Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ella

Present

Jude dropped me off at my parents’ home a few hours ago, and I’m already going crazy. With the house officially on the market as of today, the entire situation feels like it’s in purgatory. An empty house, waiting to sell, while I sit here in limbo, stuck between returning to my life up in Washington and tempted by the idea of starting a new one here.

Pilates has been a constant for me for fifteen years. Even when I stopped teaching after college, I’ve still always managed to head straight to a class after work to get out all my pent up stress. It’s the only thing that’s kept my brain sane all this time.

The idea had never even occurred to me to open my own studio. I’m a nine-to-five girlie, not a badass business woman that can run an entire business .

But now that the idea has been planted, I can’t shake it off. It’s a perpetual nag that only grows louder in the quiet of this depressing house.

I have zero emotional attachment to this childhood home of mine. Instead, it has become a burden jam-packed with the ghosts of my parents’ coldness. The number of times I had been hugged could be counted on one hand, and the times they said they loved me were even fewer. The dinners that were eaten in complete silence. And that feeling in general, like I was always a stranger intruding into their lives.

Here all alone, the silence feels suffocating, pressing in from all sides despite the music and audiobooks I play to attempt to fill the void. The house has no furniture, besides the ridiculously overpriced foldout bed from Jude that I still feel guilty about. The kitchen is equally sparse, stocked with nothing but a single pack of cereal, a half gallon of milk, and a bunch of bananas—all items Jude forced me to take because he knows that most nights I’d rather skip dinner than cook.

There’s a constant awareness that resides in me at all times, that I want to be back at his house. Back in that chair, watching the sunrise. Back between the wall of his chest and the comfort of his arms as we sleep. Back to that feeling of belonging, with him, where everything felt right.

It’s like an itch that I want to scratch, but know it’ll only bleed if I do.

Delaney

Rumor has it that you’re a dirty Scrabble player. Do I feel a tear in my eye? I’m so proud of you.

Ella

Oh god. How did you even hear about that?

Delaney

Jude told Noah, and Noah told Madi, and Madi told me.

Ella

Who would have ever thought a letter game would be such good gossip.

Delaney

It’s not gossip, girl. Noah said you should have seen Jude’s face when he was talking about it. He was all proud of you and shit.

Ella

Of course he was. Every man loves the word ‘cum.’

Delaney

True. But I think he loves more than that.

It’s one in the morning, and I’m so wide awake that I’ve heard a whole orchestra of crickets conduct a new song outside my window. Sleep seems futile at this point. Rolling over, I tap the screen of my phone and look at the hour for the thousandth time .

Earlier today, Jude had told me that if I needed to come back to his house I was more than welcome. The offer has been sitting there, tempting me like an open invitation. Would I rather be at his house with him, than at my dead parents’ empty home? Of course.

I can’t let myself become dependent on him though. He’s not always going to be there to swoop in and save me, so I shouldn’t get used to it now.

However, when 7:00 a.m. rolls around, and I still haven’t slept more than three hours, I’m delirious enough to say fuck it and give up.

The sun has barely risen, but this house has become more and more unbearable to be in. After spending the past two days with him, it’s harder to be alone now. It feels like a black hole of sadness is creeping closer whenever I’m left by myself.

Madi’s on her honeymoon, Delaney and Cole are buried in their work, and today is Jude’s day off. It makes perfect sense to go see him. No pressure, only friends—nothing more.

As I pull into his driveway, a wave of nerves hits me. I turn down the music, taking a deep breath. It’s normal to pop over and see your friends. To want to see them so badly that you drive to their house the moment the sun is up.

I hate that I’m trying to convince myself of that when it feels like anything but friendship . Our ten years of unresolved feelings is more like a hornets’ nest we’ve been poking with a stick, waiting to see what happens.

Before knocking, I shoot him a quick text so it’s not a complete surprise. It’s not much of a heads-up, but it’s something. After a few minutes of waiting, I step out of the car, walk up the cement pathway to his house, and knock on the pristine front door.

There’s no answer. No rustling around or the echoes of footsteps inside. Nothing.

I didn’t even consider the possibility that he may have had someone else staying the night. They could still be in bed—which makes me feel a tad murderous, but I’m attempting to ignore that hot rage in my belly.

