Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Wind howls against the windows; the soft crackle of dying embers in the fireplace is punctuated by the steady click-clack of my heels against the wood grain as I pace the kitchen. Every message is another crack.
Skating Stud: Coffee shop was out of oat milk. I can’t stop adding it. Who knew it was so much better than black coffee?
Skating Stud: Sometimes I think buildings are easier to understand than people.
Skating Stud: Ran over a covered bridge this morning. Do you still think certain pressures can make things stronger?
Skating Stud: It’s been raining for days. Just finished The Paris Apartment. Have you read it?
Skating Stud: Mom called. She mentioned you were visiting the shelter. Said you’ve been running a lot. I hope you’re taking care of yourself.
Hundreds of messages like this. Never asking for forgiveness or explaining away what happened that morning. Just little thoughts reminding me he’s still trying to show up. To prove he’s still there. Waiting.
I hop up onto the counter, my legs dangling, and fill the quiet kitchen with a song I listen to when I can’t outrun the longing. When the hurt creeps out, no matter how deep I try to bury it, when I want to stop pretending.
The last message came this morning.
Skating Stud: Another night with no sleep. Just watched the moon. Wondered if you saw it too.
The opening beat pulses through the speakers, low and sultry, and I shut my eyes, letting myself feel it all.
His words echo: “I wanted it to be you. Begging me. Pleading me. Needing me as much as I need you.” Rihanna’s voice follows—unyielding, unapologetic—about wanting and being wanted, about a woman who knows her worth and refuses to apologize for her desires.
Then the side door blows open. James steps inside, like an apparition in the desert.
He’s in a suit, tie loose. His hair is tousled from repeatedly running his hands through it. A few gray strands show at his temples, new lines near his eyes. His jaw is dusted with week-old stubble.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
The memories hover as ghosts in the room, pressing in around us, but I meet his stare. His gaze burns a path along my skin, cataloging the changes in me, taking in every detail. A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips under his scrutiny. His pupils darken, a primal reaction he can’t hide.
“Want a drink?” I ask, my voice lower, huskier than normal.
“Sure.” He sets his bag down with a quiet thud, never looking away.
My heels land with a sharp tap as I move to pour him a glass, giving myself a minute to think, to breathe, to process. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t prepared to see him alone, with only the hush of the house and no distractions or interruptions.
A year ago, I told him no. Said this was too much.
Is that the truth, though? When you've spent a lifetime of lying and suppressing, separating what you really want from what you believe is possible, how do you even know?
Our fingers brush as I hand him the glass. That charge, the energy that has always burned white-hot and electric between us, zings at that smallest touch. His nostrils flare, but I snatch my hand away and climb back onto the counter.
The smoldering voice sings of need barely veiled. It settles over us, a whispered confession neither of us is ready to say aloud. Three years of yearning and wanting. Never touching.
James doesn’t speak. He moves, closing the space until he’s in front of me. In that pause, so much passes across his face: hurt, uncertainty, desire. They war for dominance.
But I feel the pull of him like gravity, a force greater than my resistance, stronger than the walls I’ve built—and part my legs, a silent invitation for him to close the remaining space.
He steps between them without hesitation.
The heat radiating from his body is tangible, pressing against me, surrounding me.
My hem rides higher with every inch he claims.
Without tights, there would be little left to the imagination.
But tonight, I’m fresh out of fucks to give, and I don’t move away.
Instead, I take a slow sip of wine, letting the smooth, rich flavor coat my tongue, feeling it trickle down my throat. It does nothing to cool what’s building.
Two large, warm palms settle on my upper thighs, and a shudder rolls through me. My thighs flex against his hips, and he groans, feeling my muscles beg him to pull me closer. Our eyes never leave each other, as though we're daring the other to blink. To pull back.
It’s always been our rhythm, one step forward, two steps back, this constant, aching dance that neither of us knows how to resist.
Then, the softest touch—a single, whispered stroke along the curve of my thigh.
So soft it might not have happened if not for the way it sears into my skin.
I bite my bottom lip, stifling the noises that threaten to escape.
His breath hitches, his finger continuing its leisurely path, writing a confession against my skin.
