Chapter Thirty-four
Abigail-Ann
“Love isn’t something you find. Love is something that finds you.”
~ Loretta Young
I knew something was up the second I stepped into the lobby.
It was a feeling, a shift in the air—like the moment before a first kiss, electric and waiting to spark.
Then I saw Mikkel.
He stood by the curb, all sharp lines and confidence, the city’s glow catching the silver chain around his neck and wrist. His car door was open, but he wasn’t in a hurry. No, he was standing there like he had all the time in the world—like I was the only thing worth waiting for.
And in his arms?
A bouquet so massive it could have been used as a weapon.
My breath stalled. What the hell?
This wasn’t just a bouquet. This was a statement. A ridiculous, oversized, unhinged arrangement of yellow primroses, ivory garden roses, and soft sprigs of baby’s breath—all tied together with silk ribbon that probably cost more than my rent.
People were staring. A couple walking past did a double take.
One thing about Mikkel Suarez? Subtlety was not in his vocabulary.
His lips curled into that slow, knowing smile as I reached him. “Took you long enough, amorcita . 72 ”
I folded my arms, fighting a grin. “Did you rob a florist?”
Mikkel chuckled, shifting the bouquet under one arm just to free a hand for my waist. “What? Too much?”
“You’re out of control.” I shook my head, reaching for the flowers. They were heavy. Like, genuinely heavy.
Mikkel bent down slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to my cheek. The scent of his cologne mixed with the blooms, all rich spice and warmth, curling around me like something dangerous.
“I—” My voice faltered as I traced my fingers over the delicate petals, the sheer excess of it all hitting me in the chest.
My heart flipped. God, he was thoughtful.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered, breathing them in.
“So are you.”
I swallowed. Hard.
This man. This man.
We slid into the car, and before I could even reach for my seatbelt, his hand was already on my thigh, warm and possessive.
I bit my lip, grabbing my phone to snap a quick photo of the bouquet now taking up half the damn backseat.
When I glanced up, sunlight poured through the windshield, casting his sharp features in a golden glow. Our eyes met, something slow and intense passing between us.
Then, I saw the bracelet on his wrist, the silver charm dangling with my initials.
Damn him.
I knew it was there, but it still sent a thrill through me every time.
“You know,” I said casually, shifting so his grip on my thigh tightened, “I keep forgetting you’re much older than me, Mr. Suarez.”
His fingers flexed. “I’m pretty sure I asked you this before, but does that ever bother you, Ms. Asher?”
Bother me? Never.
I shook my head. “No way. You’re my sexy, patient, and ambitious man.”
His honey-brown eyes flickered with something dangerous. “And you’re my beautiful, compassionate, and remarkable woman.”
The words sank into me, hot and sweet. I was blushing, I knew it.
Then his hand slid further up my thigh. Too slow. Too deliberate.
I exhaled shakily. “I love the way your hands feel on me.”
Mikkel smirked, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my skin. “I don’t think it feels as good as the way your skin does against my palm.”
Jesus.
“You always know what to say,” I muttered, pressing my thighs together.
He grinned, shifting gears without a word. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
Desperate for a distraction, I cleared my throat. “So, where are we going?”
He chuckled. “It’s a surprise, but I promise you’ll love it.”
A surprise. Of course.
With a sigh, I leaned back, surrendering myself to whatever he had planned.
The city faded behind us, the skyline softening into quiet calm. I traced patterns on his forearm, the scent of my bouquet and his cologne lingering in the car. Every so often, his thumb brushed absentmindedly over my knee, and each time, my breath hitched just a little.
Eventually, the car slowed, the sound of waves filling the space between us. I blinked, taking in the familiar setting as we pulled into Pier 84 .
The docks lay ahead, water reflecting the sunset’s last hues. Boats bobbed in the distance, salt and warmth in the air. Mikkel’s hand found mine as we strolled, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles over my skin.
And then I saw it.
Twinkling lights hung above, casting a soft amber glow over the setup—a beautifully arranged table, candles flickering, the scent of lasagna, warm bread, and herbs filling the air.
I blinked.
What the fuck?
The small details captured me—pictures strung above, each a snapshot of our time together. Moments of joy, laughter, and adventure, frozen in time. Aquarium dates, Coney Island at sunset, Dillon’s gala, lazy days tangled in sheets, FaceTime photos, the beach, the High Line, the Lana concert.
Every single one taken by him. A collection of us.
My throat tightened. “Mikkel,” I whispered, barely audible.
The moment wrapped around me like a warm embrace, and then—soft guitar chords filled the air.
“Can I Be Him” by James Arthur.
The song drifted through the night, mingling with the flickering candlelight and settling deep in my bones. My pulse thrummed as I turned to him, only to find his gaze already on me.
Adoring. Unwavering. Like I was the only thing that mattered.
