31. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 31
Magnolia Steel
The hum of the jet engine fades into a whisper as we taxi toward the private hangar in Dallas. Alex’s hand is resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing circles over my leg. He doesn’t appear nervous on the outside, but I know him. I see the way his jaw flexes, like he’s bracing for something.
We’ve made this trip like a team, the two of us showing up together.
After everything we’ve gone through, it still amazes me how easily we’ve fallen into being us again. Like the ache never happened, like we never unraveled, like our love remembered how to––just be.
The penthouse is what I expected—sleek, masculine, understated luxury––with warm wood, rich leather, tall windows that let the Dallas skyline pour in like liquid gold. It smells like eucalyptus and old money.
The bedroom is massive—warm, elegant, and designed to impress.
“I see you went all out,” I say, turning in a slow circle.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Three months is a long time. I wanted it to feel comfortable… so you’d want to come back. Spend time with me.”
I pause, tilting my head. Odd thing to say.
“You worry I won’t?”
“A little.” His voice is careful, almost too casual. “Travel can be exhausting. You’ve got the business consuming a lot of your time. I wanted to make it easy for you to stay. To work here. To want to be here.”
I go to him, putting my arm around his shoulders. “I’m going to be here every minute I can. You got it?”
He nods, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to soften the tension. “Promise?”
I go up on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his mouth. “Promise.”
We spend the afternoon walking around the city. Nothing fancy––a museum, a bookstore, a quiet bench at the edge of Klyde Warren Park where we split a slice of caramel cake we didn’t need but definitely wanted.
By early evening, I see it—the subtle shift in his gait. The quiet hitch in his breath when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way he favors his good ankle.
He hasn’t said anything, but I suspect he injured it again when he fought with Tyson.
“Are you okay?” I slow down beside him as we cross the street. “You’re limping.”
He gives me that signature half-smile that’s pure trouble. “I’m fine.”
“Alex, you’re not.”
He stops on the sidewalk and turns to face me. “Listen, babe. I’m about to be in a boot for weeks. I’ve got days ahead of me stuck in bed with an ankle that’ll hate me. The pain is going to be worse than last time and believe me when I tell you it was no walk in the park. So let me have this. Let me have you and Dallas tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And besides––” He leans closer, voice dropping low enough to make me shiver. “I don’t mind being stuck in bed… if you’re in it with me.”
I swat his chest, laughing as he catches my wrist mid-air and brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss over the inside. His eyes don’t leave mine.
God, I love him.
We walk a little slower. His limp worsens, but he doesn’t complain. He lets me fuss over him and carry the small bag from the bookstore. He chooses to take the longer route back to the hotel because the light hitting the buildings is beautiful and he wants more time with me before the sun sets.
Oh, how this man loves sunrises and sunsets.
And right now—bathed in gold, his hand wrapped around mine, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—I understand why. There’s something sacred in the in-between. The hush before the night. The knowing that something is ending, but something else is about to begin.
The restaurant is special, the kind of place you hear whispers about––soft lighting and candlelit corners, dark wood floors that hush beneath your heels, a wine list so extensive it reads like a novel written in vintage years and sommelier secrets.
We’re only a few sips into the wine when Alex leans back in his chair, swirling the deep red. His smile is slow, a hint of smug beneath the softness.
“How many strings did you have to pull to get us in here tonight?”
He nods, taking a slow sip. “Called in a few favors. Threatened to cry. Whatever it took.”
I laugh, adjusting the strap of my dress. “You’re ridiculous.”
His eyes scan me like he’s memorizing every detail. “I wanted our only night in Dallas to be special.”
“It is.”
He’s wearing a slate-blue button-down, the top few buttons undone enough to tease the ink that creeps along his collarbone—bold lines and curves that disappear beneath the fabric like a secret only I know. A navy sport coat hugs his shoulders, tailored but effortless. His hair’s still damp from the shower, pushed back in that way that says he tried… but not too hard. Because he doesn’t have to. He’s all quiet confidence and devastating calm, and somehow, that wrecks me more than anything else.
To anyone watching us, we look like we’ve had it easy. Like we belong here—two polished people sitting at a corner table, wine glasses in hand, laughing like the world never tried to break us.
