The key turned into the lock.
Lyla froze, a cold glass of water halfway to her lips. She’d changed the locks after he left. He must have… he must have kept the old key. A stupid, hopeful part of her had never thrown it away.
The door swung open, and there he was. Leon. A week of shadows under his eyes, a new gauntness to his jaw. He looked like hell. He looked like home.
Her glass hit the floor, shattering. She didn’t hear it.
“Leon.”
His name was a breath, a prayer she’d stopped letting herself whisper. He stood in the doorway, his suitcase dropped at his feet, his knuckles white where they gripped the frame. He was just… staring. Drinking her in like a man dying of thirst.
“I couldn’t,” he said, his voice rough, scraped raw. “I walked. I got a hotel. I thought… I thought I could make it make sense out there. But all I did was count the cracks in the ceiling and feel your side of the bed empty.”
A sob ripped from her throat. She was across the room before she knew she’d moved, her hands flying up to his face. Her palms cupped his stubbled cheeks, her thumbs tracing the hollows beneath his eyes. Real. He’s real.
“You left,” she choked out. “You just left.”
“I know.” His own hands came up, covering hers, pressing them harder against his skin as if he needed the anchor. “I was an idiot. A proud, fucking idiot. Every day it got worse. The silence was so loud, Lyla. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just… I came back. I’m here. Helplessly.”
That word undid her. Helplessly. The great Leon, always in control, always the rock, was adrift without her. She pulled his face down to hers, but he stopped her, a hair’s breadth from her lips.
“Wait,” he breathed, his eyes dark, intense. “Just… let me look at you.”
He did. His gaze traveled over her face, memorizing it anew. Then, with a reverence that made her knees weak, he finally closed the distance.
The first touch was a soft, closed-mouth press. A re-discovery. A seal. It wasn’t the hungry, frantic kiss she expected. It was slow. Deliberate. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and they moved over hers with a tenderness that stole the air from her lungs.
He pulled back, only to come back again, angling his head. This time, his tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a gasp. The taste of him—coffee, mint, and that unique, essential Leon flavor—flooded her senses. It was a slow, deep exploration. His hands slid from hers, one tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, the other splaying across the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.
The hard plane of his chest met her softness. The evidence of his desire, already firm and pressing against her belly, sent a jolt of pure, liquid heat straight to her core. She whimpered into his mouth, her hips making a small, involuntary circle against him.
He gentled her. “Shhh,” he murmured against her lips, not breaking the kiss. “We have time.”
He walked her backwards, never severing the connection of their mouths, until the back of her knees hit the couch. They sank down together, a tangle of limbs and desperate sighs. He laid her back against the cushions, his body a welcome weight atop hers.
And he kissed her. For what felt like an eternity, he just kissed her.
He kissed the corner of her mouth. The pulse point fluttering wildly beneath her jaw. The sensitive shell of her ear, his warm breath making her shiver. He kissed a slow, burning path down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing lightly, his tongue soothing the spot after. His hands were everywhere, but so slow. They pushed her shirt up, his palms skating over her ribs, her stomach, until they found her breasts. He palmed them through her lace bra, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard, aching pebbles.
“Leon, please,” she begged, arching into his touch.
“I love you,” he whispered into the skin between her breasts.
The world stopped. He didn’t say it often. The words, in that raw, husky tone, were a balm and an aphrodisiac all at once. Tears welled in her eyes.
He looked up, seeing them. He kissed each eyelid, tasting the salt. “I love you,” he said again, more firmly. “I was a fool to ever let you doubt it.”
His fingers made quick work of her bra clasp. When her breasts spilled free, he groaned, a low, visceral sound. He took one peaked nipple into his mouth, and the sensation was so sharp, so exquisite, she cried out. His tongue lashed it, his lips suckled firmly, his hand attending to the other with the same devoted attention. The dual assault of pleasure had her writhing beneath him, her fingers clutching at his shoulders.
He moved lower, his kisses branding her stomach, the waistband of her leggings. He hooked his fingers in them and her panties, and in one smooth motion, stripped them down her legs. The cool air hit her heated flesh, followed by the scorching heat of his gaze.
He settled between her thighs, pushing them wider with his shoulders. He didn’t dive in. He just… looked. His breath ghosted over her damp curls, making her clench with need.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. Then he leaned in and licked. A long, slow, flat stroke from bottom to top.
Lyla’s back bowed off the couch. “Oh, god!”
He did it again. And again. Establishing a rhythm that was maddeningly slow. He explored her with his tongue, learning every fold, every sensitive spot as if for the first time. He circled her clit, then sucked it gently into his mouth. The pressure was perfect, the rhythm relentless. Her hips began to move of their own accord, meeting each stroke. The coil of tension in her belly wound tighter and tighter, a sweet, unbearable ache.
Just as she felt herself teetering on the edge, he pulled away. She whimpered in protest.
He was on her again, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips. He fumbled with his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free himself. The thick, velvety head of his cock nudged against her entrance. He was shaking. He was shaking.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She forced her hazy eyes open, meeting his. The love, the hunger, the regret, the devotion—it was all there, naked and raw.
He pushed inside. An inch. A slow, burning, glorious invasion. He stopped, letting her stretch around him, letting them both feel the incredible, full sensation. Then another inch. And another. Until he was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, their bodies joined completely.
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, his forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling. “Lyla,” he gasped. “I’m home.”
Then he began to move. Not with frantic passion, but with deep, rolling thrusts that touched her very soul. Each withdrawal was agony, each return, ecstasy. He filled her so completely, hitting a spot deep inside that made her see stars with every stroke. His pace was controlled, measured, but the intensity in his eyes was wild.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her nails scored down his back. He grunted, his control fraying. His thrusts became harder, faster, but still somehow tender, each one punctuated by a gasp of her name.
The orgasm built not as a sudden crash, but as a rising tide. It started in her toes, curled in the air. It swept up her legs, tightened her stomach, made her breasts ache. She felt every inch of him inside her, the friction, the heat, the perfect connection.
“Leon, I’m… I’m going to…”
“Come with me,” he gritted out, his rhythm becoming erratic. “Look at me. Come with me.”
Their eyes locked. The world narrowed to his face, his body moving in hers, the overwhelming wave of sensation. It crested, and she broke, a silent scream on her lips as the pleasure detonated, radiating out from her core in blinding, shattering waves. She felt him pulse deep inside her, heard his own guttural cry as he followed her over, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a comforting anchor. They were slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. He was still inside her, still softly pulsing. He nuzzled into her neck, his lips moving against her damp skin.
“I’m never leaving again,” he whispered, the words a vow.