Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
FALLON
I strip down, letting my clothes fall to the floor in a heap of cotton and guilt. Step into the shower under the hot spray, but I still feel his touch, his lips. Feel his cock inside me.
God, I've never felt that good before.
Until I didn't. Until reality came crashing back and I ran from him like the coward I am.
I don't even remember the drive home. One moment I was scrambling off the desk, grabbing my clothes while Kade watched me with those green eyes full of confusion and hurt. The next I was pulling into my driveway, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn off the ignition.
I came inside and went straight to the bathroom without even bothering to greet Daniel.
He's been kind since the miscarriage. He hasn't hurt me since the day I came home from the hospital—drove myself home, got cleaned up, laid in bed until he arrived.
I told him what happened. He grilled me about what I told the doctor, seemed pleased with my answers when I assured him I said I fell off the bed. An accident. Nothing suspicious.
I stayed in bed all that day and the next. On the third day, I couldn't take the walls closing in anymore, couldn't stand his hovering presence asking if I needed anything while his eyes calculated whether I'd become a liability. So I went back to work.
Since then, I've been quiet. Almost catatonic. And it's like he's on edge, wondering when I'm going to freak out, when the trauma will manifest into something he can't control.
He doesn't need to worry. I've given up on everything. On life, on having kids, on being loved, on happiness.
The only time I feel good is when I'm with Kade.
Today was like heroin running through my veins. I've come down now, crashed hard into reality, and I'm already waiting for my next hit.
I wash him off of me even though I don't want to. Scrub between my legs where I can still feel the ghost of him inside me, still feel the pleasant ache of being stretched and filled and fucked like I mattered.
When I'm clean and dressed in yoga pants and a soft sweater, I head to the kitchen to get started on dinner.
"How was your day?"
Daniel's voice stops me in my tracks as I pass his office. I freeze, hand on the doorframe, and for a second I think he knows. But how could he? There's no possible way.
I step inside his office, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
"It was fine." My voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "I was going to make some mashed potatoes to go with the roast."
I know he wants me to ask him about his day. The expectation hangs in the air between us like smoke. But honestly, I don't give a shit about him or how his day was or what cases he's working or which criminals he's letting walk free for the right price.
"Okay." He studies me with those pale eyes that used to make me feel seen but now just make me feel scrutinized. "I'm just glad you're home. I hate you working late on Fridays."
I have to keep from rolling my eyes. He doesn't give a shit about my safety or my well-being. He just hates waiting on his dinner.
I leave him and go to the kitchen, grateful for the escape.
I go through the motions on autopilot. Drain the potatoes. Add butter and cream. Mash them until they're smooth and perfect. Slice the roast in the crockpot. Arrange everything on plates with the roasted baby carrots.
My mind isn't here. It's still in that classroom with Kade's hands on my body and his voice in my ear telling me I'm beautiful.
I bring the plates to the dining room table with his glass of water—exactly how he likes it. I take my seat across from him and start eating.
At the first bite, I realize how hungry I am. Starving, actually. I haven't felt hungry since it happened, since I lost the baby. Food has been a tasteless obligation, fuel I forced down because not eating would draw attention.
But now my appetite roars to life with sudden urgency.
I shove bite after bite into my mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. The roast is tender and flavorful, the potatoes creamy and rich. Everything tastes vivid and real in a way nothing has for weeks.
"Are you hungry?" Daniel asks after a few minutes, his tone carrying surprise.
I take a minute to finish my bite before answering. "Starving."
It's almost like Kade woke something in me. Brought me back to life through touch and desire and the simple act of treating me like a woman instead of a possession.
"Well, I'm going out of town next week." Daniel cuts into his roast. "Are you going to be okay alone here?"
"Yeah." Another bite. Another swallow. Freedom expanding in my chest like wings.
"I leave Sunday night and won't be back until next Sunday."
A whole week without walking on eggshells or calculating threats or positioning myself strategically in every room.
"What for?" I ask, even though I don't really care.
"A legal conference in DC."
"Are you sure you’re okay on your own?" He watches me carefully, looking for signs of instability.
