Chapter Thirteen

Annette

Watching Cutter accept the cup from Charlotte, I expected him to be embarrassed or, at the very least, tell her he doesn't want the monstrosity, but instead, he looks at Charlotte, and his gaze softens as he slurps the brew. Even when Tyson teases him, he only shrugs and says, ‘ Guess I like what I like .'

His presence in the bakery—all leather, tattoos, and denim amidst the pastel décor—seems inappropriately out of place, and yet, the way he talks to Charlotte and the easy conversation with Tyson reminds me that although he's dangerous, if you're in his inner circle, he'd do anything for you.

"Annette," Cutter greets me, the rumble of his voice softer than usual.

Charlotte beams at me, her innocence stark against the backdrop of Cutter's rugged demeanor. She's twenty-nine, but the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear with childlike grace tells another story.

"I made it special for Cutter," she says proudly, her voice tinged with excitement.

"Thanks, Charlotte," he says, and I swear his voice holds a note of tenderness I wouldn't have believed possible if I hadn't heard it myself.

Charlotte's laugh rings out, pure and unburdened, filling the space between the steaming espresso machines and glass cases of pastries.

I can't help but watch them, this odd pair, and feel a twinge of something—surprise, maybe, or admiration. In a world where Cutter's name evokes whispers of fear, here he stands, unguarded, sharing a moment of simple joy over a whimsical beverage. And as I look up at Tyson, his attention momentarily pulled away from their exchange, I see the same capacity for gentleness reflected at me.

"Ready for some baked goodness?" Tyson asks as he laughs at his joke and threads his fingers with mine.

I nod, squeezing his hand in response. "Sure am." I bend and look in the glass cabinet filled with cakes and pastries. "Coffee, chocolate chip muffin, and…" I smile conspiringly at my son and point to a cupcake.

He shakes his head and points at the chocolate chip cookies.

I hold up a finger, and he shakes his head, so I hold up two, and he says, "Three!"

Laughing, I straighten up and look at Tyson. "And three chocolate chip cookies."

Isabelle winks at Beathan. "It's a better deal if you buy six."

"Done," replies Tyson. "And I'll have another coffee to go, please."

"Okay, so one chocolate chip muffin, six cookies, and two coffees. Is that the lot?"

Tyson nods at Isabelle. "Sounds right."

"Nothing for you?" I ask him.

"Maybe he's sweet enough," quips Isabelle as she rings up our order.

Tyson winks down at me, and my heart skips a beat. Apart from some passionate kisses, we haven't gone further. It's almost like he's holding back, but I'm ready for our relationship to go to the next level.

He's been sleeping on my couch, taking such good care of Beathan, and talking about staying here permanently. Tyson even wants to look at houses with me, but I need more than a friend I can kiss.

So much more.

Laughter ripples through the cozy space of Baked Goodness, breaking me out of my inner thoughts. Cutter is talking to Charlotte and has his arm around the shoulders of a woman who is staring at him as though he's hung the moon.

Tyson pays for our order, and I like comfort in this routine, a sense of normalcy that feels as though we're building something together.

We gather our treats, and I shepherd Beathan toward the door, his small hand clasped in mine. The bell above the entrance jingles merrily as we step outside, where the crisp morning air is suddenly split by the low rumble of a motorcycle pulling up. Beathan's face lights up, and he wriggles free from my grasp, bounding toward the familiar sound with unrestrained energy.

"Uncle Sean," he exclaims, a bundle of joyous laughter as he approaches the gleaming Harley.

"Hey, little man!" Sean greets him, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection. He swings his leg over the bike, dismounting with the ease of someone who has spent half his life on two wheels. Beth follows suit, her smile soft but genuine.

"Want to sit up here for a sec?" Sean offers, hoisting Beathan onto the leather saddle in one fluid motion.

Despite the ink that snakes up his arms and the scars that tell tales of battles fought, Sean's gentleness always surfaces around Beathan. It's a stark contrast against his rugged exterior that never fails to warm my heart.

Beathan grips the handlebars, his imagination undoubtedly transforming the parked bike into a steed of incredible speed. His giggles fill the quiet street as Sean steadies the Harley, and he smiles at his nephew.

"Look at you, champ," Beth coos, standing close by. Her presence is a calming anchor, balancing Sean's more unpredictable nature.

