“You do seem to enjoy all the things I do with my tongue,” I say.

  Declan shivers noticeably. “I do. I’d like to enjoy it on a lounge chair under the sun.”

  I stretch my legs out in front of me, lean my head back against the leather. “Someone is ordering up his Hawaii sex.”

  “Someone definitely is,” he murmurs.

  I sigh happily, then glance down at my pelvis, lean closer to my boyfriend, and cup his ear. “You’re turning me on right here on the plane, man. That is not fair.”

  He brushes his stubbled cheek against me. “I’ll turn you on more when we get to our private villa tonight. When I take you out on the balcony overlooking the ocean. When I get my mouth all over you.”

  I suppress a moan. “Are we there yet?”

  Declan laughs, takes my hand, kisses my knuckles. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He always does.

  Six hours later, we’re naked and wrapped up in each other, our skin slick, our lips eager. My breath comes fast and hard. His moans are loud and passionate. Our hands explore. Our bodies come together.

  We go deeper.

  We touch everywhere.

  The night stars flicker in the sky as Declan and I indulge in the first fantastic night of off-season sex on our balcony, overlooking the endless ocean.

  I groan a fevered yes as I reach the edge, and he follows me there, panting yes, yes, yes.

  It’s sex, but I sure as hell hope it’s a prelude to the other yes I want from him.

  Tonight, though, it’s late, and I’m blissfully tired. We collapse together onto the king-size bed as a tropical breeze blows past the curtains.

  Declan drifts off to sleep first, like he used to back in Arizona when we first hooked up. He flips to his chest, his arm stretching across mine. My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing, traveling back to that night we spent together and how it felt to connect with him. Remembering, too, our plans to meet in the off-season.

  Our plans fell apart, but we put ourselves back together again.

  Took us more than five years, but as I gaze at the man in bed with me, my heart gives a kick, then flutters some more. Funny how you don’t know it at the time—you simply can’t know it as it happens—but the pain and the hurt you go through can serve a purpose.

  So can the hard times. The terrible heartbreak.

  When you make it to the other side, you can finally look back and see that it was all worth it. I wouldn’t change a thing because . . . here I am.

  And it’s not luck.

  It’s not fate.

  It’s work, and it’s time, and it’s patience. It’s late nights, and early mornings. It’s listening and learning and doing.

  Like playing a game of baseball.

  And, like playing a game of baseball, I’ll never quit.

  33

  Declan

  We sleep well past dawn that first day, so there will be no sunrise proposal. Neither of us wakes till noon.

  I’m up first, drinking coffee on the balcony with the sun directly overhead when Grant finally yawns, rouses himself, then swings his legs out of bed.

  “All right, tour guide,” he calls out as he strolls to the deck, full-monty style. “What’s on the agenda for today? Are we doing a coffee tasting? Some group kayaking? Parasailing with other couples?”

  I roll my eyes so far in my head.

  He shakes his ass as he joins me, and it seems he’s drinking in the view of blue waves and clear skies.

  I drink in the view of him naked.

  The next order of business is usually the first one with Grant—food. We grab lunch at a tropical-style café in town then take a detour for shaved ice at a food truck near the beach.

  Shades on, we wander on the sand, licking cherry ice. Something about the casual vibe feels like this could be the right moment.

  But not quite.

  Grant scans the beach like he’s conducting a survey, and the ambiance doesn’t exactly scream romance or marry me.

  So, it won’t happen now.

  That night, we leave the resort for dinner at one of the best sushi spots on the island. As we sit, the waiter tells us about the specials, and the scallops sound amazing. “I’ll take the special dish,” I say.

  Grant’s eyebrows rise, then he rearranges his features and orders some rolls.

  Shit, did I just give something away by ordering a special dish?

  Wait— Is he expecting me to propose?

  Well, dumbass, you did say you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him and now you’re taking him on a romantic-as-fuck vacation. What the hell message did you think you were sending?

  I don’t ask him over sushi or the special dish. We do, however, have a great time laughing, talking, touching—doing all the things we do best.

  The next day, we go hiking for our morning workout, and the view when we reach the top of an emerald-green mountain, the ocean stretching below us, is stupendous.

  But something about asking him to marry me after a workout is so . . . pedestrian. We work out every day at home. Our jobs are a workout.

  I kibosh a hike proposal.

  After an afternoon nap and a lazy, lingering sixty-nine session that leaves me brimming with endorphins, we check out sea turtles on the beach.

  Turtles are cool and all, but not exactly symbolic of him, or me, or us, or love.

  A day later, I’ve got a waterfall on the agenda. What could be more romantic than a stunning cascade on a garden isle.

  But there’s another reason I hope the waterfall pans out. After a few days here, Grant seems a little suspicious. Sometimes, when we walk along the beach, he’ll glance around, almost like he’s waiting for me to do it.

  It’s fine by me if he’s looking forward to a proposal, but that does take away the element of surprise.

  As we make our way along the trail to the waterfall, I spot another reason to rule out this as a surprise proposal location.

  Not just other people.

  Other people proposing.

