Chapter 32
Camille
Iopen my refrigerator and stare at its meager contents. I have half a bag of pasta, some frozen shrimp, and a lemon that's seen better days. But it's either this or takeout, and something in me wants to cook for him, to create something with my own hands rather than dial for delivery.
"I hope you like pasta," I say, pulling out the ingredients and setting them on the counter. "It's pretty much all I have."
Alexander moves closer, his presence filling the small kitchen. "I like anything you make."
The simple statement shouldn't affect me, but it does. I busy myself with finding a pot, filling it with water, avoiding his eyes.
"May I help?" he asks, rolling up his sleeves. The gesture exposes his tanned, muscular forearms and I have to force myself to look away.
"You can thaw the shrimp," I tell him, nodding toward the sink. "Tepid water works fastest."
He follows my instructions without hesitating, this man who probably hasn't prepared his own food in years. There's something surreal about Alexander Kingsley standing at my sink, carefully placing frozen shrimp in a colander under running water.
We work in surprisingly comfortable silence—me chopping garlic, him checking the shrimp every few minutes. The water boils, and I add the pasta, then grab olive oil and red pepper flakes from the cabinet.
"I didn't know you could cook," he says as I melt butter in a pan for the shrimp.
"There's a lot you don't know about me." The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them with a small smile. "But yes, I can make basic things. My mom was more into social events than family dinners, so I taught myself."
Alexander nods, watching as I take the thawed shrimp from him, pat them dry, and add them to the sizzling butter. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and shellfish, making my stomach growl audibly. Alexander's follows suit, and we both laugh, the sound breaking the tension between us.
"Sounds like we're both starving," I say, stirring the shrimp as they turn pink.
"I skipped lunch," he admits. "Too nervous about seeing you."
The confession surprises me—Alexander Kingsley, nervous? About me? I look at him over my shoulder and find him watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher.
When everything's ready, I divide the pasta between two plates, topping each with the garlicky shrimp and the small amount of parmesan cheese I found in the back of the refrigerator. It's not fancy, but it smells delicious.
We sit at my small dining table, knees almost touching in the limited space. Alexander takes a bite and closes his eyes briefly.
"This is excellent," he says, sounding genuinely pleased. "Thank you."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, both too hungry for conversation. I watch him from beneath my lashes—the precise way he twirls pasta onto his fork, the strong line of his jaw as he chews. He's still the most beautiful man I've ever seen. That hasn't changed.
"Have you thought about names?" Alexander asks suddenly. "For the baby?"
I set down my fork. "A little bit."
Alexander nods, his expression thoughtful. "I've been thinking about it. Since the appointment. Hearing that heartbeat..." He trails off, something vulnerable crossing his face.
"What names do you like?" I ask, super curious to hear his answer.
"For a girl, I thought maybe Ivy." His voice is soft, hesitant. "It was my grandmother's name. She was the only person in my family who showed me any real affection."
We haven’t talked about his family before. It strikes me how little I actually know about his past, despite the intensity of what we shared.
"Ivy," I repeat. "It's pretty. Kind of unusual."
"What about you?" he asks. "Any favorites?"
I shrug, twirling pasta around my fork. "I like Olivia for a girl. And maybe Lucas for a boy? But I'm open to anything really."
"Lucas." He tests the name, nodding slowly. "I like that."
We finish our meal and push the empty plates aside but neither of us move to clear them.
"I need to tell you something," Alexander says, his voice dropping lower. "About why I reacted the way I did when I found out about the baby."
I tense slightly, bracing myself.
"I've always been afraid of having children," he continues. "Terrified, actually. My father was..." He pauses, jaw clenching briefly. "He wasn't a good man, or a good father. I've always worried I'd be the same."
I stay silent, giving him space to continue.
"When I was twenty-five, a woman I was seeing got pregnant." His eyes are fixed somewhere over my shoulder, seeing the past. "I panicked at first. Completely shut down. But then something changed in me, and I started to think maybe it could work. That maybe I could be different from my father."
He takes a deep breath, fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"She had an abortion. Without telling me first." His voice catches slightly. "I only found out after it was done. And I was... devastated. Which surprised me, because I'd been so scared initially. But I realized I had actually started to want that baby."
Alexander's eyes meet mine, and I'm startled to see them shining with unshed tears. "When you told me about the baby, I got very controlling and I’m well aware of that. It was because I wanted it too much, and that terrified me."
The raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his expression—it's like seeing a completely different man from the cold, controlled Alexander who broke things off months ago.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "For that. And for making you think you had to do this alone."
I reach across the table, covering his large warm hand with mine. "You're here now," I say. "That's what matters."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. The simple connection sends warmth spreading through my chest. We sit there in the quiet of my kitchen, holding hands across the table, neither of us ready to break the moment.
The kitchen clock reads almost nine when Alexander finally stands, stretching his long frame.
We've been talking for hours, clearing the dishes long ago but continuing our conversation at the table, words flowing more easily between us than I ever imagined they could.
He looks down at me, his expression soft.
"I should go," he says, his voice low. "You need your sleep, Camille."
He says my name differently now—not clipped and precise like before, but with a gentleness that makes something flutter in my chest. I nod, rising from my chair, suddenly aware of how close we're standing in my small kitchen.
"Thank you for dinner," he continues. "And for listening."
"Thank you for telling me," I reply, meaning it. The story about his past, his vulnerability—it's changed the balance between us in ways I'm still processing.