"Vroom, vroom!" Beathan yells out, lost in his mock adventure, and I can't help but laugh along, grateful for these moments of pure, unfettered happiness.

"Annette, why don't you and Tyson go check out some of those houses you were talking about?" Sean suggests, his voice carrying the rumble of his usual confidence. "I can hang with the little dude here." He ruffles Beathan's hair, still perched proudly atop the Harley.

I hesitate, a lump forming in my throat as memories rush back—the fear, the kidnapping, the endless waiting for news. It wasn't just the kidnapping but the shadow it cast on every offer of help since then. But Beathan's bouncing up and down on the Harley, his excitement palpable, and I feel my resolve waver.

"Can we, Mommy? Please?" Beathan looks up at me, eyes wide with hope.

"Um…" The word catches in my mouth. Tyson's hand finds mine, a silent source of support. He doesn't push or pull but stands there, solidly beside me.

"Stay in town, okay?" I finally manage to say, the words scraping past the tightness in my chest.

Sean's smile dims for a fraction of a second, and he nods solemnly. "You got it, Annette. Nothing's gonna happen to him. Not ever again." There's steel in his voice.

Tyson squeezes my hand gently, a quiet reassurance.

I muster a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels, and nod. "Okay," I breathe out. "Okay, but call me if anything—"

"Nothing will," Sean assures me, and something in his gaze makes me believe him despite the ghosts that linger.

"Be good for Uncle Sean," I tell Beathan, bending down to kiss his forehead. He's all giggles and wriggles, oblivious to the storm of emotions churning through me.

"Will do!" he chirps, and I stand upright, locking away the worry in a mental vault as best as I can.

Holding out the bag containing his cookies, I wink at Sean. "Only let him have one."

"Aww, Mom!"

Laughing, I say, "If he's good, maybe two."

Sean looks down at Beathan and winks. "And if he's really good, three?"

Beathan's small face lights up, and I cross my arms over my chest to try to look stern. "Well, he'd have to be really good."

Beathan nods his head excitedly, and I let Tyson pull me away.

"Let's go house hunting, then," Tyson says, his voice warm like a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

His thumb brushes against the back of my hand, sending an electric charge through me. With one last glance at Beathan, now chatting animatedly with Sean, I let myself be led away.

The leather seat is cool against my skin as I slide into Tyson's car and take another sip of coffee. I glance at him, his profile calm and sure as he navigates the streets with an ease that belies the tension I feel.

"Tyson?" My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears me, turning his head slightly to indicate he's listening. "Do you really think Beathan will be okay with Sean?"

He reaches over, his hand finding mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze as we stop at a light. "Sean won't let anything happen to Beathan," he says firmly. "You know he'd do anything for him… for both of you, and Cutter is in the bakery too." He shakes his head. "Someone would have to have a death wish to mess with both of them."

I nod, trying to believe it. Tyson knows more than he can say—the secrets of the MC world shadowing his words.

We pull up to the curb, and the house before us takes my breath away. It's a vision of suburban bliss, two stories of gleaming white siding with shutters that beg for windows to be pushed open to welcome in a spring breeze. The real estate agent, a woman with a clipboard full of details, greets us enthusiastically as we approach.

"Isn't she a beauty?" the agent gushes, motioning to the house with a sweep of her arm. Tyson listens intently, nodding along to her spiel about a renovated kitchen and en suite bathrooms, but I find myself drifting through the rooms.

Each space is large, filled with potential and echoes of laughter that could fill them. I run my fingers along the cool granite countertops, gaze out at the spacious backyard, and try to picture us here. But each imagined scenario is missing a crucial piece, like trying to complete a puzzle with a box of mismatched pieces.

Why do we need all this space?

My thoughts are chaotic as I ascend the staircase, my hand trailing along the polished banister. Apart from the heat of our kisses that promise so much more, we haven't crossed that final threshold. Our passion is undeniable, yet here we are, standing in the shell of a future that feels both vast and uncertain.

"Annette?" Tyson calls from the doorway of what could be a nursery, snapping me back to the present. His eyes search mine, concern and something softer shimmering in their depths.

"Beautiful," I murmur, though I'm not sure if I'm speaking about the house or the burgeoning life I'm tentatively building with Tyson.

"Annette?" Tyson asks, and I turn toward him, feeling the weight of his gaze. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded, his expression an open book of patience and curiosity.

