Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [109]
I’m here, Jax. I can’t believe you’re alive.
Then he shows me his absolute devastation; I see the long months on Marakeq, where he lived in squalor and spent his days in the swamp, painstakingly trying to track us. But the rains and the native mud made that all but impossible, even for an experienced merc like him. He spares nothing, not a single second of his grief, fear, and loss. Tears well in my eyes at his devotion; I am not worthy of his steadfast love, but I cherish it.
Once I draw back a little to study him, I see the marks of time in his face. Before, no more than ten turns separated us, but now it looks more like fifteen. A fine web of worry lines surrounds his eyes, and there’s a touch of gray in his dark hair. He wears it well; in my absence, March has become downright distinguished.
“Do you still love me?” he asks.
Mary, how can he? Can’t he feel the truth? That used to be my question . . . and my doubt, but it’s been so much longer for him. No wonder he isn’t sure whether our status has changed. I can’t believe he waited for me. I open myself to him and let him examine my memories, so much faster—and more intimate—than telling the story verbally.
But I answer him aloud so there can be no doubt. “Always. I will always love you.”
“I never gave up on you.” He turns onto his side and draws me into his arms. During my long exile, I tried to imagine what it would be like between us, whether it would be torrid or fierce, but he’s gentle in his desperation, my head resting on his heart.
I breathe him in, savoring his familiar scent. “I never stopped trying to get back to you. I just had no idea it would take so long. And it wasn’t, for me.”
“I want you to hear something,” he says then.
Rising, he motions me to silence and pops a data spike into the comm unit beside the bed. To my surprise, it’s his voice, telling me the story of how he left Nicu Tertius and wound up on Lachion. Until the end, I don’t understand the purpose, but then, in the final words, it becomes clear. He was talking to me on the vid when I was gone, as proof he expected me to come home.
My tears fall then, and he kisses them away, one by one. I want him so much; it’s been forever since he touched me. He kisses me again, this time with the passion he’s suppressed beneath layers of fear and doubt.
I can’t blame him.
A normal man would’ve found someone else by now, but he isn’t that guy. He’s a hero, all the way down to the bone, and he’s mine, still. I don’t know how I got so lucky.
We twine together, hands stroking. Silent sparks, desire beyond all bearing, flood me. His touch comes like sunrise on all worlds but Gehenna and Marakeq, sweetly inevitable but also delicious for those who have waited patiently for the darkness to end. That same golden glow spills through me at the brush of his hands over my skin. My clothes have gone, and his, too, a pool of fabric on the floor.
March runs his lips down my throat; I caress the curve of his ear. Despite the long separation, we are easy in our coming together for fear the other will vanish in a smoky illusion, no more than a vision. He kisses me again and again, his mouth hot on my skin. I run my fingers down his back, digging in as I recall he likes a little edge, and it spurs him on. Lowering his head to my breast, he nips and nuzzles, reminding me how good it can be. I come to life beneath his touch, writhing and moaning.
“Now,” I whisper.
He covers me smoothly, his body hard as ever. The turns have not changed him that much. In a single thrust, he takes me and holds with such delicious intensity. I feel his heartbeat inside me. Unable to resist, I move beneath him, little curls of my hips that make his ugly-beautiful face tighten with bliss. Oh, how I’ve missed that broken nose and his shot-amber eyes. Right now, they’re molten with desire, long lashes sweeping down to shield his expression, as if I can’t feel what he does.
It’s all heat, all perfect promise, and I can’t get enough of him. I kiss his throat,