But that’s the illusion.
Getting here wasn’t easy. It was raw and brutal. It was sleepless nights, unanswered messages, and heartbreak that settled deep in our bones.
We clawed our way back to this moment. Back to each other. And now that I have him again, I won’t let go. Not this time. Not for anything.
The server refills our wine, and we lift them in quiet unison, fingertips brushing.
“To surviving the worst.”
He meets my gaze and taps his glass to mine. “To never forgetting what it took to get here.”
Dinner is slow and decadent. He orders the largest steak on the menu—because of course he does. I go for a pasta I can’t pronounce with more garlic than should be legal in the state of Texas.
We trade bites across the table like it’s second nature, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of falling back into each other’s rhythm after months apart.
Alex cuts a piece of his steak for me and lifts it to my mouth with a smirk. “You’ll thank me later.”
He tells me about the trouble he and his brothers used to cause Malie growing up—how they’d sneak out to surf before dawn, track mud through the house, and come home with bruises they all swore were from “falling,” not fighting. His grin is wide, boyish, when he talks about how Malie once chased them down the driveway with a wooden spoon, yelling in Samoan, because they’d shaved off each other’s eyebrows on a dare.
I’m still laughing when I reach for my wine, eyes wet with amusement. “That’s wild, but honestly, it kind of makes me think raising a house full of boys wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
He stills, fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah?”
I glance up, meeting his eyes. There’s something unreadable in his expression—curiosity edged with something softer.
“It’d be pure chaos. Loud. I’m pretty sure, disgusting. But I think I’d love it.”
His mouth curves into a slow, thoughtful smile, the kind that lands somewhere deep in my chest.
I smile back. And that moment stretches, filled with everything we don’t say.
My feelings have changed. Somewhere between losing him and finding him again, I let go of the rules I’d built around my heart. I want love––real love––and a family of my own.
I want forever, and I want it with him.
And if it comes with little Tasmanian devils… well, okay.
But now isn’t the time for that conversation. Not tonight. Not with tomorrow looming. So I take another sip of wine instead and hold on to my secret a little tighter and for a little longer.
His eyes stay on mine, steady as ever, but I can see it—the flicker of something fragile beneath the surface. I notice everything when it comes to him. He won’t say it out loud—I’ve learned that much about him—but he’s nervous about tomorrow.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” My voice is low, keeping this conversation between us in our little corner. “You hear me? You’ve got this, big guy. And you’ve got me.”
His shoulders ease and that little crease between his brows softens.
“You’re not going through this alone.”
His eyes flicker with something quiet. Relief, maybe. Love, definitely.
“I didn’t realize I needed to hear that. I’m glad it’s you who’ll be with me.”
My foot finds his under the table. “I’ll be the perfect nurse and take care of every… single… inch of you.”
His jaw tightens, eyes flashing heat.
“And if you’re a good patient, I might climb into that tiny hospital bed and make you forget you’re supposed to be resting.”
“ Take Magnolia three times a day for pleasure. I like that prescription. I’m looking forward to this surgery now.”
Alex unlocks the door, and like always, opens it for me. The moment the penthouse door clicks shut behind us, everything changes.
He shrugs off his sport coat, draping it over the arm of the couch before unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up, forearms flexing with each motion. His hair’s a little mussed from the night breeze, and it’s somehow sexier than when we left.
The city glows outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but all I can see is him.
I toe off my heels, sighing in relief as they hit the floor. My dress whispers around my legs as I cross the room, that silky fabric suddenly too warm.
I glance over at him, and he’s looking at me. No—not just looking. Watching. Like I’m something he’s been waiting on all night. Like I’m prey, and he’s a man who knows how to hunt without rushing the kill.
I reach up and tug the clip from my hair, letting it fall in a slow cascade over my shoulders. The waves loosen, framing my face as I shake them out with a practiced flick, aware—achingly aware—of the way his gaze heats as he watches. Like he’s starving. Like I’m already his.
Because I am.
His voice is low, almost a growl. “Fuck, you’re sexy.”
He crosses the space between us with unhurried confidence, the kind that makes my breath catch. His eyes drag down my body, slow and reverent. But he doesn’t touch me. Not yet.