I hesitate, the expansiveness of the empty room amplifying the tightness in my chest. "It's big," I confess, my voice a whisper that seems to get lost in the high ceiling and grandeur of it all.

"Too big?" he probes gently, stepping closer.

My eyes meet his, and suddenly the words tumble out unbidden. "I don't know why we need so much space." A pause, a breath, and then the truth. "We haven't even had sex."

His reaction is immediate, a mix of surprise and understanding that flickers across his features. Tyson lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it with a sheepish smile that softens the lines around his eyes. "Is that what's bothering you?" he asks, the smile reaching his voice.

Heat crawls up my cheeks, and I nod, unable to look away from the kindness in his eyes. There's no judgment there, only an earnest desire to understand, to bridge the gap between us with honesty and affection.

Tyson once again takes my hand and leads me back downstairs. He lets me go to shake hands with the real estate agent.

"We'll think about it," he says.

The agent nods, offers a practiced smile, and retreats, leaving us in the dimming light of the would-be living room.

"Let's head back," Tyson suggests, guiding me out with a hand at the small of my back.

His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, an unspoken promise that sets my nerves alight.

The drive is a blur, streets merging into a haze of anticipation. My home looms ahead, the familiar brick fa?ade offering a semblance of normalcy. Below, the yoga studio is quiet, its patrons long gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of incense and serenity.

We ascend the stairs, my pulse quickening with each step. The air between us crackles, charged with unspoken words and shared glances. Tyson's lips brush against the sensitive skin of my neck, igniting a trail of sparks that dance down my spine. I can't help but lean into him, craving more of his warmth, of him .

But then I pull away, suddenly emboldened. I turn, walking backward with a playful tilt to my lips, watching his eyes darken as I slip off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Each step I take is deliberate, a silent beckoning.

His gaze follows me, hungry and intense. I continue the dance of fabric and skin, shedding layers. Each piece discarded reveals more of me, and I revel in the heat of his stare, the way his breath hitches ever so slightly.

Slowly, Tyson mirrors my actions, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the landscape of muscle beneath. His movements are measured and controlled, but his eyes never leave mine. There's a hunger there, a longing that matches the one roaring through my veins.

The distance closes, the last barriers fall away, and I'm left bared before him, not just in the flesh but in the soul.

His hands find the small of my back, drawing me in closer until there's no air left that isn't shared between our lips. Our kiss speaks of friendship set aflame, now an inferno of connection and raw need.

His touch is familiar and electrifying, tracing paths over my skin as every caress sends shivers down my spine, awakening memories I thought were long forgotten.

I arch against him, lost in the sensation, in the perfect fit of his body against mine. There is no hesitation, only the fluid motion of two people moving as one. Right now, the world beyond this room fades to a distant hum—irrelevant and forgotten.

"Annette," he breathes out, my name a sacred word on his lips, and I feel it everywhere.

We move together, every stroke and sigh melding into a rhythm that speaks of desire and connection. Time has no meaning. There is only this perfect joining of souls, once merely friends, now lovers.

I take his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm ignite a fire within me as I guide him toward my bedroom. The soft glow of the bedroom window casts a sensual, inviting ambience. Neither of us speaks as his eyes meet mine, a smoldering promise of what's to come. My heart races, each step bringing us closer to the sanctuary of my room. The air feels thick with desire as I pull him inside, closing the door behind us. The world outside disappears, leaving only the intoxicating heat between us.

Tyson kneels before me, and suddenly, I feel exposed. He leans forward and kisses one of the stretch marks that mar my stomach.

"Don't," I whisper.

Tyson's eyes meet mine, and he frowns. "Don't?"

Shaking my head, I walk backward until I hit the bed, then sit down, pulling the comforter over myself. "I did everything right during my pregnancy. I used moisturizers and massaged in every cream under the sun, took vitamins, and with a week to go, I felt it rip. The stretch marks appeared, and I haven't been able to get rid of them."

My hands are clasped in my lap, and I'm staring at my fingers, wishing I could go back to a moment ago when my only thought was having Tyson make love to me. Instead, I'm self-conscious and wish this hadn't started.

Tyson's hand covers mine, and he reaches up, his fingers tilting my head back so I have to look into his eyes.

