the back of her neck, her arms, whatever he could reach. She turned her head to him, and he captured her lips with his, slow and passionate. She could feel him deep inside her, twitching, needy, desperate for more.
And so was she.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” He smirked and leaned his hips on hers, increasing the pressure. She almost saw stars, and her small, mewling noises were all he needed as proof. He chuckled. “Good. Now…please. If it’s all the same to you…may I finally begin?”
She nodded. She couldn’t form words. And she wasn’t going to find any more of them as he began to plunder her. Not hard. Not fast. At least…not at first.
The last time this had happened to her, it had been a nightmare. It had shattered her soul. Broken her into a hundred tiny pieces and left her wondering who she was in its wake. She had been left sitting there with all those little shards and trying to figure out how to put herself back together again. Who she might be with all the little chips and dust missing from the seams and cracks.
Every time she thought she had glued all of herself back together after that terrible night, where her trust in a man she had loved had been what caused her downfall, Simon went and proved her wrong.
She thought when she let the Puppeteer touch her, she was healed.
She thought when she had let him tie her up, she was healed.
She thought when she had killed Duncan, she was healed.
Even now, it wasn’t the act itself that was rewriting the damage that had been done to her. It wasn’t the fact that each thrust deep into her sent pleasure, not agony, crashing through her. It wasn’t the bliss she reached time and time again as he sped up, working himself like a piston inside her eager body.
It was the trust.
Duncan had taken that from her.
And Simon had given it back.
That was why she loved him.
Not the laughter, not the joking, not the sarcasm and silly antics. Not his beautiful artwork, not how sweet he looked when he was asleep, and not the shadowy part of his soul that had sacrificed himself for her. Sure, that was all part of it.
But if anyone ever asked her again why she loved Simon Waite, the dreadful and terrible Puppeteer, it wasn’t going to be for any of those reasons.
It was because he taught her how to trust someone with her heart again.
When he collapsed over her, gasping for air, body spasming in his release as he flooded her, the feeling of the warmth inside her sent her spiraling into bliss once more. But this time, she did it with his fingers tangled in hers. The strings were gone. He was holding her close, kissing her shoulder slowly, again and again, in worship.
When she could breathe enough to speak, she whispered, “I love you, Simon…”
He smiled against her shoulder and nuzzled into her and muttered something into her hair that she didn’t catch. She was fine without hearing his snarky response.
He lifted his head. “I need a shower, a whiskey, and a nap. Probably in that order.”
She smirked. “Dibs on the shower.”
He kissed her cheek. “I suppose that’s only fair.” He climbed off her, gathered his clothing from the bed, and groaned. “Lord in hell, I think you made me pull a muscle.”
She lay on her side and stretched. “Don’t even think about complaining, or I’ll show you that turnabout really is fair play.”
Simon’s eyes went a little wide. “Touché, madam.” He shuddered. “While you seemed to enjoy that well enough, I would like to protect my hindquarters from invasion for at least another hundred years before I get bored enough to give it a whirl.”
“Note to self—check in with Simon in a hundred years.”
He gagged dramatically. “Perhaps two hundred.”
She laughed at his melodrama. He really did always know how to make her laugh. She knew Simon couldn’t love her back. And that was all right.
Because she knew he was still hers anyway.
17
That night at dinner, the room’s conversation didn’t screech to a stop when they walked in. Cora would be grateful for any small favors. It was lasagna night, and Simon wouldn’t stop complaining about how much he despised ricotta cheese. She didn’t know what his problem was—she loved the stuff.
When she turned from the buffet with her tray of food, she was shocked to see someone at a table hailing her. It was Bertha.