Instead, I’m second guessing his offer, chalking it up to politeness and nothing more. I’m about to turn right back around, with my tail between my legs, and pretend this never happened. He’ll never even know I showed up here on his front door step. Unless he sees the notification from the camera he has mounted above his front porch light.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m never listening to my sleep-deprived brain again. This was a stupid idea from the start. If I don’t want to be lonely, I should just go adopt one of the dozens of rescue animals Delaney’s always trying to convince me to take in. At least a dog wouldn’t make me feel this crazy.

Suddenly, through an open window, I hear the unmistakable sound of someone getting sick. My stomach churns right along with it. If it were anyone else, I’d already be sprinting back to my car. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—this instinct to want to protect and take care of him.

As I’m trying to decide the best course of action, my phone chimes with an incoming message.

Jude

Currently stuck sick on the bathroom floor. Not contagious.

Jude

The backdoor should be unlocked if you want to brave it and come in. I also won’t be offended if you’d rather not listen to me puke like I did on my twenty-first birthday too.

A bittersweet knot forms in my stomach, a strange blend of relief of there not being overnight guests, and a nagging worry over him being sick. The weathered boards of the front porch creak as I walk to the backdoor and try the knob.

When I enter the house, it’s like my body relaxes, knowing this place is safe, that this place feels more like any other home I’ve ever had.

I hear another wave of vomit echoing in the bathroom, and I follow the sound down the hall, past the built-in bookshelves, and under the cased opening doorways.

I’m not sure if he even wants me to see him like this, but I’ll take my chances. He would jump in and take care of me without a second thought, and I want to do the same for him. Though he’s a doctor and far more skilled at situations like this, I still can’t stand by while he suffers.

The bathroom door is closed, I knock gently.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“In here,” he groans, the sound echoing off the porcelain. “You can come in if you want.”

Peeking inside, I find the blinds shut and the room is completely dark. I step closer, listening for any sound of life, and feeling like I’m stepping straight into the intro of a horror movie.

The soft light from the hallway spills into the bathroom, casting a glow on him slumped against the tub, head dropping between his knees.

Crouching at his side, I put a hand on his back, smoothing it down the column of his spine. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he replies. Even though he’s obviously not fine whatsoever.

“Migraine. A bad one,” he explains.

“Shit. Do you have medication to take for it or something?”

“Upper cabinet in the kitchen. To the left.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t move…not that you exactly can anyways right now.”

I see the corner of his mouth tip into a smile at my comment, as I push off the floor, closing the door to keep the light from shining in. I’ve only had two migraines in my life, but I’ll never forget how light felt like a boning knife to the brain.

Within a few minutes, I find the bottle of migraine pills and grab a coconut water from the fridge door.

When I return, he’s still sitting in the same spot, his eyes closed, like a lifeless mannequin. The only indication he’s alive is the faint rise and fall of his chest in the darkness.

I crack open the coconut water. “Hey, I have some medicine for you if you think your stomach can handle it.”

He grumbles as I grab his hand and deposit a pill into his palm. With one audible gulp, he washes it down with a sip of the drink.

Smoothing my hand up and down his back, I feel the heat of his body, clammy and hot, radiating through his shirt.

“You’re really hot,” I tell him.

“Thanks. I am, aren’t I?” he laughs, his voice full of a surprising amount of sarcasm for someone so incapacitated.

“Oh my god,” I laugh. “Good thing your head is so big so you won’t fall in the toilet.”

I shift to sit beside him, the cool tile pressing into my legs. The second I’m settled in, he repositions himself. His head rolls onto my lap, while the rest of his large frame sprawls across the bathroom floor. Waiting for the medication to kick in, he closes his eyes. His breathing begins to grow deep as he dozes off in the silent darkness.

Sitting there with him clinging to my legs, another one of my walls crumbles. It’s an odd feeling, having someone seek comfort from you. I’ve never been needed, or even particularly wanted. But here he is, vulnerable and relying on me. It cracks me wide open, like he’s taken a sledgehammer to my ribs, emotion and attachment seeping out from every crack and crevice.

I run my fingers through his thick hair. It’s recently washed, clean and smooth without a trace of hair product. He groans in my lap as my fingers slowly continue to rake through his scalp.

“Oh god, that feels good,” he mumbles against my leg.

I smile into the darkness and continue, letting my fingers work through his hair in a steady rhythm. The weight of his head in my lap feels grounding, like we’re anchored together, building something solid beneath us.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For being here.”

“Always,” I reply softly.