“I can’t believe you went to all this trouble,” I murmured, my heart a restless flutter.
His lips curled, that dimple peeking through. “It’s never trouble to do anything for you.”
His fingers brushed against mine before he pulled out my chair with an easy, effortless grace. A gentleman. My Hispanic gentleman.
“Let’s sit.”
Dinner was lasagna, barbecue ribs, and fried rice. A strange mix, yes but it was so me. Comforting, rich, indulgent. Every so often, he reached for my hand between bites, his thumb stroking slow, absentminded circles over my skin.
“I wanted tonight to be special,” he said, his voice low, his eyes locked onto mine. That look—the one that made my stomach somersault.
I swallowed. “It already is.”
He smirked. “I’ve been planning something.”
My pulse jumped. “What is it?”
Mikkel leaned in, his scent—a mix of spice and warmth—sending a shiver down my spine. “I’ve hidden clues around here. Each one leads to a surprise.”
Intrigued, I grinned. “Like a scavenger hunt?”
“Something like that.” He tapped my nose. “And knowing you, I bet you’re dying to solve it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I followed his lead, my heart racing with each clue, anticipation growing with every discovery. He used Lana Del Rey song titles—mostly from my favorite album, Born to Die —to reveal the first letter of each word. It was perfect, and I was overwhelmed in the best way.
W ithout You
I f You Lie Down With Me
L olita
L ucky Ones
Y ayo
O ff to the Races
U ltimate
B orn to Die
E lements of Life
M illion Dollar Man
Y oung and Beautiful
G ods & Monsters
I nterlude
R adio
L ove
F reak
R id e
I n My Feelings
E ndless Summer
N ational Anthem
D ark Paradise
By the time I pieced it together, I went still. The letters formed something I wasn’t expecting.
Will you be my girlfriend?
The world tilted.
Tears shimmered in my eyes as I turned to him, my heart crashing into my ribs. He planned all of this. He did all of this.
For me.
“Yes,” I whispered, barely audible over the soft lilt of the music.
Mikkel exhaled sharply, like he had been holding his breath. Then, in one fluid motion, he pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest.
“You’ve just made me the happiest man alive, Red,” he murmured against my hair. His voice was thick, almost disbelieving.
I closed my eyes, sinking into him, into us.
Then he pulled back, reaching into his pocket. “Do you know the song Sad Eyes by James Arthur?”
I shook my head, still breathless. “Barely. Why?”
He handed me something.
A letter.
Handwritten.
My fingers trembled as I took it, heart pounding in my ears.
Mikkel didn’t just tell me how he felt.
He wrote it down.
And somehow, that meant everything .
Dear Abigail-Ann (My Red),
For someone who always finds the right words, putting my feelings on paper wasn’t easy. But I needed to write this, so when I’m not with you, you’ll have a piece of me to hold onto.
Every moment with you is a gift, and I find myself constantly thinking about the way you’ve touched my life. You remind me of the song Sad Eyes by James Arthur because it captures the beautiful complexity I see in you. I see and know how heavy life has been for you at times. You’ve endured so much, and it breaks me to know how deeply you’ve been hurt. I know the scars of your past linger, and I don’t just want to kiss them—I want to help you heal them.
I can’t promise perfection, but I can promise you this—I will always strive to be the man you deserve.
I want to be the person who dries your sad eyes. I want to share in your laughter, your joy, and even your tears. You deserve so much happiness, and I want to be a part of that—supporting you, encouraging you, proving to you that there is always light, even after the darkest of nights.
Me haces sentir como si estuviera en un sueno, mi amor. Cuando dices que estás aquí conmigo, todo lo malo se desvanece, como si tu sola presencia iluminara hasta la noche más oscura. La ansiedad se aleja, y en tu abrazo encuentro paz. Nunca imaginé que podría sentir algo tan profundo. La vida se vuelve más hermosa, más luminosa, desde que te tengo a ti. Tus ojos verdes, tan intensos, me envuelven por completo. Cuando me miras, el mundo entero desaparece, y solo existimos tú y yo.
Forever Yours,
Mikkel S.
The letter trembled in my hands, my vision blurred with tears. A sob broke free from my chest, raw and unrestrained. I pressed a palm to my lips, overwhelmed by the weight of his words, the depth of what he saw in me— what he wanted for me.
Mikkel made me feel things I had spent years yearning for. He didn’t just love me— he saw me. The little girl inside me, the one who had begged for scraps of affection. The woman I was now, unsure how to accept it. He made space for both, holding them with devotion.
Through my tears, I smiled.
“I don’t have the words to describe how happy I am.” My voice trembled, thick with emotion.
Mikkel exhaled softly, his grip tightening around my hand. “I know you’ve been through certain things in the past,” he murmured, “but I promise you, I’ll make this worth your while.”
