Chapter 11 Jordin
eleven-Jordin
What was I really doing here?
The truth was, I didn’t know why I was still here.
I told myself I had run away with Ciarán for escape, revenge, distraction—sex as self-medication, to rid myself of the curiosity now that Oak had given me an excuse.
My motives felt murky now, or murkier than before. What was supposed to be physical started brushing up against something emotional, something I didn’t plan for or want.
I was now here because Ciarán made me feel something—shit that Oak hadn’t ever.
Things that went beyond the heat and the thrill.
I liked him.
And that terrified me.
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to block it all out—the memory of Oak’s betrayal. I felt my heart speed up. This shit was giving me anxiety.
“Breathe,” I whispered to myself. “You’re not a weak woman. This will not break you.” I coached myself.
The sound of pots and pans drew my attention to the kitchen door.
Ciarán was washing dishes. He also cleaned his house himself.
I found that interesting because he didn’t come off as a man who did anything for himself.
I assumed outside of the studio he was the type who always had people—assistants, managers, women—moving around him, smoothing over his life.
But that was my prejudice. I had been in the industry for years, and that’s how it was for most.
I shook my head and tucked my legs under me, grabbed the remote, and flipped through the channels, ready to numb myself with something forgettable. My body was tired, but my mind was louder than I wanted it to be.
Before I could settle on anything, Ciarán came walking into the living room—all slow like he knew I was watching.
His ever-present cocky-ass smirk sitting pretty on his face.
No shirt, just smooth skin and tattoos, muscles flexing like he did that shit on purpose.
My gaze, against all my better judgment, dipped south to the loose waistband of his basketball shorts.
Every step, that fabric molded against his dick print, teasing me.
My eyes shot back to the TV when I saw him noticing me watching him.
“You good over there?” he asked, stopping at the edge of the couch, staring at me.
“Fine,” I said quickly, trying to sound indifferent. But my heartbeat was in my pussy.
He grinned like he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push.
“I got a surprise for you,” he said, not waiting for me to respond before heading to the corner where an old record player sat.
The needle dropped, and a soft crackle sounded before a woman’s voice—rich, aching, and from another era—filled the room.
“I waited too long… and now we’re apart…”
“LaVern Baker,” I said softly.
He smiled without looking at me. “You sound like her. You both have the same honey-dipped tone.”
“I know, I’ve heard it before,” I said, a little breathlessly. “But what do you know about her? Since when do you listen to music that wasn’t made on a laptop?”
He smiled sadly. “My mom used to play this when she cleaned the house. Said it was good luck to let love songs live in your walls.”
The image of him cleaning, all small and cute, was so vivid, so tender and domestic, it annoyed me. This was a side of him I didn’t want to know. It made me care. I didn’t want to hear any more of his memories.
“Is this really a love song, though?” I asked.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. The movement made the ink on his bicep shift and my breathing speed up.
“Sounds like one. A woman singing about waiting, losing her man… what else would it be?”
I drew my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
“I don’t know. Sounds less like love and more like a warning. She waited too long, and now she’s alone. It’s about regret. About the cost of not acting when you had the chance.”
I met his gaze, the intensity in his dark eyes a tangible force across the room.
“It’s not a love song. It’s a ghost story.”
Ciarán was silent for a long moment, just watching me as LaVern’s voice swelled between us. It felt like we were sitting in a space of shared ache. The air grew thick, charged with everything we weren’t saying.
“You ever felt like that?” I asked. “Felt that sense of loss?”
He smirked faintly.
“Yeah. Once.”
I stared at him. “What happened?”
His smirk turned into a full-blown smile.
“The only woman I think I ever came close to feeling something akin to love for told me every time I tried… that she,” he paused, “loved her husband.”
His words landed with the weight he wanted them to. Something in my chest tightened.
The only woman I ever came close to feeling something real for replayed in my head.
I should’ve looked away, but I couldn’t.
Finally, he pushed off the wall. He crossed back to the couch and sat beside me. The leather dipped under his weight. I could smell the expensive dish soap he used.
“Don’t overthink what I said, Jordin.”
I felt my eyes narrow. How could I not? He had basically just confessed to loving me—or something close to it.
The way he said it, all soft, unashamed.
I was freaking out. I wanted to make him say it plain, to explain why to me, but that was a step too close to a line I shouldn’t cross.
Not with a husband and unmade decisions.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lied, eyes fixed on the needle tracing LaVern’s voice.
“Good,” he replied.
He reached for my ankle casually, like he’d done it a hundred times before, pulling my foot into his lap.
He didn’t say anything else. His thumbs began to move, kneading at the flesh. The first press made me sigh, involuntarily. I hated that he heard it.
“You like that?” he teased again, his voice a lazy drawl that vibrated right through the sole of my foot and up my spine.
“Don’t start,” I muttered, the warning feeble even to my own ears.
He only hummed, low in his chest, a resonant sound that tangled with LaVern’s voice from the record. He started to sing along, his voice rougher, but soulful enough to make something deep in my chest flutter dangerously.
“I waited too long… to say that I love you…”
I closed my eyes, trying not to get swept away in the warmth of his hands, in the ache of his voice, in the feel of his skin but when his thumbs pressed into the arch of my foot, working a tension I hadn't even named, something inside me shivered.
It was too much. Too tender. Too intimate.
I pulled my foot back slightly.
“Ciarán… stop,” I whispered, the plea raw.
“Relax,” he whispered, his grip getting firmer, not letting me retreat. His thumb continued its slow, maddening circles.
“Ain’t gonna bite.”
He leaned forward, his gaze dark and heavy-lidded. The cocky smirk was gone, replaced by a look of pure, predatory focus.
“I might lick, though. Right here on this sensitive spot just below your ankle. See if you taste as sweet as you sound when you sigh when I touch it. Or I might suck… gently… on each one of your toes until you forget your own name.”
My breath hitched, and got trapped in my lungs.
“Or,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as his hand slid from my foot to my calf, his fingers branding my skin,
“I could just keep going. See how long it takes before you’re not telling me to stop anymore… but begging me not to.”
Oh yeah, this was too much.
“No, really. Stop,” I said, making sure I sounded firm, though I didn’t feel it.
He froze,looking directly at me. For a moment, the air between us was electric—thick. Then he smirked.
“You sure?” he asked softly, his hand still hovering near my ankle. “You don’t sound like you really want me to.”
I swallowed, forcing a small laugh to break the tension.
“You’re so full of yourself. Let my foot go, negro.”
With that, he pushed my foot off his lap and stood, stretching.
“I’m calling it a night.”
“Good,” I replied, pretending to be unbothered. “I need my space.”
He paused, looking at me for a beat longer than necessary, his eyes taking me in.
“Goodnight, J.”
“Goodnight,” I mumbled, watching as he disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Ciarán was dangerous. Not in the way Oak had been—reckless, possessive, and volatile.
No, Ciarán was dangerous because he was deliberate.
He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to pull me in without making it feel forced.
He was patient with me, easy, and, most importantly, he saw me.
Saw how I needed the patience he offered.
Saw how I needed to rebuild what I’d lost—and was actively helping me do that.
He wanted me happy.
That scared me more than anything.
Click.
The soft static crackle of the vinyl gave way to silence.
LaVern’s voice was gone.
And I was alone again—with nothing but my pulse, and everything I wasn’t ready to admit.