Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAYA
Sleep won’t come.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my fingers twisted in the sheets, and my brain spinning with the memory of Owen’s hands, his mouth, the feel of him beneath me. He’s here but he’s in the next room. On the sofa. Alone. Because he’s respectful and good and goddamn impossible.
But I don’t want respectful tonight.
I slide out of bed quietly, careful not to creak the floorboards.
Lila’s sleeping soundly in her room. The flat is dark and still, save for the dim light from the kitchen.
I find him curled on the sofa, one arm slung behind his head, the other draped over his chest. His mouth is parted slightly in sleep, brows relaxed, chest rising and falling in that slow, steady rhythm I’ve come to crave.
I don’t hesitate.
I climb onto the sofa and straddle him, just like earlier. His eyes blink open, sleepy and warm, and then go wide.
“Maya,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. “You alright?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He lifts a hand to brush my hair from my face, his fingers lingering at my jaw. “You sure this is…”
I kiss him. Hard.
He groans into my mouth, hands finding my hips, and suddenly we’re back to that place we never quite left. I grind against him and feel him stir beneath me, hard and hot even through the fabric of his boxers.
He grips my hips tighter. “Maya, baby... are you sure?”
I pull back just enough to look into his eyes, my lips swollen, heart pounding. “Yes. Please. I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and consuming, and his hands slide beneath my sleep shirt, skin to skin. My breasts brush his chest, nipples peaking as the friction builds. He cups one, thumb flicking across it until I moan.
He rolls us suddenly, laying me back on the narrow sofa, covering me with his body. His kiss softens, turns more respectful. He kisses down my neck, my collarbone, pulling the shirt up and over my head. He pauses, breath caught, when he sees me bare beneath.
“Fucking hell, Maya,” he breathes, dragging his tongue over my breast before sucking it into his mouth. My back arches.
I reach for his boxers, tugging at the waistband, and he growls against my skin. “Condom’s in my wallet; jacket pocket.”
I’m sliding out from beneath him in an instant, stumbling to grab it, heart hammering. When I return, he’s kicked off his boxers, and Jesus. My breath catches.
He tears open the packet and rolls it on, and I straddle him again, lining us up. His hands are on my hips, grounding me, eyes locked on mine.
“Take your time,” he murmurs.
But I don’t want slow. I sink down onto him in one smooth motion, gasping as he fills me. We both groan, clinging to each other like the world might stop spinning.
“Fuck, Owen,” I pant, rolling my hips.
He grips my waist tighter, thrusting up into me. “You feel…God, you feel perfect.”
It’s messy and raw, my thighs are burning from the effort, but I don’t stop. I ride him like I’ve needed this for years. Because maybe I have.
He sits up, pulling me closer, kissing me like he can’t get enough, one hand tangled in my hair, the other slipping between us to circle my clit.
I shatter with a cry, clinging to him as my orgasm rolls through me. He follows with a grunt, thrusting deep one last time before stilling, his arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my neck.
We collapse together in a tangle of limbs, breathless and trembling.
I don’t move. I curl into his chest, his arms tightening around me, and I let sleep finally take me.
I wake before him, tucked into the crook of his arm, the weight of his hand splayed warm over my hip.
For a second, I let myself just feel the peace, the closeness, the impossible rightness of it all.
Then the panic creeps in.
What have I done?
I shift slightly, staring up at the ceiling, my heart suddenly too loud in the quiet. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to let him all the way in. Not like this. Not when I can’t promise I won’t bolt the second things get too real.
Owen stirs beside me and tightens his hold, murmuring something low and contented into my hair. And somehow, that soft sound, like he trusts me with his whole damn heart, makes it worse.
Because I don’t know if I deserve it. Not yet.
“You okay?”
His voice is rough with sleep, but alert. Watching me.
I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
His hand moves gently, fingers brushing the skin just beneath my ribs. Not pushing, not prying, just there.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
I glance at him, caught off guard. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask. Just meets my gaze with something quiet and steady.
“I’m not going anywhere, Maya. Not unless you tell me to.”
And for some reason, that’s what nearly undoes me. Because I don’t want to tell him to go. I just don’t know how to let him stay.
The sound of tiny feet padding across the floor wakes me.
Lila stands by the sofa, blinking at us with a curious little smile. “Mummy, my tummy is hungry for breakfast.”
Owen’s hand strokes my back, lazy and slow, and he presses a kiss to my temple.