Instead, he stops just short of pressing against me. His hand lifts, fingers teasing the bare skin of my shoulder, light as a whisper. “You did this on purpose.”
“Did what?” I ask, feigning innocence even as heat pools low in my belly.
His mouth tilts in a lazy, sinful smile. “Letting your hair down and shaking it out like that.”
His knuckle skims down the curve of my arm. “You knew what it would do to me.”
“Possibly,” I say, heart thudding as I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.”
His eyes flare. “I never stop paying attention where you’re concerned.”
He brushes my hair back from my face, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck. Then, with maddening slowness, he dips his head, lips ghosting just beside mine without closing the distance.
“You’re playing with fire,” he says against my mouth.
“Then burn me.”
And then he kisses me. But it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s possession.
It’s every promise, every prayer, every plea poured into one searing, consuming kiss.
His mouth crashes over mine, and I melt into it, gasping against the sudden heat of him. His hands find my hips, gripping tight, pulling me flush against his body like he needs me there to breathe.
I wind my arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine with a hunger that makes my knees go weak.
When he walks us backward toward the bed, I go—no resistance, no hesitation, just the pounding of my heart and sensation of his body pressed to mine.
His mouth moves lower, skimming along my jaw, tracing fire across my throat. I tilt my head to give him more, every inch of me aching for his touch.
My hands tug his shirt free from his waistband, already desperate to feel him—skin to skin.
And he lets me.
He groans low in his throat. “God, you undo me.”
“ I’m trying to undo you. But these damn buttons. Where do you buy your shirts? Frustrate-the-fuck-out-of-her-with-difficult-buttons-dot-com?”
He grins, lazy and smug, eyes dark with heat.
“Tailor-made to drive you insane. Buttons are foreplay, babe.”
“Yeah? Well, foreplay’s taking too damn long.”
My fingers fumble once more—twice—and I’ve had enough. I grab both sides of his shirt and rip it open, buttons popping and bouncing across the floor like confetti.
He blinks, then laughs low and full of heat. “Fuck, that was hot.”
I meet his gaze, breathless. “Damn right it was.”
Tonight isn’t about perfection. It’s about need.
I push his shirt off his shoulders, revealing the ink I already know by heart—except now there’s more. My eyes drift to the new lines, the fresh tattoo over his heart.
I trace the edges with my finger. “This is for me.”
His hand covers mine. “Not for you. It is you.”
I press a kiss against the tattoo. “Mine.”
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”
I slide my nails down his chest as I push his shirt off. “Bet you say that to all the women who drop everything to be your nurse.”
He grins, but there’s heat behind it. “Only the one I’m still falling for every… damn… day.”
For all the teasing and the heat crackling between us—it’s that quiet, gruff confession that cuts right through me.
Still falling for me.
Every… damn… day.
Like I’m more than someone he wants at this moment. I’m someone he’s choosing. Again. And again. And again.
Something twists in my chest, tender and breathless. The kind of ache that comes with knowing this is real. This is us. And I’m not scared of it anymore.
I blink up at him, heart pounding, throat tight. “Then I guess I better give you a reason to keep falling.”
His belt comes next, undone with a practiced flick that earns me a raised brow and a soft, amused grunt. “Seems like you’ve done that a time or two.”
“Only for you.”
He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s right. Only for me.”
He kisses me like I’m oxygen—like the world might stop spinning if he lets go. My back hits the wall behind us, and his hands roam with purpose, slipping under the hem of my dress, fingertips grazing the bare skin of my thighs as I gasp against his mouth. But just when I think he’ll lose control, he stills.
Then, in one fluid, confident motion, Alex lifts me off the floor.
My breath catches as my legs wrap around his waist, our bodies aligned, tension humming between us. His hands grip me tight, like he can’t bear to let go even for a second.
He carries me through the penthouse with slow, deliberate steps, every movement precise, restrained—but barely. He kicks open the bedroom door and lays me down like I’m something sacred.
I sink into the mattress, my dress bunched around my hips, chest rising and falling fast.
And he just looks at me.
His body hovers over mine, arms braced on either side of my head, eyes devouring every detail.
He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t speak.
Just watches.
