Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alicia
“This is crazy,” my assistant says, hovering in the doorway on her way out. The sun has dropped behind the buildings, taking whatever warmth existed with it. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“You’ve been a wonder,” I tell her. And it’s true—having my small staff and my friends stand by me feels like a lifeline. “Thank you.”
“Of course. You’d do the same for me.”
Petra hesitates, then adds, “I hope it’s over by Thanksgiving. Did you remember to order a turkey?”
Thanksgiving. My mind blanks. Whatever flickers over my face makes her laugh.
“Don’t worry. When I order mine, I’ll order yours.”
“When is—”
“Two weeks,” she says gently.
Two weeks. Which means Stella’s school play is next week. I need to get my head back in the game.
My phone lights up with a video request. Stella.
“I’ll let you get that,” my assistant says, waving as she leaves.
I smooth a hand over my hair before I answer. “Mom. Are you still at the office?” Stella’s face fills the screen.
“Yes, hon. Are you home?”
“I’m at Dad’s,” she corrects automatically—home to her is still my place, and the small, greedy part of me clings to that.
She babbles about picking dinner, choosing Indian, then pivots to tomorrow night’s cooking plans. Her enthusiasm is my undoing.
“Either one works,” I say, fighting a sudden ache.
Richard appears behind her, suit jacket off, tie loosened. He asks to switch to voice, then calls me back without video.
“How did things go?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, because Stella is too close to the phone for anything else.
“It’s just me,” he says after a beat. “How’d it really go?”
I exhale. “Clients were supportive. Better than I expected.”
“That’s good. Are you working late?”
“No. I owe Dorian a call.”
“Dorian Moore?” A beat. “So you and Dorian are still close?”
“I’m too tired for this,” I murmur.
“It was a question.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Richard, please.”
There’s a sigh, the kind that comes from the bottom of a long, sleepless night.
“You know you can count on me, right?”
“Can I?” The words slip. “Jessica was looking into custody—”
“She shouldn’t have said anything,” he mutters.
Of course. Always Jessica’s fault.
But then his voice softens. “Our daughter comes first. You know that.”
“I won’t let you take her from me,” I say quietly. “But…thank you. For caring.”
A beat of silence passes. I brace for an argumentative response, but instead get, “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The line goes dead.
I scroll through Christine’s texts—supportive, fiery, threatening to “pay the Dick a visit.” I snort. Thank God for her.
I’m finishing email triage when knuckles rap lightly on my doorframe. Noah stands there and warmth rolls through me like a wave.
“Hey,” I breathe.
“Work as long as you need,” he says. “Just wanted you to know I’m here. Gabriel’s off the clock. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you home.”
Something inside settles. “You know what? I’m done.”
He helps me with my coat, brushes a soft kiss over my mouth, and ushers me out. Under the streetlights, with his arm around me, it hits me how natural this feels. How safe.
How much I’ll miss him when he’s gone.
I shove that thought away.
In the car, his hand finds mine.
“Tomorrow the legal team and KOAN are splitting up the witness list—running down anyone who can undercut the prosecution’s case.” he says. “We’ll track down that missing woman.”
“Has she resurfaced?”
“No. But we’ll find her.”
I don’t know how he does it—how he makes impossible things sound solvable.
I tell him about dinner at Richard’s tomorrow. He doesn’t like it—I see it—but he nods. “I’ll drive you. And pick you up.”
There’s something possessive in that. Something steady.
Something I want too much.
By silent agreement, conversation fades as he turns onto my street.
“I think I’m in the mood for another shower,” I say softly.
A slow smile curves his mouth. “Is that right?”
But when we step inside, the house is dark, hushed, empty.
And suddenly the shower feels too far away.
Inside, Noah closes the door behind us, then reaches for the keypad and lowers every blind with a quiet mechanical hum. The house pulls inward, private, cocooned.
“We don’t have to talk anymore tonight,” he murmurs. “You’ve carried enough on your shoulders today.”
Emotion hits me like a tidal pull.
“I can’t believe you’re still here,” I whisper.
He pulls me in, holding me with a strength I sense—and crave.
“Alicia,” he says, thumb brushing my jaw, voice low and certain, “I’m right where I want to be. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s saying all the right things. Now isn’t the time to read into anything—one way or another. But his statement lands with the weight of truth, sliding under every defense I’ve been pretending still exists.
My breath trembles. “Good,” I say, because the alternative is admitting how deep I’ve fallen and it’s not a good time for that confession.
His mouth meets mine, slow, claiming, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that says he’s not taking tonight from me—he’s giving it. Giving me back to myself.
His hands skim down my waist, guiding me backward until the back of my calves meet the sofa. I sink onto the cushions, and he follows, bracing a knee between mine, his palms framing my face.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs.
“I want you,” I breathe. “Just…you.”
He kisses me deeply, and I tug him down with me, our bodies molding into the warm sinking sofa cushions.
Clothes come away slowly—his hands at the hem of my shirt, mine at his buttons—and there’s none of the urgency of before, none of the desperation.
Just his palms sliding up my sides as he lifts the fabric over my head, the press of his mouth to my shoulder, my collarbone, the curve of my throat.
Each point of contact feels deliberate. Chosen.
Like he’s learning me again from the beginning, taking his time because he has it and he knows I need him to use it.
When there’s nothing left between us, he pulls back just enough to look at me. Not the dark, hungry assessment of before. Something quieter. Like he’s making sure I'm still here.
I am. More than I’ve been in weeks.
When he moves over me, I reach for his hips and draw him in—and the difference from the first time hits me immediately.
Not the shock of it, not the adjustment.
Just—recognition. My body knows him now.
Knows the weight of him, the warmth, the specific way he fills me.
I exhale slowly as he seats himself fully, his eyes locked on mine, both of us still for a moment in the gray quiet of the room.
It’s nothing like before. Before was want. This is something I don’t have a clean word for.
He moves with a tenderness that unravels everything I’ve kept locked tight.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Just…present. With me. For me.
The rhythm he sets is unhurried, deep, each movement pulling sensation through me in long slow waves rather than the sharp building friction of before.
I feel him everywhere—his chest against mine, his hand cradling the back of my neck, the steady press and drag of him inside me that keeps finding the same place, keeps making my breath catch in the same way.
Each slow thrust feels like an answer to a question I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
His forehead drops to mine. “Alicia…”
I clutch his shoulders, my voice breaking on a gasp. “I know.”
When I come, it doesn’t shatter me the way the first time did.
It opens me. A long, rolling wave that starts deep and moves outward, my whole body going soft and loose even as I grip him tighter, his name breaking quietly on my lips.
I feel him follow—the stutter of his hips, the low groan muffled against my hair, his arms locking around me—and I hold on, and he holds on, and for a moment we’re just two people who’ve stopped pretending.
When breath finally returns, he eases beside me, gathering me into his arms. My cheek rests against his chest, and his fingers trace lazy circles along my spine.
It feels unwise. Like I’m skating toward a treacherous cliff.
And also completely right.
“You with me?” he whispers into my hair.
I close my eyes, unable to speak the truth—that I’m already in too deep, that I’m already his in ways I shouldn’t be.
Instead, I curl closer. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m with you.”
His arm tightens, steady as a promise.
And in the quiet of the shuttered house, I know: It’s already too late to fight this.
I’ve fallen.