Chapter 44 The Echo Of His Touch
1282 Words
Morning arrived slowly.
Soft light filtered through the curtains, pale and gentle, stretching across the foot of the bed like a careful hand. The world outside hadn’t yet awakened fully—just the faint hum of distant traffic, the occasional bird, and the rhythmic tick of the wooden clock in the hallway.
But inside the room, inside the warmth of their bed, time moved differently.
Marnie woke first.
Her cheek rested against Michael’s chest, her legs tangled with his. His arm was draped around her waist again—heavy, protective, impossibly warm—holding her as if he had no intention of letting her drift even an inch away.
She didn’t remember falling asleep in his arms.
She only remembered the heat of his breath on her skin, the soft press of his lips, the way he whispered I love you like a truth he had held back for too long.
Her heart tightened at the memory.
Slow. Sensual. Intimate.
She had never felt closer to him than she had last night.
But closeness always came with fear.
Because closeness meant risk.
And risk meant something could break again.
She inhaled softly, her face brushing against the fabric of his shirt—crumpled and partly unbuttoned from the night before.
Michael stirred beneath her.
“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low and raspy from sleep.
She smiled against his chest. “You’re awake.”
“Barely.” His hand slid slowly across her hip, not in a s****l way—just tender, proprietary in the gentlest sense. “But I’d know you were next to me even if I was unconscious.”
A warm shiver ran through her.
“Why?” she whispered.
He turned his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. “Because you’re the only thing I look for when I open my eyes.”
Heat bloomed across her cheeks—unexpected, consuming.
It was ridiculous that after everything, after marriage, after fights and tears and intimacy, he could still undo her with a single sentence. But that was Michael—steadfast in ways she only understood when he let his guard down.
She shifted slightly, tilting her head up so she could see his face. His hair was messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep. But the moment his gaze found hers, something softened inside him—something he didn’t even try to hide.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Come here,” he said softly, sliding his hand to the back of her neck.
She moved up, and he met her halfway, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just a quiet, sensual greeting that made her toes curl under the blankets.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply—as if he needed her breath to settle his own.
“Stay like this a little longer,” he murmured.
She laughed softly. “We can’t stay in bed all day.”
“We could,” he countered, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “I can call in. You can cancel your meetings.”
“You never cancel,” she reminded him.
“And you rarely choose rest,” he replied, lifting an eyebrow. “But last night was… intense. For both of us.”
A blush crept up her neck.
He remembered everything.
“Michael…”
He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to explain what you’re feeling. I already know.”
“You always think you know,” she teased lightly, though her voice trembled.
He caught the tremor.
His expression shifted—still gentle, but edged with that quiet intensity that always surfaced when she was vulnerable.
“Then tell me,” he said softly, “what’s going through your mind right now?”
He wasn’t asking casually.
He was inviting her into honesty.
Dangerous honesty.
She swallowed. “I’m scared.”
His thumb paused mid-stroke.
“Of me?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said quickly. “Not you.”
He exhaled—slow, relieved, but still tense. “Then what?”
“Of losing this,” she admitted. “Of getting too close. Of wanting too much.”
His jaw clenched—not in anger, but pain. “Marnie…”
“It feels good,” she whispered. “Last night felt… amazing. Right. Safe. But part of me is afraid the more I let myself love you like this, the more it will hurt if something goes wrong.”
His hand moved to her waist, firm, grounding. “Nothing’s going wrong.”
“You can’t promise that,” she said softly.
His eyes darkened—a mix of frustration and devotion. “I can promise I won’t walk away.”
“That’s not the same.”
He cupped her face gently but with undeniable intensity. “It is when I mean it.”
Her breath hitched.
He was looking at her the way he looked at patients he refused to give up on.
With stubbornness.
With conviction.
With a kind of fierce tenderness that felt like a vow.
“You’re my wife,” he said quietly. “You’re my choice. Every day. Every morning. Every stupid argument. Every kiss that keeps me awake at night.”
Her lips parted.
“And last night?” he continued, his voice dropping even lower. “That wasn’t an accident. Or weakness. Or desperation. That was me loving you. Wanting you. Choosing you.”
Her heart thudded hard enough that she wondered if he could feel it.
“Say something,” he whispered.
She pressed her palm to his cheek. “I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” he said immediately.
“But promise me we won’t fall back into old habits.”
“Promise me we won’t stop talking.”
“Promise me you’ll tell me when something hurts you.”
“Promise me you won’t shut me out.”
He caught her hand, intertwining their fingers.
“I promise,” he said.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t even a vow spoken like a speech.
It was simple. Direct. Real.
And then he kissed her hand—slowly, sensually, letting his lips linger on her skin longer than necessary.
Her whole body warmed.
“Marnie,” he murmured, “do you know what scares me?”
She shook her head.
“You.”
Her breath froze.
“Not because you could hurt me,” he clarified, brushing her lips with his thumb. “But because I want you so much that sometimes it feels like I’m unraveling.”
Her pulse stumbled.
“Last night,” he whispered, leaning closer, “I felt you let go. Just a little. And it nearly undid me.”
Her voice shook. “Michael…”
His forehead pressed to hers. “I want more nights like that. More mornings like this. More… us.”
She exhaled shakily. “I want that too.”
Something flashed in his eyes—
Heat.
Relief.
Possession softened by devotion.
“Then stay with me,” he murmured, kissing her again—slower this time, deeper, pulling her into the warmth of him. “Just a few more minutes.”
She didn’t resist.
She couldn’t.
She melted into him, letting his hands sweep gently down her back, letting his breath warm her lips, letting the sensual intimacy of being loved—deeply, deliberately—spill through her chest.
He held her tighter, kissed her deeper, and whispered against her mouth:
“We’ll figure everything out. Together.”
And for the first time, she believed him.
- Writer
