26. Reece
Reece
I ’ve built empires. Negotiated billion-dollar mergers in glass towers overlooking cities most people never step foot in. I know how to plan. How to play the long game. How to make men twice my size flinch with a single look.
But I’ve never done this. I’ve never courted a woman. Never had to.
With Lauren, it just happened. We were young. We grew up together. One minute we were sharing textbooks and milkshakes, and the next, she was pregnant with Archer and we were picking out cribs and fighting about curtain colors.
And after she died… there was nothing. Nothing I wanted. Nothing I let myself want. Until Skye. And now I’m not just trying to win her back. I’m trying to become the kind of man who deserves her.
Which means slowing down. Showing up. Speaking her language, not mine.
I think about the way she looked at me across that table, guarded but open. Brave and still slightly breakable. A woman standing on the edge of forgiveness but refusing to jump without proof.
She said, woo me. So that’s what I’ll do. Not with diamonds or dinners that cost more than rent. With details. With intention. With the things that say, I see you. I know you. I remember every single thing about you.
I sit at my desk that night and open a new file. Not a spreadsheet. Not a proposal. A plan. Her favorite coffee order: iced latte, half oat milk, half almond, light ice, one raw sugar. The way she hums Rihanna when she’s focused.
Skye doesn’t want grand. She wants real. And I’ve got real in spades. It’s the one thing I never let anyone else see. Until her. I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, heart pounding harder than it should.
This isn’t a business strategy. This is a love story. And I’m all fucking in.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting the city hum fade beneath me. And she’s there.
Not the polite, guarded assistant who walked into my office that first day—but the version of her that lives in my head all the damn time. The one from that night in my home office.
Skye’s in my apartment, barefoot and smiling, one of my T-shirts hanging off her shoulders, the hem barely covering her black lace panties. Her hair is a mess from my hands. Her lips are kiss-swollen from the way I dragged her across my bed less than an hour ago.
I tell myself I’m going to get work done—just an hour at my desk. She tilts her head and smiles, that troublemaker smile that makes my fingers twitch with a desire to reach out and kiss it off of her lips.
“Don’t mind me,” she says, padding into my office like she owns it. “I’ll just keep you company.”
She drops onto the rug in front of my desk, folding her legs beneath her like a damn temptation. Then she pulls papers and sketchboards out of her bag, spreading them across my coffee table. My T-shirt slips off one shoulder as she leans forward, completely oblivious to the way my focus fractures.
I can’t not watch her.
The scratch of her pencil is the only sound in the room besides the city outside the window. Her tongue peeks out when she’s concentrating, and my chest tightens, because this version of her feels unguarded… vulnerable and I have no fucking right to be witnessing it.
“What’s all this?” I ask finally, my voice lower than I intend.
She glances up, a little sheepish. “Just ideas. I saw this boutique hotel in Aspen online and… I don’t know. I wanted to see if I could still do it. I miss creating.”
I leave my desk and crouch beside her, picking up one of the mock-ups. Black-and-white photography. A streak of warm gold pulling the eye. The tagline in clean, confident letters: Breathe. Stay. Belong.
I trace the edge of the page with my thumb. “You should be doing this. Not running my calendar. This—” I gesture to the work she’s scattered around herself—“this is what you’re meant for.”
Her eyes find mine, wide and vulnerable. A flush creeps up her neck.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers trailing down her throat. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath.
Then she leans in, kissing me softly, like she believes me.
Her laugh is still in my chest as I pin her to the rug, her mock-ups fanning out around us like a halo.
The T-shirt she’s wearing has ridden up to her waist, baring the lace between her thighs. I hook my finger under the edge and trace along the heat of her, slow enough to make her whimper.
“Fuck,” I breathe, drinking her in. “Do you even know how wet you are for me right now?”
Her hips twitch. “Then do something about it.”
That spark, defiant and needy, snaps whatever restraint I had left. I tear the lace down her legs, drop it somewhere on the rug, and spread her open for me.
“Perfect,” I mutter, settling between her thighs. I drag the flat of my tongue through her slick heat, slow and deliberate, circling her clit before sucking lightly. She gasps, one hand flying to my hair, the other digging into the rug.
“Reece… oh my God…”
I pin her hips down with one arm and keep going, alternating between deep strokes and teasing flicks, learning what makes her tremble, what makes her gasp like she’s seconds from breaking.
