Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
JACKO
Maya disappears down the hall with Lila asleep in her arms, curls stuck to her forehead and glitter still clinging to her cheeks. She looks like a dream, both of them do. Soft edges in a sharp world.
I quietly make my way to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on mostly for something to do. The place is warm in that lived-in way. Crayons on the table. A tea towel with little foxes on it. A pair of tiny pink wellies by the door.
This isn’t just a flat. It’s a life. One I keep getting glimpses of and want more than I can say.
The kettle starts to rumble, but I don’t move.
Instead, I rest my hands on the counter and close my eyes for a second, just breathing her in. The baby shower was chaos, but Maya handled it like a queen. Even when she didn’t think she belonged, she did. She always does.
“Tea?” comes her voice behind me, it’s quiet and somewhat amused.
I turn and find her in the doorway, barefoot, her dress gone in favour of an oversized jumper that falls to her thighs. Her makeup’s smudged, hair messy. She looks real. And stupidly, achingly beautiful.
“I was going to offer,” I say, gesturing toward the kettle, “but I had a feeling you might be more of a wine girl tonight.”
She crosses the room slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “You’d be correct.”
She pulls a bottle from the fridge and two glasses from the shelf like its muscle memory. As though this is normal.
Like this could be.
I accept the glass when she hands it over and take a slow sip.
“Lila out for the count?” I ask.
She nods. “Tucked in, snoring like a lumberjack.”
I chuckle. “Wonder where she gets that from.”
Maya gives me a look. “I do not snore.”
We drift to the sofa, and she curls up in the corner while I sink into the other end. The TV’s off, lights low, city quiet outside the windows.
It feels intimate.
Her leg brushes mine. It’s a deliberate shift.
“You were good today,” she says, swirling her wine. “At the shower. With people. With Lila.”
My throat gets a little tight. “She makes it easy.”
“Mmm. You were still good. You made me feel like I could breathe with you there.”
I look at her. “Maya, you don’t have to be anything with me. Not perfect. Not polished. You just have to be.”
She stares at me like she’s searching for something. Maybe permission. Maybe safety. Then, she sets her wine glass on the table and moves toward me.
Slow and certain.
She climbs into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world and presses her mouth to mine.
Everything else disappears.
Her kiss is heady, desperate, full of everything she hasn’t said. My hands go to her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of that ridiculous, oversized jumper. Her skin’s warm and soft and mine now, at least in this moment.
She gasps when I deepen the kiss, and I swear to God, I feel it in my bones. Her weight settles over my thighs, and my hands automatically find her waist, steadying her like I’ve been waiting to do it all damn day.
She kisses me hard, mouth urgent and open, no hesitation.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders like she’s anchoring herself, like she’s done being careful.
And hell, I’m gone. I groan against her lips, one hand sliding down to the curve of her hip while the other fists in the hem of her jumper, pulling her closer, tighter.
She shifts against me and I can feel her heat through the thin barrier of fabric between us. Jesus. My brain short-circuits.
Her tongue brushes mine and I lose it a little; kiss her deeper, hungrier. She tastes of wine and sugar and everything I’ve ever wanted but told myself I couldn’t have. I let my hands roam, over her back, her thighs, gripping her like I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone.
She rocks against me and I bite back a curse, dropping my head to her neck. My mouth finds the skin there, it’s warm, soft, smelling faintly of vanilla. I kiss a line from her jaw to her collarbone, sucking gently at the spot just beneath her ear, and she moans, quiet and breathy.
“Owen…”
The sound of my name from her lips is a goddamn prayer. My hands slip under her jumper, splaying wide over bare skin, and her breath hitches when I trace the curve of her waist, her ribs, the underside of her bra. I don’t push, just touch. Worship.
“You’re killing me,” I murmur into her throat.
“You deserve it,” she whispers back, breathless.
She drags her nails through my hair, tugging until I’m looking at her again. Her pupils are blown, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I kiss her again. Filthy. Desperate. The kind of kiss that says if we weren’t in her living room with her daughter down the hall, I’d already be stripping her out of this jumper and laying her out right here.
She feels it. I know she does. Her body’s arching into mine, her thighs tightening around my hips.
My hands slide up her back and unclasp her bra with a flick. She gasps into my mouth, but doesn’t stop me. Her jumper rides up as she shifts, and I catch a glimpse of bare skin, lace, curves I’ve dreamed about.
But I don’t rush.
Instead, I pull back just enough to meet her eyes.
“I want you,” I murmur, voice rough. “But not just tonight.”
Her chest rises and falls. “I know.”
I slide a hand up to cup her breast, my thumb teasing just enough to make her shiver. Then I kiss her again, it’s slow, deep, and tender, like I’ve got all the time in the world.
Because for her?
I do.
I want her badly. But more than that, I want her to feel wanted. Worshipped. Safe.
Her hands thread through my hair, tugging just enough to drive me a little mad, and I let her. Let her take what she needs for her feel in control. But then she pulls back, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, and whispers, “Stay tonight.”
My heart stumbles.
She’s still in my lap, and every part of me is screaming yes. But I don’t answer right away. Instead, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and study her face. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. And I don’t want you to go.”
I search her eyes for any flicker of doubt, but all I see is honesty.
So, I kiss her again; slower this time, more reverent. Then I let my forehead rest against hers. “I’ll stay,” I murmur. “But I’ll take the sofa.”
Her brows knit. “You don’t have to,”
“I do,” I cut in gently. “Not because I don’t want you. Hell, Maya, you have no idea how much I do, but because she’s down that hallway.”
Her eyes soften instantly.
“I respect what you’ve built here,” I say. “And I’m not stepping over that line until you’re ready. All the way ready.”
She nods, and it’s not disappointment I see, it’s gratitude.
“You’re a good man, Owen.”
I shrug, trying to play it off, but it still hits me right in the chest. Every time she says my name like that, I feel like more than what I used to be. She kisses me again, slow and warm, before slipping off my lap.
“I’ll get you a blanket.”
I smile. “Just don’t make it pink and glittery.”
“No promises.”
She disappears into the hallway, and I take another sip of wine, trying to get my heart rate back to normal. The sofa’s not exactly long enough for a bloke my size, and the throw blanket is aggressively floral, but I’ve never been more content.
Because I’m here.
In this home. In her world.
And that feels like everything.