Chapter 35: Ava - Reckless Love

We’ve been living with Stephen for weeks. There is no reason I should still be in his house and not in my giant mansion. Landon has returned to school full-time. I’m at work part-time. Apart from our living arrangements, life is almost normal.

Stephen hasn’t asked us to leave, and I can’t bring myself to consider what would need to happen for me to suggest we stop playing house.

There’s real joy in leaving work at noon each day and returning to this tiny apartment. Me of six years ago would probably be horrified. Or maybe she wouldn’t. I don’t know. It feels like I’ve spent so much of my life pretending to be versions of myself that never quite fit. Faking it. Constantly preoccupied with going against what people expected or conforming to the opinions of others that I don’t know if I ever truly considered what I wanted. I thought I knew.

Six years ago, the only thing I really wanted was a successful company. But when I look at that goal with fresh eyes, I see that I wanted it so my siblings and my parents would view me as smart and capable—the exact opposite of how they treated me. The opposite of how a lot of people in Bellerive saw me. As the youngest and most unruly, I was the weakest link in our family.

My claim that I needed a wealthy partner for my vision to work? A notion planted by my mother and then, it seems, likely executed by her too. I ruined my life for validation, and if I’d stopped to take stock of my life, I might have realized I didn’t truly need it.

It’s one thing to admit all that to myself on my drive home, but it’s quite another to say any of those truths out loud.

For the first time—maybe ever—I love my life.

There’s just the pesky reality that I’m still married to someone else. That Raul could wake up any day now and blow my heart to pieces. If there’s one thing I know, he won’t take my co-habitation with Stephen as a medical or emotional necessity. Choosing to live here, so publicly, is a betrayal. Raul doesn’t know that my betrayal—in my head, in my heart—has been there since the moment we met. Maybe I didn’t even truly know that truth until I heard Stephen’s voice in the front foyer of my house. There’s no denying it now, though.

I’m Stephen’s, and he is mine. Even if the legality of our relationship doesn’t line up yet, that’s my truth.

When I pull into the driveway of Stephen’s bungalow, I’m surprised to see his car. Normally, he’s gone until Landon’s done school, and then he picks up Landon and drives him home. A spike of irrational fear shoots through me. His car wouldn’t be here if Stephen was injured or something was seriously wrong. I press my hand to my chest as I turn the door handle. Maybe he’s just not feeling well.

Ever since he told me about the car bombing, there’s a tiny piece of me that’s constantly worried about his safety. I knew he did dangerous work, both now and when he used to be a police officer, but there were no close calls, no instances that made me afraid, and part of me considered Stephen invincible. Come what may, Stephen would always exist somewhere in the world.

But the hitch in his step, the tiny scars on his cheek tell a different, more terrifying story.

“Stephen?” I call into the house as I step out of my heels. “You’re home?”

“In the kitchen,” he calls back.

I find him putting some finishing touches on my favorite pot stickers. In jeans and a T-shirt, it’s clear he’s not working this afternoon. He passes me a plate.

“What are you doing home?”

“Took the afternoon off.” He leads the way to the kitchen table. “Have some long evenings coming up.”

I slide into the chair beside him, and I dip a finger into the sauce he’s poured on them. Then I make eye contact with him as I suck it off. “Time in the house alone… I wonder what we could do.”

His gaze is focused on my finger, and he slides his hand along my inner thigh. “I’m all yours for the afternoon. How are you feeling?”

Since honesty is the best policy, I don’t lie. “I was on my feet too long this morning, and I’m a bit sore.”

“After we eat, I’ll draw you a bath in my apartment.”

“That tub is too big for one person,” I say, taking a tiny bite of one of the pot stickers. A moan escapes my throat. “Why are these so good?”

“My momma taught me well.”

“She did,” I agree, taking another bite and then wiping the corner of my lips when the sauce sticks. “A gentleman wouldn’t make me bathe alone.”

“You think I’m a gentleman?” He raises his eyebrows, and he runs his index finger through the sticky sauce on his plate then coats my bottom lip with it. “Not my favorite thing to see on your lips, but it’ll do.” Then he swoops down, devouring me with a scorching kiss. His big hand cups the back of my neck, deepening it. I lean into him, desperate for more. My body flares to life like someone poured gasoline on warm coals. Heat pools in my stomach and then floods other areas that I’m now dying for him to touch.

“We can reheat these,” I say between kisses. “I want you in that bath.”

“I’m not actually sure that tub will fit us both,” he says while he trails a line of kisses down my neck.

“It’s literally a two-person tub.”

He takes my hand and runs it along his tall, broad body. “I’m as big as two regular-sized people.”

