20. Elena
Chapter twenty
Elena
My hands tremble as I fill the kettle. It's a ridiculous reaction. I'm a grown woman. But having Cole in my living room, radiating a quiet, potent alpha energy, makes me feel… fluttery. His broad frame shrinks the room, my kitchen not even six feet away from where he stands.
"Chamomile or hibiscus?" I ask, immensely proud that my voice emerges as a relatively steady.
"Whatever you’re having is fine by me," he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble that seems to vibrate right through the floorboards and up my slippers.
Chamomile tea it is, then. Something calming is desperately needed right now, though I suspect it would take a sedative to fully settle the swarm of butterflies staging a rave in my chest.
"Nice place you have here," Cole comments, his gaze sweeping around my small living area, gracefully ignoring the pile of cookbooks threatening to collapse my coffee table. "Lived here long?"
"Three years this fall," I reply, setting out two of my favorite mismatched vintage mugs. "It came mostly furnished, but I’ve tried to make it my own. Added a few… personal touches." Like the slightly alarming collection of kitchen tools hanging over the stove.
He nods, his eyes landing on the rustic ceramic mugs I have displayed on the kitchen counter. "Made those?"
A small smile touches my lips. "Flea market treasures, mostly. Each one has a story." I gesture toward a squat, speckled mug with a crooked handle. "That one was my first Lakeview purchase. Got it for a buck the weekend I moved in. Still smells faintly like cinnamon tea if you warm it up."
“I like it,” he says, stepping closer to get a better look.
And suddenly he’s right beside me, his arm brushing mine.
The contact is brief but my breath catches just like it did when he caught me earlier.
His scent curls through the air again, subtle but insistent.
This is a lot of alpha in my very small kitchen, I tell myself.
And as heat flares low in my belly, I realize that even a double dose of DuoBlocks might actually not quite be enough at the end of a long day.
The kettle chooses that exact moment to let out a piercing whistle, making me jump about a foot in the air. Cole’s hand instinctively reaches out, his fingers warm and strong as they steady my elbow. The touch sends a shockwave through my entire system.
"Whoa there," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Just the kettle. No need to deploy emergency evasion tactics."
"Sorry," I murmur, my cheeks flaming. Play it cool, Elena. He’s just your neighbor. A very large, very attractive, very alpha neighbor. In your kitchen. No big deal.
We migrate to the living room, if you can call moving a few steps migrating, and I curl into one corner of my worn but beloved floral couch, tucking my feet under me, while Cole settles on the opposite end.
The foot of space between us feels both like a vast chasm and an incredibly charged magnetic field.
"So," I begin, cradling the warm mug of chamomile, mainly to give my trembling hands something to do, "how long are you officially in town for, Cole?"
"Just through the end of the festival," he says, his gaze steady on mine over the rim of his own mug. "Then it’s back to the city. Back to the grind."
"You don’t sound thrilled about it."
He huffs a quiet breath, then nods. "I used to love it.
Everything moving fast, always something happening, always people needing rescuing.
Felt like I was doing something important.
" He sets his mug down. "But then there are days… weeks… when it feels like all you’re doing is running from one fire to the next, never really catching your breath. "
His expression shifts, softening with something unguarded. "Lately," he admits, his voice dropping a little, "I’ve been finding myself thinking more about what I might be missing by not being in a place like Lakeview. The quiet. The community. The chance to actually… breathe."
The honesty in his words hangs in the air. I take a sip of tea, the floral warmth doing little to calm the sudden acceleration of my pulse. His vulnerability is… disarming. And incredibly attractive.
"It must be intense," I say, trying to imagine his life in the city.
"Yep." A simple, though very fitting response. He leans back, stretching his long legs out, and the couch suddenly feels even smaller. "Though for all my complaining, I have to admit there’s a satisfaction in knowing you're saving lives. You know, feeling… needed."
"Yeah. I guess that kind of purpose helps you get through the grind, huh?" I say, my eyes fixed on my tea. The warmth of the mug doesn’t quite reach the heaviness settling in my chest. "It must be incredible, having that. Knowing what you do actually matters."
I set the mug down, suddenly restless. I cross to the window and look out at the quiet street below.
"You okay, Elena?" Cole’s voice is low, careful.
