Chapter Twenty Two #2
When my orgasm crests, it comes fast and overwhelming, the pleasure rippling through me in waves that steal the air from my lungs. I cling to him instinctively, fingers curling into his skin, my body tightening as it breaks and spills over, leaving me trembling in his hold.
He doesn’t let up fully until I’ve ridden it out, until the intensity fades into a deep, lingering warmth that leaves me shaken and loose and completely undone.
I don’t feel shame or doubt or guilt.
Just the echo of his hands on me, and the certainty of how right it felt.
I feel satisfied.
Held.
His.
My eyes open, and the feeling from my dream doesn’t disappear. I lie here for a minute, breathing through the quiet, and understand something I’ve been avoiding. I love Jace and he’s no longer married. This isn’t my fault and I have nothing to feel guilty about.
It settles. And for the first time, wanting him doesn’t feel reckless. It feels honest.
…………
Morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and pale, and I open my eyes without dread. No spike of anxiety. No sense that I missed something while I slept.
The quiet feels earned.
I lie there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the neighborhood waking up, the low whir of a passing car, the soft tick of the clock on my nightstand.
My body feels rested in a way it hasn’t for a while, not loose exactly, but settled.
Like something inside me finally stopped bracing for impact.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand without hesitation.
That’s new.
The morning unfolds easily. Shower. Coffee. A quick glance at my phone that turns up nothing urgent, nothing heavy. No message from Jace, and instead of reading into it, I let it be what it is. Quiet. Respectful. The absence doesn’t tug at me or make my chest tighten.
It just… exists.
By the time I’m dressed and heading out the door, my thoughts are already shifting toward logistics.
Schedules. Seating charts. The run-of-show timeline that’s been living in my head since we started planning this gala event .
Today is one of the last big coordination days before the event, which means meetings stacked back-to-back and a thousand tiny decisions that all need to be made like they matter.
Because they do.
Campus is already buzzing when I arrive.
Volunteers moving tables. Facilities Maintenance is checking lighting.
Someone arguing quietly into a headset near the auditorium doors.
It’s the familiar, controlled chaos that comes with anything high-profile and donor-facing, and the familiarity steadies me.
I’m good at this.
I move through the morning on instinct, answering questions, redirecting energy, making judgment calls without second-guessing myself. By the time I reach the conference room for our final planning meeting, I feel anchored in my body again. Present. Useful.
Ellie slides into the chair beside me a minute later, coffee in hand, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She gives me a quick smile that’s warm without being invasive.
“You look rested,” she says under her breath.
I huff softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” she replies. “Especially this close to an event.”
The meeting starts, and for the next forty minutes, it’s all seating assignments, donor lists, and final approval on the program order. I make notes, flag a potential bottleneck near the reception area, and mentally rework the timing on the keynote as someone drones on about valet logistics.
When it wraps, people filter out in clusters, already talking through next steps. Ellie lingers, gathering her things more slowly.
“You walking back to your office?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
We head down the hall together, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The building smells faintly of fresh coffee and something floral from the arrangements being stored nearby.
“So,” Ellie says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Are you bringing a plus one?”
The question is simple. Neutral. Exactly the kind of thing people ask at events like this.
I don’t answer right away.
Ellie glances at me, not pushing, just checking in. “No pressure,” she adds. “I’m just finalizing the seating chart and realized I never asked.”
I slow slightly, considering it.
“I don’t think so,” I say finally.
“Okay,” she replies easily. “I’ll mark you solo.”
A beat passes. Then she adds, “Unless that’s a not-yet answer.”
I glance at her, amused despite myself. “You’re perceptive.”
She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”
I exhale. “I don’t want to complicate things. It’s a work event, and there are already enough eyes on it.”
Ellie nods, understanding clear on her face. “That’s fair.”
We reach my office door, and I pause with my hand on the handle.
“Out of curiosity,” she says, tone still light, “would bringing someone make it feel easier or harder?”
The question lands softer than it could have. No judgment. No expectation.
I think about Jace. About how he fills space. About how visible he is without trying to be. About the way last night ended, controlled and deliberate, with restraint chosen instead of forced.
“Harder,” I admit. “Not because of him. Just… because it turns into a thing.”
I pause, then add, quieter but certain, “But I’m ready for that.”
Ellie’s smile is immediate and unapologetic. “Okay,” she says. “Then good for you.” There’s no warning in her tone. No caution. Just approval.
“About time you let yourself want something out loud.”
I smile at her. “Thank you for not turning that into a therapy session.”
She laughs. “Anytime.”
She hesitates, then adds, “For what it’s worth, you don’t owe anyone a performance. Not here. Not anywhere.”
Something in my chest loosens at that.
“I know,” I say. And I do.
Ellie gives me a quick squeeze on the arm and heads off down the hall.
I step into my office and shut the door, leaning back against it for a second before moving to my desk. Outside, voices drift faintly from the quad. Laughter. Conversation. Life moving forward at its usual pace.
I stay there longer than necessary, back against the door, phone heavy in my hand.
Asking him feels different than seeing him. Different than kissing him in a parking lot or pretending restraint is the same thing as certainty. This is deliberate. This is me choosing to be seen instead of letting circumstances do it for me.
I sit at my desk and unlock my phone. His name is right there. Easy. Familiar. I tell myself it’s practical.
The gala is a donor event. He’ll already be there. It makes sense to arrive together instead of circling each other all night like a question no one wants to ask out loud.
That logic doesn’t stop the flicker of nerves when I tap his name.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, and the sound of his voice settles something low in my chest.
“Hey,” I reply, then clear my throat. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Always.”
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. “So… the gala’s this weekend.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m required to be there. Department expectations.”
I knew this already and I nod even though he can’t see me. “Right. I figured.”
There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just waiting.
I draw in a breath. “I was wondering if you’d want to come with me.”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“As your plus one?” he asks, calm, careful not to assume.
“Yes.” The word comes out steadier than I expect.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’d like that,” he says. “And I’d love to go with you.”
My grip on the phone tightens, warmth blooming through my chest before I can stop it.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then… okay.”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “Okay.”
We hang up a minute later, logistics exchanged, nothing heavy said.
But when the call ends, I sit there staring at my desk, heart beating a little faster than before.
Not because I rushed.
Because I chose.
And that feels different than restraint.