“If it’s too crowded, I’ll just sit in your lap.” I stand up, abandoning the food I love in favor of the man I want, and I take his hand, leading him toward his apartment.

“Not sure that’s going to help with your soreness.” He tugs me back against him, his lips on the hollow of my neck again, and one of his hands is splayed across the flat of my stomach, pressing me against him.

“I just need to get off… my feet.” My voice is breathless, and I reach back to run my hand along the erection pressing against the front of his jeans.

He scoops me into his arms and bridal carries me toward his apartment. “Since this might be the only way I can get you off… your feet, I’d better do a good job.”

In his bathroom, he sets me on my feet and then reaches around me to turn on the water of the huge jacuzzi tub that takes up a good portion of the room. The sound of tumbling water echoes in the space while he stares down at me, his fingers lightly brushing my hair off my face with so much reverence it causes an ache across my chest.

He slides his hands under my shirt and draws it over my head, his touch light and gentle. He kisses my shoulder as he unsnaps my bra, and it falls to my feet. When I ease my hands under his shirt, he helps me by reaching back over his head to pull his shirt off, tossing it to the side.

We strip each other, piece by piece, exploring and kissing, while the water heats and fills the tub. There’s so much care in the way he treats me that it almost makes me want to cry. He’s the only man who’s ever treated me like I was more than a body to enjoy, a wealthy family name to revere.

How was I so stupid for so long?

Once the tub is full enough, he picks me up and deposits me in the water before climbing in after me. We both sink down to our shoulders with contented sighs. He’s right, though, it’s a tighter fit than I visualized.

“Why were you on your feet so much?” he asks, fingers flicking the water at me playfully.

“We’re doing an employee satisfaction survey, and I wanted to be the one to present it to all the different divisions and departments. A bit of a marathon of slideshows and answering questions. But I wanted everyone to know I’m after the truth—whatever that looks like.”

“Brave,” he says with a hint of a smile. “People aren’t always kind with their truth, you know.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I’m not going to look at them. Not personally. Can you imagine? I’d lose my shit at every critical comment. HR is going to read the responses and compile the data for me.”

“Smart,” he agrees, that tiny smile still there.

“Why is that amusing?”

“I like the ways you’ve changed.”

When I frown, his smile grows to a grin.

“And the ways you’ve stayed the same.”

We stare at each other from opposite sides of the tub, and I can’t help tracing his face, noting all the changes in him, all the things that have stayed the same. I could watch him age for the rest of my life and never get bored with this view. Unfathomable that he almost wasn’t here.

“Come here,” he says, reaching out a hand for me.

I wade through the water to him, straddling his waist. He cups my ass, drawing me tight against him, and he’s obviously turned on.

“Want me to wash your hair?” His voice is gruff with desire.

God, I used to love it when he played with my hair. The best foreplay.

“Yes,” I murmur, and he lays me back in the water to get my hair soaked. Then he keeps me close as he pours shampoo into his hand. It’s mine from the last time I bathed in here.

The lavender-and-vanilla scent swirls around us as his fingers dig into my hair, massaging the shampoo into the roots. There’s something about the caress, rub, and scratch of his big hands along my scalp that makes my body liquify. I sink deeper into him.

“Good?” he rasps.

“You know it is.” As he kneads my head, I kiss his cheek, and when I go to draw back, his lips catch mine.

“God,” he mutters against my ear when we break the kiss, “I just want to bury myself inside you.”

“You can,” I say, rocking against him.

“I don’t come unless you come, and the minute I’m inside you, I’m fucking losing it.” His voice is strained. “I’ll lose it.”

“Maybe I need you inside me to come,” I say, moving against him, trying to entice him to give in.

“Sounds like horny bullshit, Ava.” He sucks under my ear, his broad hand spanning my back, keeping me close.

“Maybe,” I admit, distracted by the feel of him.

“Can I try?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, not really listening to him, caught up in the feel of him sliding against me. Whether or not I’ll be able to come, I don’t know, but it feels amazing. Slick and firm and so good.

“Just rock against me, baby. See if you can get yourself off.”

“Put your hands in my hair,” I say, breathless, resting my forehead on his shoulder.

He kneads the shampoo that’s in my hair as I keep up a steady, consistent rhythm. It feels like maybe I can—I might. But I don’t know. I want it so badly, want this with him so badly that the intensity is almost distracting.

“Maybe this is too high school,” I whisper.

Immediately, he lifts me onto the edge of the tub where it’s tiled, and he spreads my legs wide. “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that? I don’t know what it’s going to take to get you out of your head and into the moment. We haven’t found it yet. But I’m happy to dine until we do.”

Then he licks a line up my center before settling on my clit, licking and sucking until I’m panting, so turned on it feels impossible that I won’t come. But then, like so many other times, my mind drifts to the last time I had an orgasm, to everything that came after that, and all the want in me dries up.