As the final notes to the song fade away, so does his touch. I stay perched on the counter, trying to reclaim whatever scraps of composure I can muster. Trying to calm my galloping heart.
James moves to a stool, placing distance between us.
Silence stretches. Both of us look at our feet instead of each other.
What do you say to the man you love but pushed away?
He’s laid it all out, more than once.
And all I’ve done is whipsaw between fear and indecision.
I grab my phone and change the music. Not-so-innocently, I put on Tinashe’s Christmas album. The familiar chords drift through the air, an instant throwback to a night years ago of stolen glances and undeniable connection. A night that led us to this moment.
“Any reason in particular you picked this album?” James asks.
“Nope.”
I meet his gaze, daring him to call me out, to acknowledge any of this.
But he doesn’t. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. The strain between us loosens. We slip back into something familiar, talking about my cases, his buildings, running, books, travel. The mundane details of our everyday lives act as a buffer against everything simmering below the surface.
This part has always been effortless. When we’re alone, we can let the outside world fall away. We never run out of things to say, and when we do, the silence between us is comfortable.
One hour turns into two.
It’s well past midnight—the hour when reckless decisions are made.
“Should we go to the sunroom? It’s more comfortable than a hard countertop.” His voice is rougher than before, suggesting he’s reached his limit for aimless talk.
Without overthinking, without giving myself the chance to second-guess, I slide off the counter. My heels click against the hardwood as I lead the way.
The moment we step inside, the past rushes in. Neither of us speaks. The faux ease from downstairs slides away, leaving only what we’ve been hiding from. He silently closes the French doors, flips the lock, and leans against them, taking his own time.
I settle in a chair and turn toward the window, feigning distraction, but I feel him. Each step reflected in the window as he closes the distance. The only light comes from the Christmas tree, casting gentle shadows and sparks of color, wrapping us in a space that’s only ours.
He spins my chair around.
And he’s there.
On his knees.
I part my legs without thinking. He moves forward, closing the space I’ve wordlessly offered. His fingers skim along my cheek, and I arch into his touch like a cat seeking the warmth of the sun. A quiet, shuddering breath escapes him, and I draw it in, feeling it down to my toes.
He rests his forehead against mine as his hands drift lower, his thumbs pressing slow circles against my thighs. An ache ignites inside me, deepening with every stroke of his fingers. A small, helpless whimper escapes my lips. His eyes darken, fingers flexing against my skin.
We’ve never kissed. We’ve never crossed any physical line.
But emotionally?
We’ve plunged headlong, ignoring rules and expectations. We’ve blurred every boundary—family, commitment, loyalty, the lives we’re bound to—until there’s nothing clean left. We’re both committed to others, tied, in theory, to separate futures.
And yet, here we are. On the precipice again.
“Do you still believe this is too much?” he asks, breaking the silence.
I don’t want to run anymore. Tonight, I don’t want to pretend. I want to fall.
“I dream of you.” The confession tears from me. “I dream of your hands. Your fingers. Your mouth.” My breath fractures on each word. “So much. It’s embarrassing.”
The admission hangs in the air, impossible to take back. His eyes darken to the deepest green—like the farthest corners of a forest, where you know danger awaits, but you keep going anyway.
“Do you touch yourself when you think of me?” His voice is rough, pained.
“Yes.”
“Do you imagine it’s me when your husband fucks you?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No mercy for either of us.
His head falls back on a sound that’s half groan, half prayer, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat. Time stretches thin as he absorbs what I’ve given him. This terrible, beautiful truth we can’t unknow.
“Will you show me?” he leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
The world narrows to this moment, this chair, this man kneeling before me. I squeeze my knees into his hips, the ache between my legs overriding all sense.
His hands find my ankles, slipping off each heel like unwrapping something precious.
His eyes never leave mine, each touch a question I answer with a nod, each movement an appeal I meet with trust. We hold our breath as if a single exhale might wake us from this dream.
Slowly, torturously, he draws my tights down, leaving trails of fire over my skin.
He presses a kiss to the inside of each ankle, soft as an exhale, before his hands return to my knees.