He laughs bitterly, biting his lip uncertainly for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine. “I’ve hated you, your mother, my father, being apart from you . . . I’ve hated all that I could for as long as I could, but I’m fresh out of hate, Pink.” He’s still biting his lip, his eyes a mix of regret and, above all, acceptance. “I love you,” he whispers. “So we screwed up. We screwed up big. Holy shit, but I don’t want to screw up again. Do you?”

“No, god, no.”

“Then do you love me? And I mean for real, Pink, the nonstop kind.”

This is the thousandth time he’s asked me if I love him.

My heart quakes in my chest in response.

I close my eyes, gathering my courage.

“Come on, babe. Only three words.” He brushes my ear with his lips, his voice urgent, almost pleading. “They’re like magic. Say them, and good things start happening.”

“I said them to you in front of thousands of people, you greedy man,” I whisper-laugh, then, completely serious, “Kenna, I haven’t said them to a man in my entire life, except to my dad, and look what he did to us.”

“Holding back those words wouldn’t have made it hurt any less.” He strokes the pink strand of my hair between his thumb and index finger. “So, he made a mistake. Difference is, he didn’t have a chance to fix it—but we do. Come on, Pink, say it, tell me. The next couple of decades, you will say those words to me, and that’s a promise I’m making to you right now. Now, tell me that you love me.”

“I fucking do!”

His laugh is deep, delicious. “You still won’t say the ‘L’ word?” he asks. “After all we’ve been through? All these years apart, when we could’ve been together?”

The quivers in my heart are spreading down my limbs too.

Love.

It’s just one word.

But when it’s so real and true and you feel it in your heart, when it has hurt you and you’re afraid to lose it again, it becomes more than just one word. It becomes everything. Everything this man is to me.

Quietly, suddenly, Mackenna ducks his head and slips his fingers into the straps of my top, then eases it off my shoulders. He kisses my bare skin, his lips both loving and tender, and the kiss crashes against my walls like a wrecking ball. When I make a soft whimper of pain, he lifts his head and his gaze is a whirlwind of contrasts, framed by desire and need.

“It’s going to be all right, Pink, I promise,” he whispers. “She’ll know that we love her.” Strong, gentle hands curl around the back of my head as he kisses my forehead. We stay there for a moment, quietly mourning, when soft, fevered kisses start raining down on my face—more feverish and wetter by the second, and when he lets go a low wolf’s growl, I know that he needs me. He needs to be close. To feel our connection. To reestablish it. God, I need it too.

“Do you need me like I need you?” I ask him quietly, almost pleadingly. “Do you plan to gorge on every inch of me like I plan to gorge on every inch of you?”

His words are textured, his face intently serious. “Have I ever given you doubt that I won’t?”

I shake my head and then, because I need him, because I want him, because I love him, I slowly peel off my top.

I need him now more than ever. I need to know he’s here for me, and I need to show him I’m here for him. I need to feel his love like it’s his forgiveness . . .

Something my mother never taught me, but Mackenna will.

Because of the way he looks at me now—accepting me with all my darkness and all my pink as he lifts my hand and looks at the ring I’m wearing—I know he feels my acceptance like a brand as well.

I undress for him and then quietly ask him, “What do you want to do with me? I’m your prize tonight, so winner’s choice.” Then I stand there, naked except for a little smile.

“What did I win?” he asks cockily, opening his belt.

“Me.”

“Is that so?”

He drops his pants to the floor, and he’s so beautiful that my mouth waters at the sight of all his tanned skin. All of that for me, to devour like candy.

With a soft grin he reaches out and briefly brushes his knuckles across my nipples, always so damn pesky and puckered up like pencil erasers. And then he curls his fingers around my breast and leans over.

He sucks one, latching on to it with a wet sucking sound, like a baby would, then my other nipple receives the same treatment. And my pussy? He slowly starts fingering my pussy. More wet sucking sounds coming from the way my body wants to suck his finger in me. “You’re so beautiful, so gorgeous. My perfect pink wicked little witch. I’m going to make love to you tonight. I’m starting over with you—starting now. Tonight. My plan is to lick my way up those long legs, right up to your pussy, then give a good long suck to your tits. You like?”

“Oh, please,” I moan, undulating my body as I slide my hands up his muscular arms.

He grins—no, not grins. It’s that sexier-than-thou smirk on his lips that makes me want to bite his dirty, sexy mouth off. I start nibbling, and the sound he makes drives me mad with lust.

“Kenna.”

His hand covers one of my breasts, his breath on my face, his eyes holding mine as he kisses one of my temples. “Feels like the first time, doesn’t it?”

I nod and exhale, but it’s not him making me nervous.

It’s me.