"Yeah… I just…" I inhale slowly. "I was thinking about my mom."
"What about her?"
"She used to be a wedding singer," I say, my voice steadier now. "Not famous, but she loved it. She’d come home lit up from the inside, talking about how she got to make someone’s big day a little more magical.
" A small smile flickers, half memory, half ache.
"She always said there was no better feeling than working to bring people joy. It wasn’t just a job to her, it was purpose.
And back then… life felt kind of enchanted. Full of light."
I pause, the smile fading from my voice. "But that was before…"
I hear the couch creak. He stands, and I hear him move closer. Then he's here. Close, but not touching. Just offering his presence.
"Before what, Elena?" His voice is low, gentle.
"Before my father left," I whisper. The confession feels like tearing open an old wound. "She had to give up her dreams. Took whatever work she could, cleaning houses, waiting tables… three jobs at once sometimes. Just to keep us going."
I swallow against the sting in my throat.
"I’m so sorry, Elena," he says, and there's no pity in it. Just understanding.
"It was a long time ago," I say, trying for a lightness I don’t feel.
"Doesn’t always make it hurt any less," he replies gently.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers reach for his. He meets me halfway, his hand wrapping around mine. Steady, warm, certain.
"I'm sure she's proud of you. What you're building, what you've accomplished."
I glance up at him, and in that moment, everything else falls away. There’s desire in his eyes, yes, but something else too. Tender. Real. A rush of heat blooms under my skin, sparked by the sudden stutter of my heart.
"I… I should probably go," he says, though his thumb keeps brushing across my knuckles like he doesn’t quite mean it.
"Should you?" My voice is barely more than breath.
His other hand rises, his knuckles grazing my jaw in the lightest touch, sending a shiver through me. "If I stay…" he begins, eyes searching mine.
"Stay," I whisper.
That one word breaks the fragile restraint we were clinging to. His lips find mine, and the rest of the world disappears. The kiss is soft at first, reverent, but then his hands find my face, and the kiss turns hungry.
My hands slide up into his hair as he draws me closer. The kiss tastes like chamomile and possibility, an attraction that defies logic and medication. When we part, breathless and wide-eyed, he leans his forehead against mine. "Are you sure?" he asks, voice husky with restraint.
In answer, I take his hand and lead him down the short hallway to my bedroom. Moonlight spills across the floorboards in silver ribbons. At the door, he pauses, his gaze searching mine one last time.
I nod once, and I pull him in.
What goes down is pure magic, a slow-burn dive into something molten. Cole is patient. Thorough. Each move calculated, every touch dialed in to make me lose it. His hands glide over my body, setting my skin on fire, sparking a hunger so deep it’s almost too much.
Our clothes just vanish, not ripped off but shed like they’re melting. His fingers skim my tits, my hips, my ass, his low murmurs hyping me up like I’m a masterpiece. When his lips hit that spot where my neck curves into my shoulder, sucking hard and nipping, I let out a shaky moan.
Then, he drops to his knees, spreading my thighs.
His mouth grazes my folds, teasing, before his tongue dives in, hitting my clit with slow, deliberate licks that make my head spin.
He’s relentless, swirling and sucking, and I’m gripping his hair, my hips grinding against his face as I moan loud enough to wake the whole building.
When he pushes me on my bed and slides into me, his cock stretches every inch of me.
We move as one as his hips rock into me, his knot already inflating, hitting spots that make my toes curl.
I cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, nails dragging down his back as the pressure inside me crests and threatens to break.
"Elena," he groans, his breath searing against the damp curve of my throat.
I rock up to meet him, every nerve sparking, the heat inside me building fast and sharp.
Then his hand slides between us, his fingers rubbing my clit in tight circles, and I’m done for.
My orgasm slams into me like a wave breaking open.
I cry out his name and my body tightens around him as everything shatters into white heat.
He follows a heartbeat later, spilling into me with a low, guttural moan, his knot locking our trembling bodies together.
We collapse on each other, spent and joined, his breathing evening out as his fingers drift lazily over my breasts, like he’s not done wanting.
"Stay tonight," I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me even closer, until there’s no space left between us. "Not going anywhere," he whispers into my hair with a low rumble.
Wrapped in Cole’s arms, with sleep pulling me under, I realize I've never felt so safe.