  At the edge of the water, a ginger-haired guy in glasses is down on bended knee, asking a curly-haired woman to be his bride.

  I laugh, trying to make light of it. “I hope she says yes,” I tell Grant.

  God, that’s awkward.

  Of course she’ll say yes.

  “I bet he’s hoping the same thing,” Grant says.

  I glance at him, wondering if I hear nerves in his voice too. Either my mind is playing tricks on me, or I’m so nervous that it’s catching.

  Since I can’t propose now without it seeming like we’re simply the next couple in line at the waterfall, I jump into the swimming hole and Grant jumps after me. We horse around in the water as the guy and the gal kiss and hug and finally leave.

  Grant swims up to me, rasps out a sexy hey there, then wraps his legs around my waist. Next thing I know, my boyfriend pushes my head down and dunks me, kicking off my waist at the last minute.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” I say when I come up, laughing as water spews from my nose.

  “Hopefully you’ll make me pay in bed.”

  That’s not a bad idea at all. That night, I put him on his hands and knees and wreck him, just the way he likes it.

  “Love it when you punish me for my naughty ways,” he says.

  “Ditto,” I say.

  The next morning, he does the same to me.

  That afternoon, I table the hunt for the perfect proposal moment because we’ve got an appointment with a realtor.

  But when we find a gorgeous beachfront place with a balcony to die for, it occurs to me that proposing in our Hawaii home would be a stroke of brilliance.

  Only it’s not ours yet.

  There’s paperwork and shit to deal with, so I nix that idea. By the time we return to the resort, I’m hot and sweaty so we go for a dip in our pool.

  That calls for a shower, which leads to orgasms, so that evening my mind is riding a sex high rather than a planning high.

  But once we get dressed, with the soft pink light of sunset streaming through the window, I know—now is the time.

  On the beach, along the ocean, at sunset.

  It’s not original, but it is just right.

  “Want to go for a walk on the beach?”

  With a smile, Grant says, “I do.”

  And yup, it’s a sign.

  Five minutes later, we stroll along the water, the waves lapping the shore, the sun coasting toward the horizon. I’m a couple steps ahead of him on a stretch of soft sand.

  The ideal spot.

  No time like the present.

  Deep breath.

  No more nerves.

  Just do it.

  But when I turn around to get down on one knee, Grant’s already there.

  34

  Grant

  Finally.

  A walk on the beach at sunset.

  This is what I’ve been trying to engineer, but the timing didn’t line up till now.

  The sun is slipping toward the edge of the ocean, and soft rays dance across the water. This stretch of beach is practically a lagoon. It’s quiet, nearly private, and there’s just us.

  No kids building sandcastles. No surfers hauling their boards from the water. No engagement photographer. I didn’t order one. I don’t need a pic for my socials of me asking for his hand.

  I just want Declan’s yes.

  And I’m not waiting any longer. Slowing my pace, I let him take a couple steps ahead of me in the sand.

  This is like stepping up to the plate and taking a swing. There’s no room for fear when you’re facing a pitcher.

  I refuse to feel any fear now.

  Only hope.

  Reaching for the band in my shorts pocket, I drop to one knee, and holy fuck. All the nerves in the world swarm me at once.

  This just got so real. My knee is in the sand, the ring is in my palm, and I am about to ask Declan to marry me.

  Why the hell did I think I wouldn’t be nervous?

  My throat is dry. My palms are sweaty. My heart is beating so loudly, I bet Declan can hear its wild, racing rhythm. Bet he’ll be able to hear it in my voice too.

  A second later, Declan turns around. He spins so fast I swear he’s Superman.

  I blink and then—what just happened?

  He’s . . . on . . . his . . . knee . . . too.

  My jaw drops. His brow furrows. Declan’s lips part, then he tilts his head and laughs—a light and nervous sound. “Um . . .”

  I open my mouth, but the whole speech I had planned about love and forever, about him and me and marriage, is gone, baby, gone. But that’s okay because my boyfriend is on bended knee, mirroring me.

  “Are you . . .?” Declan asks.

  “Yes. Are you?” I ask, equally shocked.

  Declan tackle-hugs me onto my back, grinning down at me. “So, will you marry me?”

  The best laugh ever bursts from my chest. “Will you marry me?”

  With his arms wrapped around me, Declan rolls to his back and pulls me on top of him. He gazes up at me with sparks in his brown eyes and happiness etched onto his face, one hand running through my hair.

  I stare down at my guy as the sun sets, as the waves lap the shore, and we ask each other the same question.

  I go first. “Declan Steele, I would love to be your husband,” I say. All the laughter fades and my breath catches on the enormity of the words I just spoke.

  Sure, I know his answer. He knows mine. But saying the words matters. Speaking your heart out loud to the one you love always matters.

  It’s a privilege to say these words.

  “Marrying you is all I want in the world,” I add as my eyes stay locked with his.

  Declan lets out a shuddery breath and runs his hand down my back. “I want to be yours, Grant. I want to be your husband so badly. I want you for all my days. Always.”

  “You’ve got me,” I whisper, then I drop my lips to his and kiss the man who is my forever.