"You're beautiful. These marks show your journey from a woman into motherhood. They are part of you. How could I not love them as I love you?"

The world seems to stop. Those three words, so simple yet so powerful, echo in my mind. I search his eyes, seeing the raw vulnerability and sincerity there. My heart swells with surprise, joy, and a deep, overwhelming love.

His eyes never leave mine as he continues, his voice more confident now. "I've loved you for so long. I can't imagine my life without you. You and Beathan are everything to me, Annette."

Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I can feel their warmth spilling down my cheeks, but I don't care. All that matters is Tyson and the love radiating from him. I reach out, cupping his face in my hands, feeling the stubble on his jaw under my fingertips.

My voice is barely a whisper, choked with emotion. "Tyson, I love you too."

His eyes close for a moment as if he's savoring the words. Then he stands and pulls me into his arms, holding me close. I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my chest, a rhythm that matches mine.

Tyson's lips find mine, and all my insecurities vanish.

He loves me .

The moment is electric, a current that zaps straight to my soul. It's not just a kiss but an affirmation, the kind that erases every doubt that has ever clouded my mind. The world around us could crumble, but in this instant, I'm anchored, tethered to the here and now by the warmth of his mouth on mine.

He loves me.

The thought blossoms inside me like a revelation, each petal unfurling with the truth of it. It's in the gentle pressure of his lips, the tender way he cradles my face in his hands, and the soft sigh that escapes him and mingles with my breath. This isn't just a physical connection, it's the intertwining of souls, the silent language of hearts speaking volumes in a single embrace.

My fingers thread through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if I could merge into him completely, leaving no space for those old specters of self-doubt to wedge back in. His touch is a tender whisper and a fiery spark, igniting every nerve in my body with its intensity for Tyson, and I let myself be loved.

The room deliciously spins as Tyson sweeps me off my feet, a strong arm under my knees and another cradling my back. His eyes lock onto mine, brimming with unspoken promises as he lays me on the bed and hovers over me for a heartbeat, his gaze worshipful as it traces the roadmap of my life etched into my skin, the silver lines of my stretch marks illuminated by the dim light.

"Beautiful," he breathes out the word, and this time I believe him.

His lips find the tender spot below my ear, igniting a trail of fire that licks down my neck. Each kiss is an approval for the body I've learned to love less. But through Tyson's touch, I feel adored, every inch of me cherished. And when his mouth grazes the valley between my breasts, I'm awash in a sensation so potent it's like I'm feeling everything for the first time.

I arch beneath him, offering myself as his lips continue their descent, his tongue painting strokes of pleasure that seep deep into my core. My fingers tangle in his hair, guiding him, silently pleading for more—his teasing bites and the suckling kisses that draw gasps from my lips. When he finally reaches the center of my longing, his tongue delves into the heart of me.

Each lick is a call to which my body responds, each nip drawing me closer to the edge of bliss. The heat within me coils tighter, anchored only by the softness of his mouth and the relentless pursuit of my climax. His name becomes a mantra on my lips, each syllable punctuated by the rhythm of his devotion as I teeter on the precipice, ready to fall into the abyss of ecstasy.

Electricity surges through me, a current fueled by Tyson's unerring lips and tongue. The air in the room feels charged, each breath I take crackling with the tension of impending release. His mouth is relentless and worshipful as if every part of me he touches is sacred. This man knows exactly what he's doing. His confidence and skill are undeniable. He navigates my body, each movement deliberate and aimed to bring me closer to the edge.

It's been over five years since I've let someone in—since I've allowed myself the vulnerability of being touched, tasted, and loved. I'd shoved that part of me away, a compartment too tender to expose, but now, with Tyson, it all comes flooding back. The pleasure, the connection—I'd almost forgotten how intoxicating it can be, how consuming. The sheer goodness of it swells within me, threatening to overwhelm me, and I clutch at him, my nails digging into his shoulder muscles, anchoring myself to the here and now.

And then, with a crescendo of sensations that obliterates every lingering doubt, my orgasm crashes over me. It's a tidal wave, sweeping away years of self-imposed solitude, leaving nothing in its wake but pure sensation.

I cry out, his name torn from somewhere deep within me—a primal call that fills the room. "Tyson!"

He doesn't stop. He draws out every tremor that wracks my body, every last quiver of pleasure until I'm spent, lying beneath him like a storm passed. My breathing is ragged, and my heart is a drumbeat echoing in the aftermath.