Her taste is addictive, sweet and delicious, the sound of her falling apart under my mouth is better than any sin I’ve ever committed.
“Don’t stop,” she pants, her voice rough and desperate.
I slide a finger inside her, then another, curling just right, and she arches off the rug. Her thighs shake against my shoulders, her breathing jagged and frantic.
“Yeah,” I rasp against her clit. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel how bad you need it.”
She shudders hard, climax tearing through her, slick and pulsing around my fingers. I keep licking her through it, slower now, until she’s whimpering and pushing weakly at my head.
I rise, chest heaving, and crawl up her body, kissing her hard as I press her into the rug. Her T-shirt’s bunched under her breasts, her hair spread across the floor, the papers of her mock-up campaign half crumpled under her elbow.
When I slide into her, it’s one long, hard thrust, and we both groan at the stretch and heat.
“God, you feel so good filling me,” she moans, legs locking around my waist.
I start slow, savoring the way she grips me, then harder when she whimpers and digs her nails into my back. Every shift of her hips drags me deeper, wet heat and the sound of our bodies slamming together filling the room.
“Reece…” she cries, her voice cracking as her second orgasm hits, her body clenching around me so tight I nearly lose it.
I bury my face in her neck, driving into her harder, faster, chasing the edge until it slams into me, white-hot and all-consuming.
I groan against her skin as I spill inside her, holding her through the aftershocks until all that’s left is the sound of our ragged breathing and the hum of the city outside the window.
I don’t move for a moment. I just feel her heart pounding against mine, smell the faint trace of her perfume and sweat, see her designs scattered around us like proof she’s meant for more than anyone’s shadow.
The memory fades, leaving me alone, hard and aching, desperate to get her back and never let her go.
The first delivery arrives Monday morning. I track it myself. Watch the driver’s route tick closer. 0.4 miles away. 0.2. Arrived. The text confirmation hits my phone at 8:42 a.m.
Your order has been delivered.
I picture her face when she opens the door. Her hair pulled back, still damp from the shower. The sleepy confusion in her eyes when she sees the iced latte—half oat, half almond, light ice, one raw sugar—waiting on her welcome mat with a handwritten note taped to the carrier.
Thought your Monday deserved an upgrade.
–R
No flowers. No fanfare. Just her coffee. Exactly the way she orders it. I don’t hear from her that day. Not even a text. But I don’t need to. I know her.
She read the note. She sipped the drink. She probably rolled her eyes, smirked, and muttered something like unbelievable under her breath.
Wednesday night, I send the song. “Love on the Brain” by Rihanna. I remember the way she swore it followed her everywhere. Grocery stores. Laundromats. Her last breakup.
She said it like a joke. But the ache in her voice told me it wasn’t. Now it’s following me. Everywhere. I text her the link with a simple message.
Me: Still following me. Just like you.
She doesn’t reply. But I see the read receipt.
Friday morning, the groceries arrive. Just a week’s worth of her staples: coconut yogurt, sourdough bread, oat milk, that overpriced vegan mac and cheese she swears is “basically therapy.” Even the weird protein bars she thinks taste like candy but smell like cardboard.
Everything bagged and delivered with zero fanfare. There’s a note tucked between the almond butter and the raspberries.
You once told me your fridge made you sad. Thought I ’ d help with that.
–R
Still nothing. But I’m not discouraged.
The gym membership is next.
I call the place she used to love, the one she had to cancel when she got laid off and said she couldn’t afford it any longer. I don’t ask for anything elaborate. Just a quiet reactivation and a note added to her account:
Paid in full. No expiration. Courtesy of a man who listens.
The peonies arrive on Sunday. Not roses. She said they were trying too hard. No apology card. No dramatic message. Just her favorite flower in her favorite shade. Soft. Beautiful. Intentional. Like her.
By the time the week ends, I’m a wreck. Not because she’s ignoring me. But because I’m feeling again.
Every day without her touch is a quiet burn beneath my skin. Every gesture I send feels like a piece of me placed gently at her feet with nothing but hope.
I’m learning what it means to earn someone. Not because I want the win. But because I want her. Not hidden. Not broken. Not stolen in the dark. But whole. And mine. And willing.
I don’t know if I’ve done enough yet. But I know I’ll keep going.