49. Ransom
49
RANSOM
B lair's words hang in the air, a challenge, an invitation. "I want you, Ransom." Her grey eyes meet mine, no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just pure, unadulterated desire. Finally.
Fucking finally.
My mind races, trying to make sense of this sudden shift. Just days ago, she'd been cool, distant, keeping me at arm's length, making excuses. Now, here she stands, walls down, eyes blazing with want. The practical part of my brain screams to ask why, to understand what changed, but the rest of me says fuck it, figure that shit out later. Blair doesn’t lie. She doesn’t say shit because that’s what someone wants to hear.
So if she says she’s in. She’s in.
So now? I’m going to fucking feast.
I step closer, the scent of oil and grease filling my nostrils, mixing with her scent, something sweet and uniquely Blair. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that," I say, my voice low, almost a growl.
She smirks, taking a step back, her hips hitting the workbench behind her. "Probably as long as I've wanted to say it."
I close the distance between us, my hands finding her hips, gripping them tight. She gasps, her eyes widening, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into me, her hands snaking up my chest, leaving streaks of grease on my coveralls. I laugh, a low rumble in my chest. "You're making a mess, Blair."
She grins, her fingers finding the zipper of my coveralls, tugging it down slowly. "I thought you liked ‘messy.’"
I do. I like her ‘messy.’ I like her wild and free, uninhibited. I like her any way I can have her.
I lean in, capturing her mouth with mine. The kiss starts frantic, desperate, our teeth clashing, our tongues tangling, our breaths mingling in the space between us. Her hands push the coveralls off my shoulders, her fingers tracing the lines of my muscles over my shirt, sending shivers down my spine.
But then something in her touch shifts, the urgency melting into something deeper, more deliberate. Matching her comes as easily as breathing. I slow the kiss, savoring the taste of her and the soft sigh that escapes her lips. My hands slide up her back, pulling her closer, holding her like she might disappear if I let go. The world narrows to just this—the warmth of her body against mine, the gentle sweep of her tongue, the way she trembles when I brush my thumb along her jawline.
I break the kiss, trailing my lips down her neck, inhaling her familiar yet changed scent—vanilla mixed with something deeper, more mature. She shivers, her head falling back, giving me better access, just like she used to. She's always so strong. So determined. But in my arms, she surrenders, letting me explore her. I nip at her collarbone, my hands finding the hem of her t-shirt, pushing it up, revealing her stomach, her ribs, her breasts encased in a simple black bra.
The years changed her body—curves replaced angles, thicker muscle where there used to be softness. I run my fingers over her skin, learning what's different, wanting her even more than before. My head's full of old memories, but this is better. She still reacts the same way to my touch, still catches her breath like she used to. It's messing with my head, touching her now and remembering then, everything blurring together as I explore her skin.
She helps me pull the shirt over her head, her hair falling in a messy tangle around her shoulders. I reach behind her, unclasping her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts are perfect, full and round, heavy, her nipples hard and begging for my touch. I bend down, taking one into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the peak. She moans, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her hips bucking against mine.
"Holy fuck," she groans. "I'm not going to ask where you learned that. I don't care."
She could ask, but I wouldn't be able to answer her. I can't remember my own name right now, let alone any of the women in my past. I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, satisfied when she groans again, sagging against me. My hands find the waistband of her jeans, popping the button open, sliding the zipper down. I cup her mound, and through the fabric, I can feel the heat of her, the dampness of her desire soaking through her panties.
I can't wait to taste her, to feel her come undone under my touch. So many nights dreaming of her, wishing I could touch her any way I want has me fucking frantic. Then I catch sight of my hands against her pale skin—I'm leaving dark smudges everywhere I touch her. Motor oil and grease from the garage. I burst out laughing, unable to help myself.
I step back from her, and she scowls, reaching for me. "Baby, I want my hands all over you, but first I need to get cleaned up. I’ve got you all dirty." I grab her equally greasy hand, pulling her with me toward the sink. She's grumbling and laughing as I turn on the tap, both of us scrubbing our hands with the industrial soap. Water splashes everywhere as we bump hips, stealing kisses between rinses until our hands are finally clean. Her eyes are bright with laughter and want.
I pull back, my breath ragged, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Blair's eyes meet mine, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from our kisses. I stop and stare, drinking her in. "God, you're beautiful," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Being with you after all this time... it's fucking incredible."
She smiles, a soft, almost shy curve of her lips. "It's fitting, don't you think? This is where we first connected, after all." She gestures around the garage, the familiar scent of oil and metal surrounding us.
I laugh, a low rumble in my chest. "Fitting or not, I wish we had a bed. I want to worship every inch of you, and this place..." I trail off, my eyes flicking to the hard, cold workbench behind her. Not what I pictured for our first time, but I have a fuck of a lot of fantasies to work out. Blair in this garage, on the hood of a classic car is one of them. There aren’t any classics in here tonight, and I don’t give a fuck.
“Do you know how many times I imagined taking you on the hood of a car? I swear every fucking shift we were together, I dreamed about it. And today? It’s so much worse.”
One eyebrow arches up, and her smile is slow, all woman. All sex. “You think you’re the only one?”
Her phone rings, a shrill, jarring sound that cuts through the moment. She hesitates, her eyes flicking between me and the phone next to us on the workbench. I see the name on the screen - Maggie. She bites her lip, giving me an apologetic look before answering. "Hey, Mags."
I step back, giving her space, but I don’t try and pretend to give her privacy. I want to ask her to hang up and just focus on us. But I'd never do that. I'm never going to make her choose between me and Maggie. It's not fair. I understand responsibility and the pressure on her better than anyone.
