Chapter 93 Make Up Love

Chapter 93 Make Up Love

Daniel

We walked back to our room in silence.

Chloe stayed close beside me, her hand brushing mine but never quite taking it. The hallway felt longer than usual, each step carrying the weight of everything we had just confessed downstairs. Max had said we were good. Billy had said we were good. 

Those words should have felt like relief, but I knew the hardest conversations were still waiting when the rest of the house returned tomorrow.

I closed the bedroom door behind us and turned the lock out of habit. The moment the latch clicked, I pulled Chloe into my arms and pressed my lips to the top of her head.

She melted against me immediately, burying her face in my chest as her arms wrapped around my waist. I held her there, one hand stroking slowly up and down her back while the other cradled the back of her head.

“I’m really proud of you,” I said quietly against her hair. “That took a lot of courage. I know how hard that had to be. How humiliating it probably felt.”

She nodded against me, her breath shaky.

“You did the right thing,” I continued. “Even though it hurt, even though it was scary, you told the truth. You owned what you did, and you protected Max and Liam when you didn’t have to. That matters.”

Chloe’s fingers tightened in the back of my shirt. “I still have to do it again tomorrow when everyone else gets back.”

“Yes,” I said gently. “But you’ve already gone through it once. It might feel a little easier on your nerves the second time.”

“Maybe.” Her voice was muffled against my chest. “It will still be hard.”

“I know.” I kissed the top of her head again. “But you won’t be alone. I’ll be right beside you.”

She stayed quiet for a long moment, simply breathing against me while I held her.

Then, softer: “This was our first fight.”

I smiled faintly. “It wasn’t even really a fight.”

“It was a very big issue.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed her back. “But we got through it. We talked. We listened. We didn’t run or shut down. I think that means we can pretty much conquer anything.”

Chloe pulled back enough to look up at me, her eyes still red but softer now. “So does this mean we get to have make-up sex? Or are you still too mad and hurt to touch me?”

The question carried a hesitant hope that made my chest ache. I understood what she was really asking. She needed to know that I still wanted her and that everything I had promised had been real.

I cupped her face with both hands and brushed my thumbs beneath her eyes. “No, baby. We’re definitely having make-up sex.” 

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “But I’m not going to fuck you. I’m going to make love to you.”

Her breath caught.

I kissed her slowly, deeply, pouring everything I felt into it — the hurt, the love, the relief, the promise that we would keep choosing each other. She melted into me, her hands sliding up my chest as the kiss turned tender and unhurried.

I walked her backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. I eased her down gently, following her, covering her body with mine while I kept kissing her like we had all the time in the world.

My hands moved slowly, reverently, sliding under her shirt and lifting it off. I kissed every inch of skin I uncovered — her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach — whispering how beautiful she was, how much I loved her, how grateful I was that she had chosen honesty even when it cost her.

When she was naked beneath me, I took my time exploring her with my mouth and hands. I kissed down her body until I reached the apex of her thighs, licking and sucking her gently, savoring every soft gasp and moan. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them slowly while my tongue circled her clit, building her pleasure in long, languid waves until she came apart with my name on her lips, her fingers tightening in my hair.

I stayed there, bringing her through the aftershocks with soft kisses and slow strokes, until her breathing steadied. Then I moved back up, kissed her deeply as I rolled on a condom, and slid into her slowly.

We made love slowly, our eyes locked as every deep, gliding movement became another promise. I held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other stroked down her side, memorizing the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin. 

I whispered how much she meant to me, how we would rebuild, how I chose her every single day. She clung to me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers tracing my back, her soft moans and whispered “I love you”s filling the space between us.

I moved inside her with deliberate care, rolling my hips in a slow rhythm that let me feel every flutter and clench of her body around me. When her breathing grew ragged again, I reached between us and rubbed her clit in gentle circles, drawing out her pleasure until she tightened around me, trembling as another orgasm washed through her.

Only then did I let myself follow, burying myself deep and coming with a low groan, pulsing inside her as pleasure rolled through me in warm, lingering waves.

Afterward, I stayed inside her for a long moment, kissing her softly — her forehead, her cheeks, her lips — while our heartbeats gradually slowed together. 

I pulled out carefully, disposed of the condom, and cleaned us both up with a warm cloth, taking my time to be gentle with her sensitive skin.

Then I climbed back into bed and pulled her into my arms. She curled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, her breathing gradually evening out as she relaxed completely against me.

I kissed the top of her head and held her closer.

We still had hard conversations ahead. Trust would take time to fully rebuild. But in this moment, with her warm and safe in my arms, I knew we would make it.

Because we had chosen each other — honestly, messily, completely.

And that was enough.