I ache for him, every part of me, and that ache is soothed with every brush of his hands. His thumb across the hollow of my cheekbone, the jut of my ribs, the dip of my hip.

He’s touching me like he means it.

A finger presses in the tender spot behind my ear, loops around my wrist, brushes at the back of my knee as he picks me up and lowers me to the bed.

The fire is everywhere, like a trail of gasoline and Oliver is the match.

“You’re perfect, this is perfect, I—”

I put a hand up to his mouth, he kisses it messily. “You’re babbling,” I laugh. He runs a thumb over my swollen bottom lip and looks at me in that bruising, wide-open way of his.

Then he closes his eyes and moves his mouth to my neck. “But I mean it. You—” He breathes in, his lips press against my jackrabbit pulse. “I waited so long for you.”

My heart is in my throat, I’m nearly dizzy with feeling. His hands are so warm on my spine. He presses there, but I know it won’t leave a bruise. Oliver doesn’t feel the need to mark me up, to possess me. “I waited for you. I’d keep waiting.” I mean it, I would.

“You don’t have to. I wouldn’t make you. I’m yours, Frances.” His hands trail up my vertebrae, thumbing at the buttons there. With shallow breaths, he gasps, “Yours, yours, yours.”

I touch him back, hands scrambling for purchase across his broad chest. Recklessly I tear the tuxedo jacket off his shoulders and for one moment he stills. “Are you sure?” he asks weakly.

I am. I am because it’s Oliver.

I nod and his eyes go wide. “Me too.”

With careful fingers, I unbutton his crisp white shirt, and arch my back off the bed to kiss the scar just to the right of his belly button, where the bullet pierced him. He threads his fingers through my hair and sighs.

I’m blushing all over but there is no shame in letting Oliver see me as I am. In the warmth of his embrace, I am as safe as I always am.

He bends again, his mouth finding my collarbone.

It’s Oliver and he’s everywhere.

His hands are still so light. They don’t hurt, instead they ghost over me, like he’s amazed he gets to do this at all.

He presses me into the mattress, shoulders wide, silhouetted against the dim ceiling, waves of brown hair falling over his face. His mouth is open, swollen a bit, and he’s looking at me like he loves me.

This want isn’t a wildfire. It’s a warm hearth. Something to build a home around.

I love him and he loves me. In the end, it is simple.

CHAPTER NINETEEN