Show Me Forever

His words echoed in the quiet of the room.

"Marry me."

I didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Not right away.

But my body spoke for me.

I slid my hands around the back of his neck, tilted his face toward mine, and kissed him deep. Wet. Slow. The kind of kiss that said I’m scared, but I want to want this. I want you. His hands found my thighs, gripping tight, the heat between us sparking like a live wire.

Still straddling him, I started to move.

My bare heat brushed against him, and I felt him throb beneath me, already hard again. I rolled my hips, letting the friction tease us both. His breath caught. I slid my fingers into his hair, tugging gently, loving the way his mouth parted—how his eyes darkened with pure, raw hunger.

“You want to convince me?” I whispered against his lips. “Then show me what forever feels like.”

He growled—actually growled—and gripped my hips hard as I sank down onto him, taking him inch by aching inch. We both gasped at the stretch. He filled me so deeply it bordered on too much, but that was what I craved—his intensity, his hunger, the way he lost control for me.

I started to ride him slow and deliberate, letting him feel everything—every tight squeeze, every slick drag, every ripple of pleasure tightening in my belly. His eyes locked on mine, lips parted, jaw clenched. His hands slid up my sides, under the loose hem of his T-shirt I was still wearing, and cupped my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I whimpered.

“You feel like home,” he groaned, thrusting up into me suddenly. I gasped. “Every time I’m inside you, it’s like I’m losing myself and finding you at the same damn time.”

My rhythm faltered, breath hitching as he thrust again, hard. Deep. His mouth captured mine, kissing me with everything he had—messy and possessive. He wrapped his arms around me, stood, and carried me to the bedroom, still buried inside me, my legs wrapped around his waist.

He threw me down onto the bed, climbing over me without pause, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand while the other gripped my thigh and pushed it open wider.

Then he took me.

Hard.

Deliciously rough.

The bed creaked under us. The headboard hit the wall. His name tore from my lips again and again as he drove into me like he was trying to claim me from the inside out.

“I want to be the man you wake up to every morning,” he said, breath ragged, lips against my ear. “The one who gets to fuck you filthy like this... and then hold you while you sleep.”

I clenched around him, crying out. He felt it—knew it—and used it, shifting angles until he found that perfect spot that made me writhe under him, made my legs shake.

“Say you’ll think about it,” he growled. “Say you won’t run from this.”

I was too close to speak.

But I nodded—over and over—until I shattered beneath him.

He followed with a rough curse, pulling me tight against him as he spilled inside me, thrusts slowing but no less intense, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

We lay there afterward, bodies slick with sweat, hearts racing, lips brushing lazy kisses across flushed skin. He traced his fingers down my spine while I rested on his chest, his voice low and hoarse.

“I don’t want a life without you,” he said. “And I’ll wait if I have to. But you’re mine.”

I didn’t know what forever looked like. I didn’t know if I believed in happily ever afters.

But lying there with him, raw and wrecked and completely unraveled...

I wanted to try.

---

The next few weeks were a slow, burning kind of unraveling. He didn’t bring up marriage again immediately. But he showed me what that life might look like.

Morning coffee in bed—him bringing it in just the way I liked it, setting it down and crawling under the covers to wake me with kisses.

Long walks on cool nights, his arm around me, lips pressed to my temple.

Late dinners where we didn’t even make it to dessert before I had him dragging me into the bathroom or fingering me under the table while I struggled to stay quiet.

One night, he came home from a shift and didn’t even make it to the bedroom. I was waiting for him in nothing but lace. He dropped his bag, undressed me with his teeth, and ate me out on the hallway floor like he’d starved for me all day.

We fucked on the kitchen counter, in the shower, over the couch, against windows with the curtains barely drawn.

He didn’t stop making me feel wanted.

Desired.

Loved.

---

One night, a few months later, we went away together. A secluded cabin. A fireplace. A bottle of wine we never finished because he bent me over the table halfway through dinner and took me from behind, moaning how good I felt and how much he loved me.

Afterward, as I sat in his lap wrapped in a blanket, staring at the flickering firelight, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ring box.

Not flashy. Not some grand gesture.

Just real.

Him.

Us.

“I still mean it,” he said, voice rough. “I still want you. All of you. No pressure. No rush. Just… say yes if you’re ready.”

I stared at the ring. Then at him. My heart beat wild and hard in my chest.

I still didn’t know if I believed in fairy tales.

But I believed in him.

And that night, I whispered yes against his lips, kissed him until we couldn’t breathe, and let him make love to me in front of the fire until neither of us could move.

Maybe this was what forever looked like.

Messy.

Fiery.

Wild.

And ours.