He shifts slightly, turning his face toward me. I can feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric of my pants. Slowly, he reaches up and wraps his fingers around my free hand.

“Stay with me today?” he asks. His eyes squint open to gauge my reaction just long enough for me to see the vulnerability in them.

“Of course. Anything you want.”

“All I want is you,” he replies. “All I’ve ever wanted is you.”

It feels more like a confession than a simple statement. So I choose to stay silent because words could never capture the depth of my feelings toward an admission of that magnitude right now. Especially one said in a migraine and medication-induced haze.

We sit like that for a while, the silence between us comfortable as he starts to drift off, his hand still holding mine. I tip my head back against the wall, letting this rare sense of contentment wash over me. Even with him being sick, sitting on this uncomfortably hard floor, and the smell of vomit in the air, it all somehow clicks into place. For the first time in a long while, it feels right.

I’ve stared at him nearly the entire time he’s slept. Squinting my eyes through the darkness to make out his features—the dark stubble of his jaw, that adorable strand of hair that always escapes onto his forehead. The bow of his lips, and the square line of his jaw. All masculine features, with a tenderness beneath it all.

It seems strange to sit here and take him in for so long. But I want to commit every detail of him to my memory. My mind keeps drifting to the years I missed, imagining his face through it all. How did he fare during medical school and residency? Did the fine lines around his eyes come from the stress of it all? Is he truly happy with his life? And most of all, did he actually think about me all this time too?

Once the hard tile begins to hurt and my legs become numb, I gently run my hand through his hair again and whisper, “Hey, can I move you to your room?”

His eyes flutter open, and he rubs them with the heel of his hand, slowly sitting upright. “Shit, yeah, of course. Sorry, I dozed off.”

I stand and reach out my hand to help him up. His movements are sluggish as I pull him to his feet.

I grab his coconut water from the smooth quartz counter and follow him to his room. He collapses onto the edge of the mattress, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, dark circles making his blue eyes stand out even more clearly.

Placing the water on the nightstand, I kneel in front of him. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I won’t be offended if you want to sleep it off alone.”

He pauses, lowering his hands from his face, and when he looks up at me, his messy hair and the raw, vulnerable exhaustion in his eyes hit me right in the gut.

“Don’t leave. Please.” That single please does me in. Leaving isn’t even a remote option now.

“I’ll stay. But tell me what to do. How can I help make life easier for you right now?” I’m not here to take up space, and I don’t want him to feel like he has to entertain me when he’s feeling like this. “I can make you food, clean the kitchen, go grocery shopping?” The words tumble out in a rush. I need to be useful somehow; otherwise, I’ll overthink this situation to death.

He lies back in bed, stretching out his arm in silent invitation, making it perfectly clear where he wants me. “Lay with me.”

“Okay.” My heart beats out like syllables in anticipation, as I scoot into his body. Every inch closer feels like a mile, and when our bodies finally meet mine hums in response.

It’s my natural disposition to overthink and worry about every single action I take. But he dissolves that tension with a single breath, a simple touch. As I settle into the crook of his body, he wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me snugly to his side. My chin rests against the solid plane of his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. His broad hand glides up and down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. I came here to comfort him, but somehow, he’s the one providing reassurance, always protective and gentle.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

He exhales slowly, as if testing his own body. “A little better. I think the meds are starting to work.” His eyes find mine. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Although, I didn’t do anything besides offer moral support.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Your scalp massage skills are impeccable.”

“Think I could add that to my resume? Excels in areas such as head stroking .”

“If I was the one reviewing resumes, it’d be a no-brainer—instant approval. Also, you can’t say head stroking without raising some eyebrows.”

I burst out laughing, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. The way he looks at me—like I’m his whole entire world—makes my chest tighten.

I’m certain we both feel this ‘friendship’ spiraling out of control faster than a runaway train, barreling down a track that forks into dangerous territory we’ve seen once before. The kind where you fall in love, and someone’s heart is bound to break.

We lie in silence—me curled into a ball at his side, and him holding me tight like I might try to run away. The soft rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of passing cars are the only audible sounds. I’m acutely aware that this is why we can never be only friends .

“I love holding you like this,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

His mouth grazes my head, kissing the top of it before his chest rises and falls with deep, peaceful breaths of sleep.

“I love it too,” I admit in a whisper. He doesn’t even hear me, as he’s passed out beside me.