I took a deep breath, slipping the letter carefully into my purse, as if safeguarding a sacred piece of him.
“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he whispered, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my cheek.
I let out a watery laugh. “Of all the tears I’ve shed in my lifetime, these are worth it. Mikkel, tonight. You… everything you’ve done. The bouquet. The pictures. The song titles. The letter. I’ve never… I can’t put it into words. You make my heart and soul happy.”
His expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slow, adoring smile. “I’m glad I could, mi reina . 73 ” He paused, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to my forehead.
“And before I forget,” he continued, reaching for the back of the letter, “I translated the Spanish for you.”
His voice was soft as he read aloud:
“You make me feel like I’m in a dream, my love. When you say you’re here with me, everything bad fades away, as if your presence alone brightens even the darkest moments. Anxiety recedes, and in your embrace, I find peace. I never imagined I could feel something so profound. Life becomes more beautiful, more luminous, since I have you. Your green eyes, so intense, envelop me completely. When you look at me, the whole world disappears, and only you and I exist.”
My breath hitched as his words sank into my skin, deeper than ink, deeper than memory.
I reached for him, cupping his face, and pressed a kiss to his lips—soft, slow, lingering. He exhaled into it, his hands cradling my waist as he pulled me closer.
When I pulled back, I searched his face, my heart pounding with certainty. “I never thought I could feel like this, but with you, everything feels right.”
His fingers brushed a loose curl from my cheek, his gaze warm, reverent. “You’re my dream, Red.”
The weight of his words lingered between us, heavy with unspoken desire. My pulse thrummed as I took in the way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers flexed slightly where they rested against my hip.
“I want you,” I whispered.
His brows furrowed slightly, as if deciphering my meaning.
I tilted my chin up, my gaze steady. “You heard me.”
Something flickered in his eyes—understanding, hunger, restraint fraying. The air grew thick, charged.
He brushed his lips over mine, a whisper of tenderness before urgency took hold. His hands roamed, tracing every curve as if memorizing me.
Fingers grazing my thigh, he pressed gently, drawing a soft moan he silenced with another kiss—pulling me closer, unwilling to let even a breath of space remain.
And I didn’t want there to be.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible but filled with longing.
“The first time I get to fuck you won’t be here,” he whispered.
I couldn’t convey my words and most importantly, I’ve never seen this side of Mikkel, and fuck, I was loving it.
The quiet ones always have the dirtiest mouths .
Thank God.
“Mikkel,” I whispered, my voice trembling with anticipation.
“I’ll make you cum tonight, but I’ll never fuck you for anyone to see,” he murmured, his eyes smoldering with a mix of possessiveness and desire.
“Why?”
“Because you deserve to be explored, and savored. There’s nothing quick or easy about you, mi amor .”
He slid his hand up to my sopping-wet thong and rubbed his fingers over the drenched fabric, his touch electrifying.
“This wet for me, baby?” he whispered, a devilish grin spreading across his face.
I couldn’t form the words to answer.
If he kept talking to me like that, I was gonna cum right now all over his fingers.
“Talk to me,” he whispered, kissing my neck. “Use your words, amor .”
“Y-Yes,” I stammered. “F-For you.”
Without another word, he twisted my panties in his hand and ripped it.
“Mikkel,” I panted, my eyes wide with surprise.
“ Tu cono está tan mojado , 74 ” he said, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I breathed, shivering with anticipation.
“Your pussy is so wet,” he whispered. “That’s what it means.”
With his other hand, he freed my breasts from the dress, taking my nipple into his mouth. As he rubbed between my lips, feeling the wetness there, he moaned again and nipped lightly at my nipple, sending jolts of pleasure through my body.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “ Please. ”
I moved my hand to his crotch, which felt too big to even comprehend, and wait, was that a piercing?
Did he have a fucking Jacob’s ladder ?
Mikkel groaned momentarily as I started rubbing his crotch, looking for the zipper to free it.
“Next time.” He swatted my hand. “It’s your night, mi amor .”
I couldn’t even muster the words to argue with him. I conceded, and he continued moving his finger over and around my pussy and rubbed his thumb over my clit, making me shudder.
“So fucking warm,” he whispered into my ear, and I whimpered against his mouth. “So fucking tight.”
“Mikkel,” I squealed, as he inserted two fingers inside of me.
I rocked against his fingers, a third slipping in as I trembled, holding back to savor the moment.
“Cum for me,” he whispered, and that was it. All restraint I had was gone and there I was, falling onto him, a shaking, wet mess. “Cum for me, baby.”
Thinking he was done, he pulled his fingers from my pussy and tasted it. “About to be my favorite flavor.”
“I n-need a minute.” My breathing faltered, and I was shocked out of my mind. “That was…I’ve never come that hard in my life.”