“We’re up, sweetheart,” I say, voice hoarse. I sit up, grabbing the throw blanket to cover myself. Owen rises and pulls on the trousers he wore to the baby shower, before heading to the kitchen.
“Pancakes and strawberries,” he calls. “And I can make you a Bear face with banana ears.”
Lila giggles and skips off. I follow, my cheeks warm, but my chest light.
While Owen makes pancakes, I switch on the kettle and make two cups of tea. When I hand Owen his, he leans over and kisses me, much to Lila’s delight.
Lila squeals. “Bear! You kissed Mummy!” her little hands clap in delight but she’s soon distracted by her pancakes again.
Owen chuckles then mouths that he’s sorry. “How about we have another skating lesson after breakfast? We can swing by my place and pick up my skates first.”
Lila squeals again but for different reasons this time. We watch as jumps from her chair and darts down the hall yelling behind her as she goes. “Mummy get dressed! We going skating!”
The rink is quiet this morning, just a few other early skaters carving slow, lazy circles into the ice. Lila’s nose is pressed to the car window as Owen parks the car. She’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“Bear! Bear, are we going to do the twirly bit again?” she asks as he helps her out of the backseat.
Owen chuckles, zipping up her little puffer coat. “We’ll work our way up to it, Jellybean. First, we master the penguin walk again.”
She nods solemnly, like this is Olympic-level business.
By the time we’re inside, Lila is tugging on Owen’s arm and pointing out every single detail she remembers from her last visit. He listens like it’s the most important information he’s ever received.
I sit on a bench near the edge of the ice, coffee in hand, and watch as Owen kneels in front of her to lace up her skates. He’s so gentle with her as he’s double-checking the tightness, tucking in the laces, adjusting her helmet strap with the kind of careful touch that makes my throat tighten.
“Alright, ready?” he asks once she’s all set.
“Ready!” she says, beaming up at him.
He takes her hand and steps onto the ice with her, steadying her little feet. They move slowly at first, tiny, clumsy shuffles like a cautious baby deer, but Owen’s encouragement never wavers.
“See? You’ve already got better balance than Ollie,” he teases, and she laughs.
“But I’m not even going fast yet!”
“Speed’s got nothing on style, and you’ve got buckets of it.”
They make a slow loop around the rink, her tiny mittened hand gripping his. Every time she stumbles, he’s there. Lifting her, steadying her, whispering something that makes her giggle. I can’t hear the words, but I feel them.
Love.
It’s stitched into every move he makes.
After a while, Owen crouches low in front of her.
“Wanna try skating to me all by yourself?”
Lila gasps. “Like... without holding?”
He nods, spreading his arms. “Just a few feet. I’ve got you.”
She hesitates. Looks down at her feet. Then up at him again. “Okay. I’m brave.”
She pushes off, legs wobbling, arms flailing like windmills. I hold my breath.
She makes it three feet before toppling straight into his arms with a squeal.
“I did it!” she shouts, even as he catches her with a laugh.
“You did, Jellybean. You nailed it.”
He lifts her up and spins her gently in a circle, her laughter echoing through the cold air. I blink fast, pressing the lid of my coffee cup a little too tight.
This man, this giant, tattooed hockey player who growls on the ice and body-checks for a living, is out here teaching my daughter how to stand tall and get back up. No ego. No impatience. Just unwavering gentleness.
They skate for nearly an hour. Owen shows her how to turn without falling. How to glide with one foot. At one point, he lets her ride on his feet while he skates backwards, holding her securely as she squeals in delight.
And then they fall.
It’s a slow-motion, dramatic tumble. Lila giggles the whole way down, Owen groaning theatrically as he lands in a heap, arms wrapped around her to cushion the fall.
I rush to the edge of the rink.
“You okay?”
“We’re good!” he calls, still lying on his back, Lila curled on his chest. “We’re making snow angels!”
“There’s no snow, silly Bear!” she says, climbing off him and flopping onto her back, moving her arms and legs anyway.
My lips tug into a smile I can’t stop.
Afterwards, they come back to the bench, Lila flushed and grinning, Owen pink-cheeked and glowing with warmth. He helps her off with her skates and swaps them for her fuzzy boots, then brushes a strand of hair back from her flushed face.
“Proud of you,” he murmurs.
She throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek.
“Love you, Bear.”
He hugs her tightly, eyes meeting mine over her shoulder. And something in that look, something soft and a little stunned, makes my breath catch.
He mouths; I love her too. I can’t speak. Because I believe him.
Because I think I might be falling for him faster than I ever thought possible.
And because watching him with my daughter makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life.