“Syl—”

“No. This is my time to talk. You told me once I need to trust this thing between us. I did. And Jackson, you were right. I trust it now, too. And you need to as well. Jail or not, daughter or not, this is real. It’s right. Dammit, Jackson, you have to believe in us.”

He closes his eyes. “I do.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “Do you? Because I’m not walking out of here without you. Without Ronnie. I don’t give a fuck if Damien is her uncle. I want to be her guardian, Jackson. More than that, I want to be her mom.”

He cocks his head, his expression wary. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want to marry you, Jackson.” The words spill out of me, feeling so right, so perfect. “I’m saying that I don’t want to go another day without knowing that I will be your wife.”

Marriage.

Jackson’s heart felt like it was going to burst.

He’d thought he’d lost her. That he’d pushed her away. And now here she was, back and determined to be his wife.

What the hell had he ever done to deserve her? He didn’t know, but he was damn sure he wasn’t going to deny her. He’d been brooding about how to get her back for too long now, ever since he talked to Damien. Ever since he realized that pushing her away was only a Band-Aid.

Now he knew that the only way to make things right between him and Sylvia was to be together. Because being apart wrecked them both.

“Jackson?” Her voice was soft, her expression tentative.

He turned to her, knowing that his smile said it all. “Damn right you’re going to be my wife.”

He watched as she closed her eyes, her face going soft with relief, and he wanted to kick himself all over again for the way he’d hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though those words could hardly convey all of his emotions.

“I get it. I do.” She lifted a shoulder. “You’re scared.”

“I’m fucking petrified,” he admitted. “Of leaving you. Of prison. Of the way everything is about to shift.”

“Me, too.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “But we’re in it together now, right?”

Instead of answering, he slid off his stool, then held out a hand to help her down. “I need you, Syl. I need you right now.” He could feel the need growing in him. A hole that had to be filled. A demand that had to be satisfied.

“I need to burn the feel of you into me. I want the heat of you to singe me. To mark me. Because even in prison, I don’t ever want to be without you. And Syl,” he adds roughly, “I need to have all of you. My wife? You’re so much more than that. You’re my life, Syl. You’re my blood. You’re the only person who can break me, and the only one who can save me. And right now, I need you more than I need to breathe.”

His mouth is on mine the moment the door to his room closes behind us, and the kiss is wild and passion-filled, as if we are both making up for lost time and marking our future.

“Off,” he says, plucking at my shirt, and we are both naked in a heartbeat, stripping off our clothes so fast it’s a wonder that we don’t topple over in our hurry.

I move to press against him, wanting the feel of his skin against mine, but he surprises me by lifting me up, then carrying me to the bed. The maid’s been in, and it’s neatly made, and we tumble onto it together.

Jackson rolls onto his back and looks up at me. “Kiss me,” he demands, and I don’t hesitate. I straddle him, positioning myself so that the tip of his cock is at my core. And as I lean forward to crush my mouth hard against his, I lower myself. I’m already wet, my body fired with arousal, and I take him hard and deep.

He moans against my mouth, his fingers dipping low to tease my cunt before he withdraws and slides his hand around, then slips his fingertip in my ass, making me gasp, because the sensation of being filled like this is both incredible and undeniably erotic.

“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.” I meet his eyes. “You can have me like that.”

“I’ll have you however I want you,” he says, and the potent heat combined with these words of possession—of power—make my mouth go dry and my cunt throb all over again. “But I need you to go get my wallet.”

I raise a brow, but don’t argue. Instead, I get off him carefully, then return with the wallet I fished from his back pocket. As I kneel on the bed, he removes a small packet that looks like a condom.

I raise my brows, because we are way past that, but he just grins. “Lube,” he says. “I thought it might come in handy.”