  His lips are soft and full, and he tastes like my missing piece. His love makes me complete; he’s the home I’ve wanted for myself. I’ve found him, and I’m going to cherish him for all time.

  That’s how I kiss him for the first time in this new chapter—an after-proposal kiss that I’m going to remember forever.

  It’s tender and beautiful, and it’s ours.

  But there are practical matters, like rings.

  When we break the kiss, I shift off him, my fist still clenched around the ring I bought him a few days ago, and I return to one knee. “Now, get up, hottie. I’m going to put a ring on it and make this real.”

  Declan brushes sand off his shorts then rises, wearing a ridiculous grin. I take his hand, my eyes never straying from his. “Meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me. Falling in love with you the second time around made me feel like the luckiest guy ever. But it’s not luck at all. It’s love and trust and faith. Loving you is the greatest thing I have ever done, and I’m going to do it for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” he says, sounding both solemn and joyful.

  I slide the platinum band onto his finger then stand, cup his cheeks and kiss him again.

  Then, it’s his turn. He drops to one knee, takes my hand, and shudders. “You’re the love of my life, Grant Blackwood. I want to be your husband, and I want you to be mine. I want to love you, and take care of you, and grow old with you. Always. Will you marry me?”

  And it’s a privilege too to say these words. “Yes. I can’t wait to marry you.”

  Declan puts a platinum band on my finger, then we close the distance, and we kiss one more time.

  35

  Declan

  It’s official.

  I’m a sap.

  That night, I can’t stop kissing Grant on the balcony. I can’t shut up either. As I coast my lips along his jaw, I nibble then pull back, holding his face. “You’re going to be my husband.”

  “And you’re going to be mine,” he says.

  I repeat the word for the twenty-ninth or two-hundredth time. “Husband. I’m a broken record. We’re not even married, and I can’t stop saying it.”

  “Maybe you should fuck your fiancé instead. Something else to do with your mouth and all,” Grant says.

  “Maybe you should fuck your fiancé,” I counter.

  He lifts a naughty brow. “I will.”

  Grant tugs me away from the balcony, undoing my shirt as we go, working open the buttons. When they’re undone, I shrug it off, reach for his, and strip him down to nothing. Once my clothes are gone, he pulls me on top of him on the big bed.

  Skin to skin, we make out like thieves. I kiss him all over, putting him on his back and traveling down his body, making detours at all my favorite places—his shoulders, his pecs, his nipples that crave attention. I bite and suck, making him groan and writhe.

  My dick twitches, eager to get inside him, or be sucked, or be stroked.

  I’m open to anything with him.

  Like I once told Grant, I love sex. But I’d have to amend that now. I love everything about sex with Grant. I love the way we have it, the frequency, the passion. I love that we don’t have roles, that we take turns, that we give each other whatever we need.

  Tonight, I want it all with Grant.

  And I touch him that way with my lips, letting him know I crave him. As I resume my journey down his body, I reach his hard, hungry cock, taking him to the back of my throat.

  “Yes. My fiancé is so good at giving head,” he moans while I push my right hand on his thigh, grab the lube with my left, and work him open as I lick the head of his dick.

  “Mmm, feels so fucking good,” Grant pants, opening his legs wider, asking for more.

  My man is shameless in bed. He’s a giver and a taker, and I love his neediness. His sex drive. He wants it fiercely, bodies and pleasure, touching and fucking.

  I crook a finger in him, then lift my mouth from his dick so I can watch as he jolts from the sharp, hot bliss.

  “Yesssss,” Grant groans as I massage that spot inside him. His hips jerk; his lips part. He pushes up on his elbows and stares at me with flame in his eyes. “Fuck me,” he says, greedy and desperate.

  I give a devilish grin as I scissor the fingers of one hand and stroke his cock with the other, making his body shake.

  “Deck . . .” he warns. “Fuck me now, because I’m going to need to get inside you really soon.”

  Easing out my fingers, I crawl up his body to suck on his lower lip. “It’s like you can read my mind,” I say. I straddle him, up on my knees, so Grant can work me open, so I’m ready when it’s his turn to have me.

  But his fingers feel too good. Too intense. Too just right. I jerk with pleasure, and then I throw my plans to screw him first out the window. “Babe, I need you inside me,” I tell him. “And I need you now.”

  Grant grasps the base of his cock, offers it to me, and I take.

  A blast of pleasure singes my body while I sink down, a long, languid slide onto his cock. He stretches me deliciously, and the second I’m there, on him, we lock eyes and stare.

  We’re quiet, words fading into the tropical twilight.

  We don’t need them.

  Feelings rule the night.

  His eyes pinned to mine tell me everything.

  We feel so good together. Each time we get closer, we push further, we connect more. That’s how I ride my fiancé—taking him deep, savoring these sensations, loving this intimacy as my chest heats and my lungs burn.

  Then, I have to talk. “Get up here. Get up here and kiss me,” I tell him.

  Grant obeys, his hands curled tight on my hips as our lips crash together in a scorching kiss. He lets go of my hips, and his hands travel up my body, where he grabs my jaw, jerks me closer, and devours my mouth.