our kiss hot and wet. “Yes. I am now.”

He looks down. A part of him looks back up. It’s one of my favorite parts.

His stomach growls yet again.

I lean back on the bed, still naked, and pose in the most inviting way possible.

Declan RSVPs with vigor.

Chapter 3

I must have fallen asleep at some point after Round Two, because I wake up to an empty bed, a mouth that tastes like sweet paste, and—did I mention the empty bed?

Given that we’re in a private jet with no escape unless Declan’s chosen a parachute and is pulling a DB Cooper impression, he can’t be far.

But why would he leave the bed at all? I’m ready for Round Three.

I look in the bathroom. Nope.

And then I hear it. The background murmur of Declan on the phone.

Scratch Round Three.

Searching the room, I find no sign of his suit. My clothes are gone, but a dry cleaner’s bag hangs on a hook on the wall. Having lived with Declan for a number of years, I can guess what happened. He contacted Adele, let her know about the blue dye fiasco, and somewhere on board, a genie whipped up a set of bespoke clothing for me.

Or Grace made sure we have backup clothes on the flight.