Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DOMHNALL
My fingertips trace the curve of Anna's spine as morning light spills across our bed, painting her skin golden.
She's finally fallen into a deep sleep after days of restlessness, not that she'll talk to me about what's bothering her, and her breathing is soft and even against my chest. I should be getting up, heading to the office, but I can't bear to break this moment of peace, this fragile intimacy.
I'm trying to take care of her the best I can, but I'm worried.
I can't help it. I feel like I'm failing her, but I don't know how.
I can't know anything when she won't talk to me.
Only in sleep does she look at peace, lips parting slightly with each breath.
In these quiet moments, she looks unburdened, untouched by the shadows that seem to haunt her waking hours lately.
Reluctantly, I slide from beneath her, careful not to wake her.
She murmurs something unintelligible, her hand reaching reflexively for the space I've just vacated, and my heart constricts.
Even in sleep, she seeks me out, as if some part of her is afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the sweet honeysuckle scent of her hair, before forcing myself to leave the warmth of our bed.
She's still sleeping when I finish showering, her body curled into a tight ball beneath the blankets.
I sit on the edge of the bed, unable to resist touching her, my fingers gently brushing a stray curl from her forehead.
I want to crawl back into bed, to wrap myself around her and shut out the world, but duty calls.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, she's up, swaying barefoot at the stove as she flips pancakes, humming under her breath.
The morning sunlight catches in her hair, turning it to liquid fire, and my breath hitches.
She's wearing one of my T-shirts, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, and even after all this time, the sight of her in my clothes undoes me completely.
I move behind her, sliding my arms around her waist, burying my face in the curve where her shoulder meets her neck. She jumps slightly—she's been jumpy these past few days, strung tight as a bow—but then melts back against me.
"Morning, love," I murmur against her skin, pressing a lingering kiss to that sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Morning," she breathes, tilting her head to give me better access. "You're gonna make me burn the pancakes."
"Worth it," I growl playfully, nipping gently at her earlobe.
She laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. God, I've missed that laugh. She's been so tense lately, carrying some invisible weight I can't quite see or understand. But now, as she turns in my arms, spatula still in hand, her eyes meet mine with a spark of the old mischief.
"Behave yourself, Mr. Callaghan," she scolds, but there's no heat in it. Just that sweet, teasing lilt that makes me want to sweep everything off the counter and take her right here in our sun-drenched kitchen. It's been too long since our bodies connected.
But I know it's just an animal impulse that has me wanting to fuck to clear away the last of her distant mood. As if my reptile brain won't be sure everything's really all right until I've got her pussy clenching around me in welcome, milking me free of every last drop of cum.
I steal a quick, hard kiss instead, savoring the way she sighs against my mouth and the way her free hand curls into the fabric of my shirt like she's anchoring herself to me.
Patience, I order myself, pulling back.
"Sleep well?" I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb lingering to trace the curve of her cheekbone.
Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps. "Like a dream," she says, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
She's lying, and we both know it. I heard her pacing the bedroom last night after she thought I was asleep.
And the night before, I woke at three in the morning to find her side of the bed empty, only to discover her in the living room, staring out the window with a can of Red Bull clutched in her hand.
But I don't press or ask all the questions burning on my tongue.
We've developed a careful dance over the months, each of us knowing when to push and when to give space.
This feels like space time. So instead, I just hold her a moment longer, trying to pour all my love and support into the simple touch of skin on skin.
"Any plans for today?" I reluctantly release her to go pour myself coffee. But I stay close, unwilling to break the connection completely.
She turns back to the stove, rescuing a slightly singed pancake. "Just some reading. Maybe a walk if the weather holds."
I move behind her again, unable to resist the magnetic pull of her ass.
My arms slide around her waist, drawing her back against my chest. She fits perfectly against me, like she was made for this space.
Made for me. I breathe in the scent of her—vanilla and something sharper beneath, like electricity—and fight the urge to call in sick and spend the day rediscovering every inch of her body, reminding her with every touch how deeply she's loved.
