Chapter Eleven #2
He loosens the belt of my robe, and I shiver as the fabric falls open and falls to the floor. His hands slide down my spine, slick with oil, kneading and stroking every inch of my body until every sharp edge I've been carrying rounds off.
"Breathe," he murmurs, pressing oils into my skin, rolling his fingers over my hips, palming my breasts. "Relax. Let go."
I do. I let go of Chicago and Mother and Maxwell and the ticking clock that says I have to leave tomorrow. I let go of everything except the feel of his hands on my skin and the warmth of the fire and the sound of his voice telling me I'm safe.
When he finally turns me over, his eyes are dark with want.
"Better?" he asks, still moving slick hands over my silky body.
"So much better."
He kisses down my sternum, my ribs, my stomach. Then he kneels, pulling me to the edge of the table, looking over my bare body like he's been waiting his whole life for someone to worship like this.
"Chase—"
"Shhhh…" His mouth finds my pebbled nipple, and I stop laughing when he swirls a tongue around it. "That's it. Just relax while I make you feel so damn good."
His mouth trails lower, a hot brand against my skin, until he's spreading me open with oil-slick fingers.
"So perfect," he murmurs, his breath cool over my slick folds. "So fucking wet for me already."
Then his tongue parts me.
I cry out, back arching off the table as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe from entrance to clit. The sensation is electric. The rough heat of his tongue against my sensitive flesh, the slide of oil, his thumbs pressing into the crease of my thighs, still massaging and working my tension out.
"Oh, Chase…" I moan his name, urging him on.
He hums against me, licking me deeper this time, circling my clit with slow circles of his tongue. My hips jerk, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Please—"
He groans, low and approving, and sucks my clit into his mouth.
I start to tremble, my fingers scrabbling at the edge of the massage table as he devours my pussy. One hand slides up my stomach to tease my nipple, pinching, rolling, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
Then his other hand drifts lower. Oil-slick fingers trace the curve of my ass, circling. One presses lightly against my back hole and I moan deeply.
"Oh god—" My voice breaks. "Don't stop."
The pressure is insistent but careful, just a firm touch sliding over the nerves as his tongue flicks rapidly over my clit.
Every nerve ending feels alive, singing with pleasure. The dual stimulation of his mouth on my clit and his finger pressing on my ass sends shockwaves through me.
I'm hurtling toward the edge, tension coiling unbearably tight. Then he slides a finger inside me, just the tip in my tight hole, and I shatter.
I scream, back bowing, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure rips through me. He rides it with me, tongue relentless, finger pressing just right until the waves subside into trembling aftershocks.
Slowly, gently, he eases off, lips brushing my inner thigh.
His chin glistens with my release and when he looks up at me with those sexy eyes, they say I would do this every day if you let me.
I break apart inside. Because that's the moment I feel it.
I'm falling for him.
The thought crashes through me like the waterfall after I jumped, freezing cold and exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
This was supposed to be casual. Weekends only. No strings. No feelings.
But I'm totally and utterly falling for him.
He kisses me through the aftershocks, tasting like me, and then he scoops me up and carries me toward the deck without so much as a warning.
"What are you doing?" I giggle, wobbly and still riding my orgasmic high.
"The full Fox Hollow experience. Hot tub under the stars with champagne."
He sets me down on the deck, and the mountain air hits my naked skin like a crisp slap of reality. I yelp, nipples still standing at attention, though for a completely different reason.
"Cold, cold, cold—"
"Get in, baby."
I practically dive into the hot tub, sinking into water that's perfectly heated. Chase follows with all his muscles and that stupid sexy grin flashing in the moonlight.
He reaches over to press a button and the jets roar to life.
"Oh my god." I moan as the bubbles pummel my well-used muscles. "This is better than sex."
He arches a brow. "Um, excuse me."
"Okay, fine. Tied with sex."
Steam rises into the cold mountain air, and the stars are thick overhead, I can't help but try to count them. Candle lanterns glow along the deck railing, and the pines rising up the mountain stand like silent soldiers against the sky.
Chase settles me against his chest, and I let my head fall to his shoulder.
"This place is magic," I murmur.
"Yeah." Chase's fingers trail up and down my arm. "It is."
"And still, I'm counting hours until I have to leave." I sigh into the night. "I hate that."
"Then count from the other end." His lips brush my temple. "Not hours till you go—hours till you come back."
I huff a laugh and shake my head. "How do you do it? How did you get to be like this, Chase? Why are you always so… Mr. Brightside?"
He's quiet for a moment, but then I feel him shrug and when he speaks, his voice is unusually low and careful.
"I wasn't always like it."
I wait, because there's more where that came from.
"When I was nineteen, I enlisted in the Army." He says it like he's confessing a crime. "Thought I'd prove myself. Become the kind of man my dad never was. Be the man of the house that Mom deserved."
My heart squeezes. "What happened?"
"I washed out. Eight weeks into basic training." His laugh is bitter. "Combination of anxiety, homesickness, and a training injury. They discharged me, and I felt like… like I'd confirmed every fear I had about not being strong enough to be a true hero. Tough enough. Just… enough."
I turn in his arms, searching his face. "Chase—"
"After that, my mom remarried. Some German businessman she met online. She moved to Germany and took my little sister, Lily. She left me with a choice: come with them or stay in America."
"What did you do?"
"I stayed. Told myself I was being mature. Independent. That I could prove her wrong, and maybe she would come back."
He swallows hard.
The pieces click into place—the gummy bears, the fierce loyalty to his team, the way he lights up when someone needs him.
"Lily sends me those gummy bears," he continues, voice softer now. "Every few months. It's the only connection I have left to her. To any of them."
"That's why you carry them everywhere?"
He nods. "I'm not always alone then. She's still with me."
I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Chase, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He covers my hand with his. "It taught me something. That the people who matter, the ones who choose to stay, they're worth holding onto. And the ones who leave? That's on them, not me."
I think about my own life… the penthouse cage, the constant performance, the way I've spent twenty-nine years trying to earn love that should have been freely given.
He's had real struggles. Loss and rejection and failure. And yet, he can just… live. He's relaxed, present, never flustered despite carrying around heartache that would break most people forever.
He carries around gummy bears, for god's sake.
"When I'm here," I whisper, "When I'm with you, I forget to perform. To keep up the act I've always put on."
His arms tighten around me. "And how does that feel?"
"It's nice. Like for once… I'm in control."
"Then let's just enjoy tonight."
He kisses the top of my head, and deep down, it's not a solution. I know that.
It doesn't fix the fact that I have to get on a plane tomorrow, or that my mother will be waiting with another suitable candidate so I can access my trust fund, or that Chicago feels like a prison I've built for myself because I've been too scared to stand up to my parents.
But at least now, it feels… survivable. Like a trail with a headlamp instead of a cliff edge.
That's who this man is to me: a headlamp. A compass that points to the right direction.
Much later, we towel off and stumble back inside, drunk on stars and champagne and each other. We fall into bed, and he worships every inch of me until I'm shaking and spent and so full of him.
By midnight, the cabin is quiet, just the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of his breathing. I lie awake on his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his sternum with my fingertip.
Always, I write. Over and over.
My phone sits face-down on the nightstand, an alarm silenced that I don't want to acknowledge.
I whisper to the dark, testing the words. "This is the last time I dread Sunday."
I don't know how I'll make that true yet. I just know I want to.
His fingers tighten at my hip like he heard me in his sleep, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
For now, that's enough.