“Your ex is pathetic,” Mikkel spat, his voice low. “With pussy that addicting and a personality that great, I’d never let you leave my bed.”
I felt my cheeks heat up instantly. He was always like this—so sure, so bold—and no matter how much I tried to brush it off, his words always hit me deep.
“Never letting me leave your bed, huh?”
His eyes locked on mine, and I could feel the heat building between us. It was magnetic, the kind of tension that stole your breath without warning.
“ Exactamente . 75 ” His voice was deeper now, more dangerous. My heart started to race when his hand slid around my waist, pulling me just close enough for his breath to tickle my lips. “I can’t imagine how good your pussy will grip my cock, especially after the way it gripped my fingers,” he whispered, eyes never leaving mine.
I swallowed hard and subsequently cleared my throat. “Mikkel,” I managed to say.
He gave me that smirk—the one that always made my stomach flip. “I suppose that’s how you’ll say or rather, scream my name,” he murmured, and before I could even think of a response, his lips brushed against mine.
It was soft at first, a tease, but the impact hit me like a wave. When he pulled back, his fingers were still tracing lazy circles against my skin, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I felt like I was starving, and only he could satisfy my hunger.
I chuckled, my voice steady, though my heart was anything but. “You’re always so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
He leaned in again, this time close enough for his lips to graze my ear. “When it comes to you?” His voice dropped to a whisper that set every nerve in my body on edge. “Always.”
My body was still throbbing, pulsing with the very thought of him.
The mouth on this man was fucking unreal. He carried on as if he hadn’t just fingered me to two orgasms, tasted his fingers, and whispered the filthiest words I’d ever heard—all in one breath, without missing a beat.
After the picnic and my failed attempts at coherent conversation, we strolled hand in hand through moonlit streets. By the fountain, he kissed me—long and promising—then drove me home in comfortable silence.
At my door, he cradled my face, kissed me again, and left me utterly breathless.
“Goodnight, mi amor , 76 ” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine.
“Goodnight, baby,” I murmured, my heart swelling. “I can’t wait for more days with you.”
“Soon,” he promised, stepping back and handing me a bag. “But first, a gift, and there’s a box waiting inside for you.”
Another gift? I needed to hide his credit cards.
I took the bag, noticing the unexpected weight. “What’s inside?”
He smirked, stealing another quick kiss. “You’ll see.”
Curiosity bubbled up, but I let him go, watching as he walked to the elevator. With a deep breath, I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. I barely made it to the sofa before collapsing onto it, hugging the pillow he’d given me as a giddy little squeal escaped.
“He used Lana song titles,” I whispered to myself, clutching the pillow tighter.
Then my eyes landed on the massive box sitting in the middle of my living room.
How the hell had he even gotten that up here?
I scrambled to the kitchen for scissors, heart pounding with anticipation. When I opened it, I froze.
Weighted blankets.
He bought me twenty fucking weighted blankets.
Lifting the first one out, a small note fluttered to the floor. I bent down to pick it up, hands trembling slightly.
Weighted blankets help with anxiety (so I read), and I hope these help you.
I got different colors (twenty to be exact), so if one gets dirty, you’ll always have another. They’re also pre-washed and range from 15-20 pounds.
~Tu novio 77 .
My throat tightened. I squeezed the blanket to my chest, its weight comforting me in ways he already knew I needed.
Swallowing hard, I grabbed the bag he’d given me earlier—and what the fuck?
Inside were self-help books, each one meticulously tabbed, notes peeking from the pages. I stared in disbelief before pulling out another note resting on top of the stack. His familiar scrawl made my chest ache.
My handwriting is awful, I know, but I made notes and annotations just for you. At the front of each book, there’s a sheet with the sections I picked out. These helped me, and they’re still helping me help you. I hope they help you help yourself.
~Tu novio.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.
It was pointless. I sobbed.
A choked sound left me as I opened the first book. His handwriting was everywhere—small notes in the margins, underlined passages, carefully highlighted sentences.
He read them. He read them for me.
And he hadn’t just read them—he had taken the time to pick out things he thought would help. How to breathe through anxiety. How to be kinder to myself. How to embrace my body as it is.
The thoughtfulness of it overwhelmed me. The weight of his care settled over me as surely as the blanket I still clutched. He wasn’t just loving me—he was helping me love myself.
A fresh wave of tears threatened to spill over. Sniffling, I reached for my phone with shaky fingers and typed out a message.
Me: I know you’re probably driving, but I couldn’t wait to say thank you. The blankets are amazing. I’m going through the books now, and I can’t even begin to explain how much this means to me. You’re amazing.
I set my phone down, hugging the books to my chest, breathing in deep. He understood me in ways I hadn’t even thought possible.
Moments later, my screen lit up .
S: I’m glad you love them, mi amor. Sleep well, beautiful.
I smiled, wiping at my damp cheeks. I would.