Chapter 58
Ispent most of the day watching Ansel and Nadine interact in a sweet, familial way that left an ache in my chest. I never felt like I missed out because my mother left… But it was different to see such a loving connection between them.
Later, after Nadine had gone to bed and the house was quiet again, Ansel found me in the guest room.
I hadn’t bothered changing. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in his t-shirt, knees drawn up, still carrying the weight of that conversation. Still carrying the way he’d touched me like I was precious. Like he meant it.
He stepped into the doorway, backlit by the hallway lamp.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he said softly.
“What?” The word punched out of me quickly. All I could do was look at him. At the way his eyes searched my face like he already knew what I needed and was terrified of overstepping.
“Ansel. I don’t want you too,” I whispered.
Silence. Nothing. And then, “Are you sure?”
I nodded. My throat was tight. “I want you near. I want you here. ”
That was all it took.
He crossed the room in three long strides, and when he sat beside me, I folded into him without thinking. One of his arms came around my back. The other cupped the nape of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair.
We stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing.
Then I tilted my face toward him — and he was there, already watching me. My heart stuttered. My lips parted.
He kissed me like it was inevitable.
Like we’d both been waiting for this moment, and every moment before it had only been prelude. Soft at first. Careful. But when I made a sound in the back of my throat — something cracked open.
His hand slid along my jaw, then down my side. He kissed me deeper. Hungrier. Still gentle, but with this aching restraint, like he didn’t want to break me. Like he was trying to give instead of take.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips.
“Don’t you dare.”
His hands stilled.
“I need you to mean it, Juniper.”
I opened my eyes. Found his, dark and wild and so, so loving. “I mean it,” I breathed. “I’m sure.”
His forehead dropped to mine, and he exhaled hard — like he’d been holding back forever. And then he kissed me again.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was deep, slow, and impossibly warm. His mouth moved with purpose, coaxing mine open, letting me taste him in unhurried pulls that made my knees weak.
He framed my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones like he was afraid I’d disappear. When my breath hitched, he pulled back just enough to look at me — really look at me — and something in his gaze told me this wasn’t just lust.
“God, Juniper…” His voice broke like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship me or ruin me.
His hands trailed down, mapping me in patient strokes — the slope of my shoulders, the line of my arms — before settling at my hips, drawing me flush against him, my legs parting to straddle his waist. The heat of him seeped into me, dizzying, dangerous, perfect.
Every movement was deliberate. The brush of his nose against my jaw. The way he kissed the corner of my mouth before claiming it again. His fingers pressed lightly into my hips, not pulling me closer so much as holding me steady, like I might float away.
His lips didn’t leave mine as we leaned back, knees knocking, the narrow mattress dipping under our weight. The bed was too small for us to do anything without brushing against each other, but maybe that was the point — every shift pressed us closer.
One of his hands stayed cupped at my jaw, but the other slid over my thigh, fingers grazing the bare skin just under the hem of my shorts. Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just a slow, anchoring pass that left goosebumps in its wake.
I could feel the restraint in him — the way he kissed me like each second was measured, rationed. Like if he moved too fast, he’d burn the whole thing down.
His mouth drifted from mine, skimming along my cheek, down to the hinge of my jaw, where he breathed me in like I was something to memorize.
“Juniper,” he murmured against my skin, voice low, almost pained.
“Yeah?” My voice was wrecked, breathless.
“I’ve been trying to be good.” His lips brushed my ear, soft as a secret. “Really trying.”
I shivered, my hands fisting in the back of his shirt.
“Don’t be good.” That earned me a quiet, broken sound from him, his forehead pressing to my temple.
He stayed there for a beat, like he needed to collect himself, before his hand on my thigh slid higher — still slow, still gentle, but undeniably more.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and leaned us both further back until I felt the plush comforter against my shoulder blades and his weight warm over me. Not pinning. Not trapping. Just surrounding.
The bed creaked softly beneath us, a reminder of where we were. Of how thin the walls were. Even so, his fingers splayed over my hip, tracing the line between pajamas and skin like it was holy.