I reach for him, fingertips skimming the taut planes of his abs, the trail of ink along his ribs. But he catches my hands, pinning them to the bed beside my head.
“Do you know how many nights I imagined this?”
My chest tightens. “Alex––”
“Not the sex. This––you and me together. No pretending. No countdown. No goodbye.”
The emotion in his voice tugs at something deep inside me, and tears prick my eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming fullness of this. Of us. The weight of everything we lost and everything we somehow clawed our way back to.
I reach up, cradling his face in both hands, and pull his mouth back to mine.
This time, the kiss isn’t desperate—it’s sure. It’s steady. It’s a vow wrapped in love.
His hands slide down my sides, anchoring me as our mouths devour each other in slow, aching sync. His fingers find the hem of my dress, teasing it upward inch by inch.
“You didn’t wear this sexy little thing to dinner, expecting me to behave like a gentleman after.”
I smile against his mouth, breathless. “I don’t expect you to behave at all.”
His laugh is low, wicked. “Good. Because I’m done pretending that I have an ounce of control where you’re concerned.”
The dress slips over my head in one fluid motion, cool air kissing my skin as he drinks me in. His eyes darken as he takes in the lace beneath—barely there, black, and meant only for him.
His mouth follows every inch he exposes, lips dragging over my skin like he’s blessing it. My breath stutters when his hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace of my bra.
We take our time, every movement, every touch, laced with reverence and want. There’s no frantic tearing, no fumbling. Only hands mapping familiar territory like it’s brand new again. Like we’re both a little afraid to wake up and find this moment isn’t real.
By the time we’re skin to skin, my breath is already shallow, pulse racing beneath the press of his hands.
And then?—
His hips press against mine as his hand slides up the inside of my thigh, parting me. His fingers move with devastating purpose, and I arch into him, gasping his name like a prayer I never want to stop repeating.
And still, he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble.
He worships.
Every inch of me, every sound I make, every tremble and whisper of want—I feel it mirrored in him.
When his mouth trails down my body, slow and unrelenting, it’s not just foreplay. It’s love in its rawest form.
And when he enters me—body-to-body, soul-to-soul—it’s not with a groan. It’s with a broken sound, like surrender.
My hands clutch his shoulders, and my legs squeeze around his waist. He holds still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, his breath shaky against my mouth.
“This is everything to me, favorite. You are my everything.”
My chest tightens, breath catching like his words wrapped around my ribcage and cinched tight.
Everything.
It’s not just something he says. It’s the way he says it—like a truth that’s lived in him longer than he’s known how to name it.
I run my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, our foreheads brushing. “You don’t even know how deeply I’m yours, Alex.”
His eyes flicker—heat, hunger, and something close to awe.
I kiss him again, slow and deep. Like I mean it.
Because I do.
God, I do.
He moves, and each thrust is slow, controlled—like he’s savoring the feel of me, the rhythm of our bodies syncing. We move together like we’ve done this in every lifetime before. His hands grip my hips, grounding us both, and when he picks up the pace, my body arches, mouth parting with a soft cry.
He kisses it away. “This… us… it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
His words shatter me.
I come with his name on my lips, every nerve lit like fire, and he follows with a sound that’s half-curse, half-confession—like I just undid him from the inside out.
He collapses over me, arms tightening, like he never wants to let go.
And I don’t want him to.
We lie tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
“I didn’t know it was possible to be this close to someone,” I whisper.
His arm tightens around me, lips pressing to the crown of my head.
“You’re it for me, Magnolia Steel.”
The quiet settles in, but it’s the good kind––the kind that only exists when you’ve been undone.
His breathing slows, syncing with mine, and I feel it in my bones—that sacred stillness that only comes after being known in every way a person can be known.
I curl closer, brushing my lips against his chest, right where his heart beats steady and strong. The heart that chose me—again.
For so long, I convinced myself I didn’t need this. That independence meant solitude. That safety meant distance. But lying here now, in the quiet aftermath of all the walls we’ve torn down, I know better.
This man—this love—isn’t the end of who I am. It’s the beginning of everything I didn’t know I could have. And for the first time, I let myself believe in a future that doesn’t scare me.
A future with him.