As I come back down to earth, Tyson's lips find my face. They press soft kisses against my forehead, cheeks, and the tip of my nose. I open my eyes to see him smiling down at me, a look of tenderness that wraps around me as warm as a blanket. His smile is so genuine—a promise that this is just the beginning.

As the last echoes of bliss fade, Tyson's touch remains a constant, tender presence. His fingers sketch patterns across my skin, meandering paths that draw lazy circles over the rise and fall of my breasts. The gentle exploration stirs embers into life, kindling flames that had briefly settled in the aftermath of our passion.

His lips follow the trail blazed by his fingertips, descending to capture one of my nipples with a warmth that makes me gasp. The delicate suction, the flick of his tongue—each motion fans the fire within me, a flare that reignites my desire as if it had never dimmed.

"I need you," I whisper into the quiet of the room, my voice barely audible above the sound of our mingled breaths.

But he hears me, always attuned to the softest utterances of my heart.

The corners of Tyson's lips curve upward in a smile, a silent acknowledgment of my whispered plea. He leans down to kiss me, a slow melding of mouths that speaks volumes in the silence. Our tongues tangle, a dance of intimacy that says more than words ever could. This kiss is a promise, an affirmation, a seal over our unspoken vows.

With this new hunger rising between us, he shifts, his body a solid comfort atop mine. My legs part almost instinctively, welcoming him, wrapping around him with an eagerness that matches the beat of my racing heart. In the tangle of limbs and the meeting of souls, I find myself lost once again in the magnetic pull of the man who has become my everything.

As Tyson enters me, it's as if we complete a circuit, the energy flowing between us tangible and powerful. I'm enveloped by him—entirely, irrevocably.

With the tender strength that always surprises me, he cradles my head between his forearms, caging me in a fortress of intimacy. His lips find mine again, a soft counterpoint to the profound depth at which he joins me. He moves within me, setting a pace that is maddening in its slowness.

The silence between us is filled with the sound of our mingled breaths as he moves within me. But my body, a live wire of need and sensation, craves more. The slow burn he's kindled needs to blaze.

"Faster," I whisper. A plea. A command.

He responds not with words but with action, his hips drawing back before surging forward with renewed purpose. Our connection deepens, his rhythm intensifying, each thrust driving higher peaks of pleasure. The bed creaks beneath us, a rhythmic accompaniment to the quickening pulse of my heart.

"So beautiful," Tyson breathes out against the shell of my ear, his voice rough like gravel but tender as a caress.

The phrase wraps around me, a mantra that feeds the flame he's stoked.

My response is instinctual—I bite down on my lower lip, holding back the sounds that threaten to spill from my throat. His praise ignites something primal within me, and the fire that has simmered now roars into an inferno. My fingers dig into the sheets, clutching at them as Tyson pumps into me faster, hitting me just right.

The moment fractures and splinters into a climax that shatters the room's silence. Tyson's body tenses above me, his name a strangled cry on my lips as he reaches the edge.

"Annette!" The word is torn from him, a raw sound filled with the essence of everything unspoken, every emotion we've dared to feel.

His lips crash against mine in a desperate kiss, fierce and possessive. I can taste his moans, muffled against my mouth, vibrations of pleasure that resonate within my chest.

A surge of warmth floods through me, a tidal wave that carries me over the precipice—my orgasm cascading in tandem with his. Our breaths mingle, a shared gasp of release, while the world contracts to the space where our bodies are joined, and Tyson's heartbeat drums against my skin.

The aftershocks ripple through me, gentle waves lapping at my senses. His hands, once urgent and demanding, now roam softly, tracing the contours of my face with a tenderness that belies the intensity of what has just passed between us. Tyson's gaze holds mine, a silent vow lingering in the depths of his eyes—a promise that this, us , is more than fleeting passion. It's something worth holding onto.

I'm wrapped securely in Tyson's arms, nestled against the man whose strength and tenderness have looked after me for five years.

As sleep tugs at my consciousness, I let go, sinking into dreams with the certainty of a woman who has found her place in the world. Here, in this embrace, is home—not just for me, but for Beathan too. Tyson's steady breathing is the promise of a future filled with care and devotion, and I drift off, knowing in my heart that we are where we belong.

Together.