His palm skimmed under the hem of my shirt, slow enough to make me gasp. He paused there, fingertips just resting against the warm skin at my waist like he was giving me every chance to stop him. When I didn’t — when I tipped my chin up in silent permission — he let his hand roam higher.
Nothing about his touch was rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was worship. Like he wanted to map every inch of me, not for conquest, but for memory.
His thumb swept over the curve of my ribcage, then the hollow just under my breast, and my breath caught. He noticed — of course he noticed — and he stayed there, tracing gentle curve with the side of his thumb, watching my face like that was his favorite part.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“You’re not helping,” I whispered back, but it came out like a laugh and a plea all at once.
His mouth curved against my jaw. “Good.”
The word thrummed through me.
His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the lace of my bra. Just a touch, nothing more, and yet it felt devastating. He didn’t push, didn’t cup, just let his fingertips trace the delicate edge like he was learning the shape of me through memory and touch combined.
Every pass was slow, deliberate, almost maddening. The bed creaked when I shifted toward him, needing more contact, and his other hand came to rest at the small of my back, pulling me closer until our knees tangled and I could feel the solid heat of his erection even through our clothes.
“Ansel…” My voice was thin, like the sound could barely make it past the knot in my throat.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath warm over my ear. “Just… let me have you slow. Let me savor every minute of this, baby.”
His hand finally slipped over the lace, cupping me through it — not rough, but not delicate either. Like he’d been dying to feel the weight of me in his palm.
A low sound rumbled in his chest, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape, and my stomach clenched. “God, June…” He said it like a prayer, his thumb brushing over my hardened nipple through the thin fabric, just once, as though he wasn’t sure if he could survive a second time.
I arched toward him before I could think, and that was all it took. His mouth was on my neck, warm and searching, while his fingers traced lazy circles over me, kneading gently before his touch turned more deliberate.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against my skin.
My hands were in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
The sound went straight through me, and then he was lowering his head, kissing along my collarbone before dragging the neckline of my shirt down, exposing the lace and skin he’d been teasing.
The look in his eyes when he pulled back made my breath catch — like he’d been starving and I was finally in front of him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb traced the swell of my breast, and then he dipped his head to press his mouth over the lace, warm breath seeping through as he kissed me there.
The smallest flick of his tongue against the thin barrier made my whole body jolt.
He smiled against me — the bastard — and did it again, slower.
He hooked a finger under the lace, and for a second I thought he’d just tease me again — but then he pushed it aside. The cool air hit first, then the heat of his palm, skin to skin.
I gasped before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked up, sharp and dark and so damn smug. “Shhh,” he whispered, but his thumb brushed over my nipple in a way that was anything but calming.
“Ansel—”
He kissed me before I could say more, swallowing the sound, and the hand on my breast squeezed just enough to make my head tip back. He followed me down, his mouth sliding along my jaw, my throat, until he could wrap his lips around me.
I bit my lip hard, because we both knew his mom was just down the hall. That only made it worse — the quiet, the danger, the knowledge that we couldn’t really let go.
It felt reckless anyway.
His free hand skimmed down my thigh, and I realized my fingers were in his hair again, holding him there like I’d never forgive him if he stopped.
When he finally pulled back with a lewd ‘pop’, his mouth was wet, his breathing ragged, and his smile looked far too much like trouble.
“God baby,” he mouthed around my hardened nipple. “God, I love you.”
“Ansel—”
He kissed me again, harder this time, like something had broken in him. Like we’d tipped from careful into inevitable. He lazily passed his fingers over my nipples like he had all night, all week, all year to memorize the shape of me.
I didn’t know if I could handle another minute of this… gentle teasing.
Fingers spread wide, like he wanted to hold as much of me as he could, his thumb stroking over the swell as if the lace offended him for hiding me. He nosed along my collarbone, warm breath teasing over skin, before dipping lower — not to take, but to look.
“God, June,” he whispered, and it sounded reverent. Like prayer.