The admission feels significant, as if we’ve said we love each other.

For as much sleep as grief has stolen from me over the last month, it falls over me easily when I’m with him. I dream of resting on white cotton candy clouds, the length of my body tucked firmly alongside his, pressing and melting together, becoming one. Dreaming, I feel him, hard against my ass.

The warmth of his body and the illusion of sleep strip away all my inhibitions and self-control. My final walls crumble in the protective cocoon of sleep. I press back against him, feeling his hardness through the thin fabric of his sweats, as I rub myself along his length. The rhythm builds, a feverish motion of give and take. I grind; he presses. We move together, lost in the feel of each other.

Suddenly, the warmth is gone, the hardness I’ve been getting off on is absent. The sound of a door closing causes my dream to burst open as the real world seeps back in. I’m lying in his bed, my body overwhelmingly turned on and teetering on the edge of release. If I was at home, I’d finger myself and be finished within seconds. But here, in his space, I can’t bring myself to cross that line.

Trying to ignore my body’s response to whatever raunchy sex purgatory just happened, I leave the bed in search of him. From the doorway of his attached master bathroom, I hear his voice rumble out a string of expletives, followed by a muffled groan. I rush in, concerned he’s getting sick again. “Jude. Are you?—”

That’s when I see him. Hair dripping from a fresh shower, steam swirling around the mirror. One hand braced on the counter, muscles tight and rippled along his arm. His other hand is what I can’t take my eyes off of though. Gripped tightly around his thick cock, he jerks himself. He moves with an urgent rhythm as if he’s chasing the memory of my touch.

When my sudden appearance registers, he abruptly stops, like a car slamming on its brakes. “Shit. Ella.” Rushing to tuck himself back in, his massive erection pitches tight in his sweats.

I slam the door shut, yelling from the other side. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were sick again.” My heart is pounding, and my panties are wet. Somehow watching him jerk off for all of two seconds is hands down the best foreplay I’ve had in years.

“You can finish…or whatever. Sorry again.” My voice is too high and screechy to appear like I’m perfectly unaffected. I’m horrible at faking anything and right now it’s especially difficult.

Embarrassed for bursting in on him, I scramble back to bed, my hurried footsteps echoing the thump of my pulse. The memory of him getting himself off will forever be burned into my mind. With this strange friendship-relationship crosshairs we’re stuck in, I’m not sure what I should have done when I saw him. Offered to finish him off? Begged him to fuck me?

The bathroom door creaks open and he walks back into the room. His ears are bright red, and his expression is stormy, like thunderclouds about to burst.

My eyes dart everywhere but to his face, because looking at him feels unbearable right now.

“Ella—” he begins.

I interrupt in an attempt to salvage the situation. “I’m so sorry I barged in. I thought you were throwing up again. We can forget it ever happened.”

For a beat he stares at me. It feels like his eyes are burning a hole into the side of my head, like he’s a superhero with crazy laser abilities. “Is that what you want? To forget?”

It feels like he’s asking me about more than me seeing him during a mid-jerk off session. It feels like he’s asking about if I want to forget about everything concerning the two of us.

Finally, I turn to make eye contact, which is a very difficult task when his erection is distractingly bulging through his pants.

He drags a hand through his damp hair, his voice low and rough. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

I shake my head.

“Because of you, I was two seconds away from coming in my pants while we slept next to each other. Being near you, touching you, it’s like my senses are on this overload of euphoria. It’s more than just physical—it’s you. Every part of you gets under my skin in the best possible way. ”

The intensity of his confession sets me on fire, burning away any lingering doubt. My legs tremble as I rise and step toward him, closing the distance until we’re only inches apart. I can smell the pine of his soap, and the mint of his toothpaste as his eyes lock onto mine, searching for answers to the questions that are clearly racing through his head. I don’t hesitate, I lean in, my lips soft and light against his. It’s a silent promise that this is what I want—what we both want. Whether it’s for this moment or for every single one that follows.

Reaching into his pants, he takes out his cock, while his free hand gently grabs my chin, tiling my face to his. “Do you have any idea how unbelievably gorgeous you are?” he rasps.

My hand drifts down under the fabric of my shorts and between my thighs. I begin to touch myself, feeling the slickness that’s been building this whole time.

His eyes never leave me, locked onto every movement as he strokes himself harder. “That’s it, love,” he breathes. “Let me see how much you want this.”