I almost laugh but manage to stifle it. "Yeah, I'll be fine."
I take another bite, excitement flooding through me at the idea of being free from him for a whole week.
Good morning, Carl says when I walk into the teacher's lounge.
"Good morning." I smile and walk over to the coffee maker.
It really is a good morning. Daniel left yesterday and I've never felt so relaxed. My shoulders sit lower, my jaw doesn't ache from clenching, and I slept through the entire night without startling awake at phantom sounds.
I pour myself a cup and mix in a little cream and sugar, watching the dark liquid swirl into something softer.
"Are you joining us for lunch today or did you bring your own?" Carl asks as I take my first hot sip.
"I didn't actually. Are we going to the deli?"
He smiles. "Where else?"
I laugh. "Yeah, I'll join you guys."
I walk out and to my classroom where I spend hours listening to my classes read their assigned poems out loud. Some are really good. Others are not great. A few write naughty poems that get the students all excited and it takes a while to get the class under control again.
When class ends I get anxious, not sure how I'm going to face Kade after what we did right here in this room last Friday. Just looking at my desk makes me blush.
He comes in early like usual and strolls right over to me.
"You ran out on me." He sounds hurt.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He leans down and whispers in my ear. "Don't do it again."
Then he walks to his desk.
"Again, huh?" I ask.
"You heard me." He smirks at me.
I can't help but smile at that promise.
Other students start coming in a few minutes later. I start class, people read their poems one by one and we discuss them. I'm giving everyone an A that takes it seriously.
We just finished talking about Sandra's poem about love and death—actually the best I've heard yet.
"Kade." I call, letting him know it's his turn.
He stands and starts reading.
"Peaches"
I never knew fruit could taste like sin
until I learned the flavor of your skin—
soft and sweet beneath my greedy mouth,
warm and wet when I go south.
Those proper dresses, guarded smile,
the good-girl act you hide behind.
But fuck—I know what you really need,
know how to make that sweetness bleed.
So spread yourself across my bed,
let me taste that perfect flesh instead
of wasting it on him, on them, on lies.
Peaches, I want to eat you alive.
Your juice runs down my chin, my throat,
I'm drowning and I fucking hope
you drown me deeper, pull me in—
let me gorge myself on your skin.
I'm not a man who knows pretty words,
just hunger and this desperate thirst.
You're ripe and dripping in my hands,
and Peaches, I'm a starving man.
I listen and try to stay calm as he reads the dirty poem about me out loud in this full classroom. Heat floods my face, pools low in my belly. My thighs press together under my desk.
I clear my throat before I speak, noticing people are being too quiet for how dirty that was.
Kade just stares at me. Licks his lips. Then smiles.
"That was..." I start, trying to find words that won't betray how wet I am right now, how my pulse hammers in places that have no business reacting this way in front of twenty teenagers. "Explicit."
I finally settle on it.
A few girls giggle. One boy in the back whistles low.
"Is that a problem?" Kade asks, still standing, still staring at me like we're the only two people in this room.
"No." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "It's honest. Raw. The imagery is..." I swallow. "Visceral."
"It's fucking hot," someone mutters.
"Language," I say automatically, but my heart isn't in the correction.
Kade finally sits down, that smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth. He knows exactly what he's doing to me. Knows I'm squirming in this chair trying to maintain some semblance of professional composure while my body screams for his hands on me again.
"The use of fruit as metaphor," I continue, desperately grasping for teacher mode, "is actually quite common in erotic poetry. Sappho used it. So did the Song of Solomon in the Bible."
A few students perk up at that. Nothing makes high schoolers pay attention like finding out the Bible has sex in it.
"But what makes this work—" I gesture toward Kade's poem, "—is the specificity. The personal nature of the imagery. This isn't generic fruit metaphor. This is..." I pause. "Intimate knowledge."
His eyes darken.
"So for your final grade," I say to the class, "I want you to think about what makes your poem yours. What details only you could write because of your specific experience or perspective."
The bell rings. Students gather their things.
Kade doesn't move.