Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

22. More – Eliza

More

ELIZA

Twenty years of wanting crystallizes in the press of his lips against my neck, the slide of his hands under my silk blouse. Some memories live in muscle memory – the spot behind his ear that makes him gasp, the way his hands tremble when I trace his spine. Only now, the trembling isn't from withdrawal or chemicals. It's pure want, pure presence.

"Eliza," he breathes against my collar bone, and it's a prayer, a plea, a promise all at once. "God, I've missed you. Every part of you."

Moonlight spills through his bedroom windows, painting silver streaks in his beard, catching the green of his eyes as he draws back to look at me. His fingers trace my face like he's memorizing it all over again. They're steadier now than they've ever been, certain in their path.

"You're so beautiful." His voice breaks. "You've always been so beautiful. That night in the studio, remember? When you walked in wearing that black dress..."

"The one you wrote Off the Record about?" I smile against his lips. "How could I forget?"

I remember him at twenty-five, all swagger and charm, pressing me against the soundboard after everyone left. At thirty-five, desperate and burning. But this... this man who touches me with reverent hands, who looks at me like I'm everything he's ever written songs about... this is new. This is real.

My blouse falls away under his careful touch. His shirt follows. When skin meets skin, we both gasp at the contact. Different bodies now – softer curves, silver threads in hair, scars we've earned apart – but the way we fit together hasn't changed. I trace the new tattoo on his ribs, five years clean marked in elegant script. His fingers find the cesarean scar from Justin that he once kissed in a hotel room in Paris.

"I wrote about this," he murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck to that spot that makes me arch – the one he mentioned in verse two of Burning Bridges . "Every freckle. Every sigh. You're in every song I've ever written."

"Chase—" My voice catches as his mouth finds that sensitive place behind my knee that he somehow still remembers, the one he used to tease during meetings just to watch me try to maintain composure. "Please."

He takes his time, relearning me with lips and hands, finding old sensitive spots and discovering new ones. I remember how to make him groan – that spot on his hip, the way he loves having his hair pulled. When he finally moves above me, the weight of him familiar and new all at once, tears slip from my eyes.

"Hey." He catches them with his thumbs, his own eyes bright with emotion. "You okay?"

"Better than okay." I pull him down to me, kiss him deep and slow. "Just... overwhelmed. It's been so long. And you're so present. So here. No substances, no barriers..."

"Just us," he whispers. "Finally just us." His forehead presses to mine. "I'm done wasting time. No more hiding in addiction. No more professional distance. No more pretending you're not the love of my life."

When we move together, it's with twenty years of knowledge and fresh discovery. He still arches the same way when I drag my nails down his back. I still gasp his name the same way when he hits just the right spot, the sound he once said was better than any melody he'd ever written. But there's something different now – a depth, an understanding, a certainty we never had before.

"Look at me," he whispers as we near the edge. "Please, baby, look at me. I want to really see you this time. No haze, no blur, just you."

I do. Green eyes lock with grey, and everything we've never said passes between us. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every finally. Every lyric he wrote about this exact shade of grey.

We fall together, his name on my lips, mine on his, moonlight turning us both to silver. No rushing apart this time. No hurried redressing for emergency meetings. No walk of shame. No regrets.

After, he gathers me close, pressing soft kisses to my hair, my temples, my shoulder. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining like they did that first night in the studio when Off the Record was just beginning to form in his mind.

"I love you," he murmurs against my skin. "Twenty years, and that's never changed. Not in rehab, not in success, not in failure. You're in every song because you're in every heartbeat."

I trace the familiar lines of his face, the new ones earned in sobriety, memorizing him all over again. "I love you too. Through everything. Every up, every down. Always have."

He catches my hand, kisses my palm like he used to do before every show. "Stay?"

The question holds twenty years of weight. Of times I couldn't stay. Wouldn't stay. Had to walk away. Of early morning meetings and industry appearances. Of maintaining professional distance.

"Yes," I whisper, and feel him smile against my fingers. "I'm done walking away."

The moon crosses the sky as we drift off tangled together, his heartbeat steady under my palm. Some strings, once tied, can never really break.

They just wait to be acknowledged.

"Eliza?" His voice is soft with approaching sleep.

"Hmm?"

"That black dress? I still have the zipper that broke that night in the studio. Kept it all these years."

I laugh against his chest, the sound pure joy. "Of course you did."

Some memories are meant to be kept forever.