He moves toward the door, and I follow, our bodies navigating the narrow hallway with careful distance. At the entryway, he turns to face me, hesitating.
"Can I give you a hug?" he asks, and the request—so unlike the Alexander who once took whatever he wanted without asking—makes my throat tight.
I nod, and he steps forward, arms encircling me with surprising gentleness. I let myself lean against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. His hand moves to stroke my hair, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
The gesture is so tender, so at odds with the demanding, dominant man I first knew, that I find myself looking up at him in wonder. Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. All my careful plans—to take things slow, to think everything through—evaporate in the heat of his gaze.
I rise onto my tiptoes, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, and press my lips to his.
For a heartbeat, he remains still, as if afraid to break the spell.
Then his arms tighten around me, and he kisses me back with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
His tongue slides along my lips, and I open to him without hesitation.
My body remembers this—remembers him—in ways my mind has tried to forget.
"Camille," he breathes against my mouth.
I answer by pressing closer, my fingers tangling in his hair. Something primal and hungry awakens in him; he backs me against the wall, his body pinning mine, his mouth devouring me.
"Alex," I gasp between kisses. "I need you."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, checking that I'm certain. I am. Whatever rational thoughts I had about proceeding with caution, have been swept away by the tide of want crashing through me.
Alexander lifts me in one smooth motion, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me down the hallway. His mouth never leaves mine, his kisses turning from desperate to deliberate, as if he's savoring what he thought he'd lost.
In my bedroom, he sets me on my feet with surprising gentleness. His hands move to the hem of my dress, a question in his eyes. I nod, and he pulls it over my head, leaving me standing in just my underwear.
"God, look at you," he whispers, his gaze traveling over my body, lingering on the swell of my stomach. He drops to his knees, pressing his lips to the place where our child grows. The tenderness of the gesture brings tears to my eyes.
Then his hands are on my hips, his mouth trailing upward, and tenderness gives way to hunger. I reach for his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helps me, fingers making quick work of buttons, then stands to remove his pants.
He comes to me, lifting me onto the bed and following me down, his body covering mine carefully so not to hurt me or the baby. "You're mine," he breathes against my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "You always will be."
The words should feel possessive, maybe even alarming given our complicated situation. But in this moment, they're exactly what I need to hear—a claiming that goes both ways, because he is also mine, has always been mine, even when we were apart.
"I need you so fucking bad right now," he groans, his hand sliding between my thighs, finding me wet and ready for him.
I arch into his touch, desperate for more. "Please, Alex."
He positions himself between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against me. Our eyes lock as he pushes forward, filling me inch by exquisite inch. The stretch of him inside me feels like coming home.
"You take my cock so well," he murmurs, his hips beginning a rhythm that makes my eyes roll back. "So perfect for me."
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, my hands gripping his shoulders as pleasure builds with each thrust. He watches my face, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes me gasp.
"Fuck. Yes," he encourages, increasing his pace. "I won't ever be without you again, Camille."
The emotional weight of his words combines with the physical pleasure, pushing me closer to the edge. His hand slips between us, his thumb finding my clit.
"I'm going to make you come so hard, baby," he promises, his voice rough with exertion and need.
My nails dig into his back. My hips buck against his. And then my orgasm hits with stunning force, my body clenching around him as I call out his name.
“Good girl. You’re such a good fucking girl.”
He comes moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep inside me, moaning and shuddering.
We collapse together, his weight carefully held off my stomach, his face buried against my neck. For a minute, there's nothing but our shared breathing gradually slowing. He shifts to my side, one arm protectively draped over me, his hand splayed across my stomach.
Pure unexpected happiness washes over me. I've missed him—missed this—more than I allowed myself to acknowledge. The connection between us was explosive, undeniable, even when everything else seemed impossibly complicated.
"I've missed you," he whispers, echoing my thoughts. "Every day."
I turn to face him, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "I missed you too."
There are still conversations to be had, arrangements to be made. Julian and Tristan are still very much part of my life, my heart. But in this moment, I feel only a strange sense of rightness, as if pieces are finally falling into place.
"What are you thinking?" Alexander asks, his fingers stroking my bare shoulder.
"All of this is going to be interesting," I reply honestly. "But also rich and sweet and full."
He nods, understanding all I'm not saying—about Julian and Tristan, about our arrangement. "As long as I'm with you, I can handle all of it."
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow, dark hair falling forward in a boyish tangle that softens his whole face. The shadows from the hallway light carve his cheekbones into sharp contrasts, but his eyes—god, those eyes—are so intense it almost hurts to look straight into them.
"I don’t want you to ever do this alone," he says. "I still don’t know how to be what you need, but I will keep working on it until I get it right."
There's something in his voice, in the way he fixes his gaze on me, that leaves no room for doubt. “I love you, Camille,” he says. The words are sudden and absolute. “You and this baby.” He swallows, jaw stubborn. “And I promise you I will never stop.”
Tears sting my eyes as the words crash through me, stripping away the last of my defenses. “I love you too.”
His mouth covers mine hungrily, but it's not the desperate kind of kiss from earlier. Warmth unspools in my chest, a soft steady glow. God, I am so damn gone for this man.
I curl closer to him, my head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I close my eyes, savoring the moment. Tomorrow will bring complications, discussions, maybe even disagreements. But tonight, wrapped in Alexander's arms, I feel impossibly, improbably complete.