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She cried out, back arching off the bed, inner muscles clenching around me so tightly it bordered on pain. I held still, giving us both a moment to adjust to the intensity of the connection.

"Look at me," I demanded, echoing words from our first night together.

Her eyes opened, meeting mine with that direct gaze that had drawn me from the beginning.

No pretense, no evasion, just Savannah—vulnerable and strong simultaneously, yielding without surrendering.

"No more lies," I said, beginning to move inside her with deliberate, measured strokes. "Not between us. Not even when the truth is difficult. Not even when you think I can't handle it."

Her hands found my shoulders, nails digging into skin as she matched my rhythm. "No more lies," she agreed, voice breaking as I hit a spot that made her gasp.

"I swear."

I increased the pace, driving into her with a force that would have concerned me with any other woman. But Savannah met each thrust with equal intensity, her body rising to meet mine, taking everything I gave and demanding more.

"Harder," she urged, legs wrapping higher around my waist, changing the angle until I hit even deeper. "I need to feel you. All of you."

The request broke something in my control. I grasped her hips, lifting them slightly, and began to pound into her with abandon. The sound of skin against skin, of her increasingly desperate moans, of my own rough breathing filled the room.

"Mine," I growled against her neck, the word escaping before I could contain it. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasped, inner muscles beginning to flutter around me. "God, Lucas, I'm yours."

The submission in her voice, the surrender of her body, pushed me toward the edge of control. I slipped a hand between us, finding her center, circling with the precise pressure I'd learned she needed.

"Come for me," I demanded, feeling her tighten around me.

"Let go, little fox. Show me what's real between us."

The endearment—the first time I'd used it since before the hospital—seemed to trigger something in her. She shattered beneath me, around me, her release tearing my name from her throat in a cry that sent satisfaction surging through me.

Her inner muscles clamped down, pulsing around me in waves that threatened to drag me over with her.

I fought it, determined to watch every second of her pleasure, to memorize the vulnerability in her expression, the complete abandon that told me more than words ever could about what existed between us.

Only when her eyes opened, meeting mine with naked emotion, did I allow myself to follow. Three more hard thrusts and I buried myself deep, my release tearing through me with an intensity that bordered on painful.

For long moments afterward, we remained joined, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. I should have moved, should have given her space, should have maintained some semblance of the distance her betrayal warranted.

Instead, I found myself gathering her closer, rolling to my side and taking her with me, keeping us connected in the most intimate way possible.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against my chest, the words barely audible. "For lying. For complicating everything. For making you doubt what's between us."

I should have accepted the apology, should have offered forgiveness, should have begun the process of rebuilding what her deception had damaged. The words hovered on my tongue, ready to create the bridge we both needed.

But decades of maintained control, of emotional reservation, of keeping vulnerability carefully contained, couldn't be overcome so easily—even now, even with her.

"I know," I said instead, fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. Not forgiveness, not yet, but acknowledgment.

A starting point.

She seemed to understand, offering no further words, simply relaxing against me as our breathing steadied. The silence between us gradually shifted from tense to comfortable, the connection of our bodies communicating what neither of us seemed capable of articulating.

"Stay," I found myself saying as her eyes began to drift closed. Not a question, not quite a command. Something in between—a request, an invitation, a hope I hadn't intended to voice.

"For how long?" she asked, the question weighted with meaning beyond tonight.

I considered my response carefully, aware of the precipice we both stood upon.