Even if it's only massaging touches with clothes strictly on. I feel starved for her.
"I could come home early," I suggest, my voice roughening with the images playing through my mind. "We could do something together."
She just laughs and dances away again. "Breakfast's ready."
The workday drags like a wound being stitched without anesthetic. I check my phone between every meeting, hungry for any connection with Anna. By mid-afternoon, I've nearly worn a path in the carpet from pacing during calls, restless with the need to be home and have her in my arms.
I try calling her around lunch, but it goes straight to voicemail. I listen to her recorded voice—"Hi, you've reached Anna, leave a message!"—just to hear her and bridge the aching distance in any way I can.
DOMHNALL: Thinking of you. Hope you're having a good day
I text, wishing words could capture the depth of what I feel, the constant pull she exerts on me.
She responds almost immediately:
ANNA: All good here! See you at 7!
A heart emoji. Something so small shouldn't send such pleasure coursing through me, but it does. Sometimes I think I'd tear the world apart just to keep that heart beating, to keep her sending me these tiny digital tokens of affection. I've been such a lonely fuck for so goddamn long.
I abandon any pretense of productivity around six. My assistant raises an eyebrow as I sweep past her desk.
"Hot date?" she calls after me.
"Something like that," I reply, already halfway to the elevator.
I stop for Thai food—the spicy curry Anna loves but can never finish, so I get to eat the leftovers—and pull into our driveway with my heart already beating faster at the thought of seeing her.
Pathetic, maybe, how after all this time, she still affects me like this—like a teenager with his first crush, not a grown man who's seen the darkest corners of the world.
But that's the magic of her, isn't it? She makes me forget all that darkness and feel whole again.
The house is unnaturally quiet when I enter, every surface gleaming like she's been scrubbing for hours.
I find her curled on the couch, face peaceful in sleep, one arm thrown above her head in a gesture of complete surrender.
An empty Red Bull can sits on the coffee table beside her—her third today, if the recycling bin is any indication.
I set the food down and move to her side, unable to resist touching her.
I trace the curve of her cheekbone with my fingertip, marveling as I always do at how soft her skin is, how perfectly she's made.
My chest aches with the force of what I feel for her—this fierce, consuming love that's reshaped me from the inside out.
"Anna," I murmur, brushing my lips against her forehead. "Wake up, love. I've brought dinner."
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then locking on mine with startling intensity. For a heartbeat, she looks almost afraid, like she's expecting someone else.
"Domhnall," she breathes, my name a prayer on her lips. "What time is it?"
"Just after seven," I say, smiling down at her. "You were dead to the world."
She sits up too quickly, pulling away from my touch, her movements jerky with tension. "I—I didn't mean to fall asleep." There's panic in her voice, a tremor I can't quite understand.
"It's alright," I soothe, catching her hands in mine. "You clearly needed the rest."
She stares at our joined hands, then back at my face, her expression shifting from confusion to something else entirely—a dawning wonder, as if she's seeing the sun for the first time after years of darkness.
"Anna?" I prompt gently, squeezing her fingers. "What is it?"
A slow smile blooms across her face—dazzling in its intensity, transforming her features into something luminous. "Nothing," she says, and her voice is breathless, almost giddy. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just... I'm here."
Before I can say anything more, she launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck with such force that we both tumble backwards onto the plush carpet.
She lands on top of me, her weight a perfect anchor.
Her body fits against mine like it was sculpted for this purpose alone.
Her scent surrounds me—vanilla and sleep-warmth and something uniquely her—and I feel myself drowning in it, in her.
"I love you," she says fiercely, her hands framing my face, her eyes liquid with emotion. "I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes."
The raw honesty in her voice steals my breath. I reach up to trace the delicate arch of her eyebrow, the slope of her nose, the full curve of her lower lip—committing each detail to memory all over again, as if I haven't already mapped every inch of her with my hands and my mouth and my heart.