“Stephen,” I say, clutching his head. “I don’t think I can… I can’t. It’s not…”

He kisses my thigh and glances up at me. “Whatever’s holding you back, you’ve gotta let it go.”

But I can’t. It’s literally the last six years from the moment I walked out of his apartment. All the choices—every one. Like a cage with a door that won’t open.

“I don’t know what it is,” I whisper, sliding back into the water with him.

He digs his hand into my hair, and he tugs me close. With surprising gentleness, he presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let’s get this rinsed out.” He lays me back, and he runs his fingers through my hair, letting all the stress of my day seep out of the strands one slow stroke of his hand at a time. “We’ll figure it out, Ava. It won’t be like this forever.”

But it’s been six years, and in some ways, it does feel like a lifetime.

* * *

In Stephen’s apartment, I run the towel through my hair again, and then I run a brush through it. Blow-drying it feels like too much work, but leaving it so loose and wet is also unappealing. A ponytail? Whenever I reach above my head for any length of time, my body gets a bit angry. I know what I want, and I’m not sure why I’m suddenly afraid to ask for it. It’s not like I’ve ever hesitated with Stephen in any way before.

He’s gone to the other apartment to reheat our food, and he walks in with two plates in his hands. He slides them onto the counter, and I bite my lip.

“Just say it,” he says, stabbing a fork into one of the pot stickers and offering it to me.

I take the bite, and I think while I chew. “When we’re done eating these, can you braid my hair?”

He winces. “I’m rusty. I haven’t braided anyone’s hair since…” He shrugs. “It’s been six years.”

“Not a talent you pulled out to woo other women?” I say it in a teasing voice, but inside, I’m tense with potential jealousy.

“Woo? Who the fuck would I woo, Ava? I spent six years in volatile and dangerous situations. Charming women was very, very far down my list of necessities.”

“You never seemed to have a problem finding someone in Bellerive whenever we broke up.”

“That was different.”

“Because of the danger?”

He lets out a harsh noise of disbelief. “I mean, yes, but also no.” He eyes me for a beat. “Every woman I was with back then was to make you jealous, to get you back.”

“And it worked,” I say, somewhat surprised by his admission.

“Every time,” he agrees before taking a bite of his food and chewing. “Every single time.”

“I was such an idiot,” I say.

“You were a bit of a brat sometimes,” he agrees, taking another bite and then grinning at me.

I pick up my own fork, stabbing a pot sticker with more force than needed, and I take an aggressive chomp on it. He laughs lightly beside me and leans over to kiss my temple.

“Always my brat, though.”

I lean into his shoulder as I chew, and I know he’s right.

When we finish eating, I gather the elastics and brush for Stephen to braid my hair, and then I sit on the floor in front of his bed, facing the full-length mirror. His legs rest on either side of me as he eases the brush through my hair.

“French or Dutch? Those are the only two I remember,” he says, dividing my hair into sections.

“French,” I say, and as he works with the strands, I watch him in the mirror. My big, tough, protective bodyguard and ex-law enforcement hero, who can do a French braid like a boss. The combination of his gentleness and his size have always made my stomach flip, but with each crisscross of my hair, the flip becomes chaotic butterflies.

“Vanessa was so lucky that you agreed to learn how to do this,” I say.

“Mom and Dad were too busy. Wasn’t that big a deal to help out.”

“I bet you never thought you’d use your talent again.”

“That’s not true.”

“So you did think about the women you could get with it?”

He makes eye contact with me in the mirror, and his fingers pause their task. “I thought it’d be a good skill to have if I was ever lucky enough to be a girl dad.”

My throat closes up, and I just stare at him for a beat, unable to find the words. But then I do. “You’d be an incredible girl dad,” I say, voice thick.

He finishes the braid and takes the elastic from me, securing the end. “Any kind of dad would suit me,” he says.

I stand up, and I place my hand on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed, and then I straddle him. The end of my braided hair falls over my shoulder, and I stare down at him.

“You’ll get it,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. But I don’t know if he will. The idea of him having that experience with anyone other than me is a sharp, stabbing pain. The idea of anyone else carrying his baby, of him treating another woman like he treats me is devastating.

Across the room, a phone buzzes.

“Don’t get it,” I say when Stephen tries to shift me off him.

“We need to go get Landon soon anyway,” he says, lifting me off his lap and wandering over to the kitchen counter. A frown creases his brow, and there’s something about the tension in his posture that puts me on high alert.

“What is it?” I ask, scrambling off the bed to go to him.

He passes me his phone, and the transcript of the message is there. The call was from Dr. Bennett. The DNA test results are back.