I press my fingers against my clit, a moan slipping past my lips. The sound of it makes him curse under his breath, his control hanging by a thread. This isn’t the Jude I know, the gentle, easygoing man who always puts my needs before his. This version is primal, driven by a hunger that’s been simmering for years.

I slowly peel my shirt up and off. His hand glides up and down his length, as he devours every inch of my bare skin with his gaze.

He hasn’t touched me yet, but the hunger in his expression says it all—he’s desperate, like a starving man eyeing a feast laid out before him. I grab his wrist, feeling the slight shake in his hand as I guide him to the swell of my breasts. With that, his restraint breaks in two, snapping like a twig. He grabs a greedy handful, his thumb brushing against my nipple as they harden under his touch. His mouth is everywhere at once, tasting every inch of me. My neck and collarbone, each shoulder, the plane above my breasts. I’ve dreamt of how this moment would be for years, and it never fully touched what the reality is quickly becoming.

With one hand still on me, he goes back to jerking himself with his other. From the energy of his movements alone, you’d think perhaps he’s angry. But his face is anything but that—it’s awe, and years worth of pent-up desire, pouring out all at once. His teeth nip the delicate skin of my neck. “I’ve thought about you, and this goddamn perfect body of yours, for ten years.”

Demons of my past take over, self-consciousness washing over me. Because I’m not some magazine cover girl. I’m far from perfect. I don’t have perfect skin and smooth hair. I have stretch marks, the occasional bout of acne, and hair that typically has a mind of its own. He must see the insecurities written all over my expression, because he cups my cheek in one hand, thumb smoothing over my cheekbone.

“What’s that look for?”

I could lie and play it off as nothing, but he’d see right through it. So I opt for the slightly embarrassing, vulnerable truth instead. “You don’t have to shower me with compliments that aren’t true, Jude. Everything about me…I’m far from perfect.”

He tilts his head down, making sure I’m looking at him, hearing every word. “To me, you are. To me, it is. El, you’re the woman of my literal dreams.”

I exhale, the doubt leaving my body as it’s replaced with a flood of assurance. He’s always had this way of making me feel beautiful in a way I’ve never known.

I drop down to my knees, the urge to make him feel good suddenly overpowering everything else.

When I wrap my hand around the weight of his erection, he grows even harder under my touch, his breath hitching as I stroke him up and down, precum glistening on the tip. “Do you like this?”

His head rolls back. “Yes. Hell yes.”

Slipping the tip of his dick into my mouth, I swirl the head, slowly, teasing him, before pulling him out again. “And how about that? Do you like that?”

“Oh fuck…yes…” he replies, fighting to get the words out.

Finally I take him fully into my mouth, until he hits the back of my throat. His body stiffens, almost tipping him over the edge.

“Holyfuckingshit. Ella.” His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. “Don’t stop. Please.”

I fight my gag reflex, wanting to take him deeper, to push him to the edge. The way he loses control, becoming more and more unhinged as I guide him, makes me feel powerful in a way I could easily become addicted to.

He fucks my mouth with a blend of dominance and restraint, letting me set the pace while still taking what he needs. “Fuck, I’m about to come. Tell me where you want it, love.”

I pause and look up at him. “I want to taste every last drop of you.”

His eyes grow darker as he watches the way I take him. As he gets close, his head falls back, abs flexing. At the very last moment, he forces his eyes open, needing to watch me. His grip tightens in my hair, his thrusts growing more erratic as a deep sound escapes him. He reaches his peak with an explosion of ecstasy, as I swallow, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

When he’s finished, his hand gently cradles my face, his thumb brushing over my lips. “Holy fuck. Have I told you lately how sexy you are?”

I smile at his compliment, proud of how I’ve made him feel as my body buzzes.

Grabbing my shirt from the floor, I tug it over my head as he stares at me.

“Ella, come here.”

Turning to look at him, he stands there, waiting. But I’m not used to this. With Stephen, once he came everything was over, whether I had finished or not.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he tells me, striding over, as he scoops my body up into his arms. My breath catches with surprise. “I want to taste you now.”

A conditioned guilt swirls through me, a knee-jerk reaction I can’t shake. “You don’t have to do that. I know it’s a hassle, and you already came.”

He looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “A hassle? It’s a fucking privilege . As long as it’s fine with you, I want to. I need to taste you.”

His words feel both foreign and exactly what I know I should have anticipated from him in the first place. “Okay,” I reply.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, his gaze searching mine for permission as he carries me to the bed. He lays me down gently, my hair fanning out around me. The room spins with anticipation, every nerve in my body alight as I nod, giving him the answer he’s waiting for.

“Yes. Definitely, yes.”

He leans in, starting at my neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses, gentle nips along my collarbone, and a playful bite to each nipple through the thin fabric of my shirt. Every touch feels like he’s worshiping me, his breath hot against my skin as he murmurs, “So beautiful, so fucking gorgeous,” with each inch lower he travels.

With a deliberate slowness, he pushes my shirt up and over my head, leaving me completely bare beneath him. He cups my face with his large hands, and for a moment, we stare at each other—raw, exposed, and vulnerable. “Spread those legs wide for me, okay?”

I obey without hesitation, parting my legs as wide as they’ll go. He lets his eyes roam over my body, a mix of hunger and appreciation in his expression. His fingers dip down, grazing my pussy. “So wet from sucking my dick. Did you like doing that?”

I nod, breathless, as his thumb circles my clit with precise, almost agonizing slowness. Words fail me as I get lost in the way he so easily commands my body by touch alone.

A second finger slips inside me, curling up to hit that perfect spot, and I gasp, arching into him. “Answer me, love,” he commands. “I asked if you got off on sucking my dick?”

“Mhm.” It’s all I can manage.

“Mhm, what?” he presses, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity.

“I loved it,” I finally breathe out. “Loved sucking you—your cum in my mouth.”

His lips brush against the tender muscle of my inner thigh. I squirm, desperate for more, as he takes me higher, pushing me closer.

I’ve never been so turned on, so wet, so ready to topple off that edge. “Please…”

“Are you ready to come on my face now?” he asks. His fingers thrust into me at an unforgiving pace while his mouth works in perfect harmony. My mouth falls open as the first wave of orgasm crashes through me, a powerful tide of relief and trembling muscles. I’m left panting, breathless, like I’ve run the world’s longest marathon. This feeling, this elation, is something I’ve only experienced once in my life before—with him, that summer.

As I slowly come down from the high, I catch sight of him, his eyes dark with pride and something deeper, something more tender, as he gazes up at me from between my legs, his lips skimming across the smooth skin of each of my inner thighs.

He moves up my body, and kisses me. Softly at first, and then with an intensity that leaves me breathless all over again. I taste myself on his lips, and for a moment, I want to retreat into the shy, guarded part of myself. But the way he’s kissing me unravels me completely. There’s something deeper woven into every touch, every movement, something that goes beyond lust.

We lay there afterward, tangled together in the sheets. My head rests on his chest, and I listen to the rapid beat of his heart.

Even in the silence, with our bodies pressed together, there’s a sense of completeness I’ve never felt before. And it terrifies me as much as it thrills me.

“Okay, wow,” is all I can muster up and say at this moment, which is terribly cliche and ridiculous. Wow doesn’t even do it justice, when it’s the best sex I’ve had, and he didn’t even fuck me. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.”

He smirks. “You’re going to make me get a big head.”

“It’s well-deserved at this point. If I had some kind of award, I’d give it to you.”

“And how would it be inscribed? World’s best pussy eater?”

“Too crude. Something elegant…” I thrum my fingers against his chest. “Cunnilingus Connoisseur.”

He laughs. “That needs to be on a T-shirt.”

“Don’t tempt me. I can make it happen.”

“I’m down, only if I can get you a matching one that says Five-star Fellatrix .”

My cheeks are sore from smiling nonstop. “Surely we’ll be copyrighting the title of some cheap pornos. ”

“Oh, without a doubt.” His eyes sparkle, as he looks right back at me. “And hey, thank you for taking care of me today.”

“Of course. Are you feeling any better now?”

“Between the medicine, nap, and that incredible blow job, I’m a whole new man.” His thumb swipes across the soft skin above my hip. “I’m happy you’re here.”

It’s everything I’ve been wanting to hear, but the words pull me back to reality. Because I’m not going to be here, in Lawson, for much longer.

Right on cue, my phone lights up on his nightstand, displaying my realtor’s name. We both see it and freeze.

The room shifts from warmth to tension, as if we’re both holding our breath, waiting for what comes next. This call is a cold reminder that we’re only playing temporary make-believe.

No matter how much we want this to be real.