As she listens, her face falls, the softness from moments ago replaced by concern. "Yeah, of course. I'll pick something up on the way home." She hangs up, her shoulders slumping slightly.
"Everything okay?" I ask, even though I know it's not. Real life is intruding, shattering the moment we just shared.
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Maggie slept most of the day. She needs me to pick up something for dinner." She looks up at me, her eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and resignation.
I reach out, taking her hand. "Let's go," I say, squeezing her fingers gently. "I'm inviting myself to dinner."
She looks at me, surprise flickering in her grey eyes. Then she smiles, a genuine, warm smile that lights up her face. "Okay," she says, her voice soft. "Let's go. But first, where the hell did my shirt go?”
I scrub at a stubborn spot on one of the plates while Blair rinses beside me, our elbows brushing. The domesticity of it all hits me - standing here in Maggie's kitchen, washing dishes after dinner like I belong. Like I've always been here. I want more of this. Just being together in all the simple moments.
A high-pitched squeal breaks through my thoughts, followed by the rapid patter of not-so-tiny feet. Max tears through the kitchen, buck naked and giggling, his wet hair plastered to his forehead.
"Maxwell Jones!" Maggie calls out, her voice breathless but filled with laughter. She appears in the doorway, clutching a towel, her face flushed from the chase. Her steps are unsteady, and she grabs the door frame for support.
Blair drops the dish towel and lunges for Max as he makes another lap around the kitchen island. "Got you!" She scoops him up, his wet body squirming against her chest as he shrieks. "If you flap your hot dog anywhere near me, I'm going to be pissed, Max."
Ah, shit.
I could have told her that's a rookie move. And as any self-respecting six-year-old boy would do, he tries to flip in her arms and slap her with his dick. I turn back to the dishes, gripping the sink, using every muscle in my body to hold it together. If I laugh, they're done for. He'll be doing it at every bath time for the next year.
Maggie slumps against the doorframe, still laughing but clearly winded. The sound catches in her throat, turning into a weak cough. My jaw clenches. This vibrant woman who's chasing her naked kid around the kitchen, who's raising this amazing little boy, who means everything to Blair—she's just giving up.
And it's making me insane.
Blair wraps Max in the towel Maggie's holding, and I watch as she takes over, leading both Max and Maggie toward the bedrooms. "Come on, you little jerk. Time for pajamas."
I turn back to the sink, gripping the edge until my knuckles turn white. The dishes forgotten, all I can think about is Maggie's resignation. How can she accept this? How can she look at that little boy, at Blair, and not want to fight with everything she has?
I understand choice. I understand dignity. But watching her struggle for breath from just playing with her son—it's so wrong.
Wiping my hands, I pull out my phone, staring at the unopened email from Declan. Attached is a comprehensive file detailing every possible treatment option for Maggie: clinical trials, experimental therapies, and recommendations from specialists across the globe. My brothers are fucking thorough. And doctors with months long wait for a consult are happy to work late if it means a sizable donation to their hospitals.
So we donated money all over the globe, and have a file full of hope ready for her.
If she’ll only look.
Blair's footsteps echo down the hallway, and I shove the phone back in my pocket. She looks exhausted, panting as she enters the kitchen.
"Max finally put his dick away?"
"Yes. That little jerk made me wrestle him into his pajamas." The panting makes a lot more sense. I've been winded more than once trying to get a onesie on Noah after a diaper change. He's a fucking beast and has some ninja-level skills.
Looking at her bright eyes, the laughter still in them, I can't hold it in anymore. "My brothers sent me something. About Maggie."
Her gray eyes lock onto mine, turning serious. "What about Maggie?"
"Don't be mad, please." I study her, waiting for a nod. When I get it, I take a deep breath and tell her. "I asked them to look into some treatment options. I wanted to know if there were any clinical trials or if we could get some second opinions." I pull out my phone again. "I haven't looked at it yet. It felt wrong doing this behind your back."
"Is that even legal?" She doesn't slap me or yell at me. Instead, her tone is level. And that scares me enough that I almost back up. It is level because she's about to tear into me, or….okay, I don't have any idea what the other possibility is.
I shrug and take a tiny step back. "Not even a little bit. Declan's a bit of a hacker, and he made all the inquiries look legit. Well—they are legit. He just made it look like Maggie agreed to her information being shared."
"So you broke the law." Her voice is expressionless, but I don't make the mistake of thinking it's because she doesn't care. She cares too much, and the blank mask is a symptom of that.
"I did. And I don't regret it for a second."
"Because you want to help Maggie."
I don't try and hide the wince, and of course she picks up on it, gaze turning sharp and questioning. "I care about Maggie. And I want Max to have his mom. But I'm not really doing it for either of them. I'm doing it for you. Because someone you love is sick, and it's killing you. And that makes me fucking mental."
"I'm handling it."
"You are. And that pisses me off too. You shouldn't have to handle it. I don't like it. At all."
"Everyone has to deal with death sometime."
"Nope. Not you. You're done. You've had more than your fair share. I don't want it touching you. I don't want you thinking about it or worrying about it. And I know I can't control that. You're in the thick of Maggie's decisions. So that's why I have that file."
"Are you asking for my permission?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm telling you because you've got too much on your shoulders already. Too many decisions to make. I'll talk to Maggie about it myself."
"But?"
"But I'm worried she'll be angry. Not at me—at you. That she'll think you put me up to this. I'm going to make it really fucking clear that it's on me. And I'm going to give her my honest opinion on all of this. But there may be some blowback."
"Your family knows you pretty well. Becca knows you pretty well. She warned me you might do this." Becca told her? Jesus, that woman's too smart for her own good. Add in the air of crazy about her, and she's as cunning as...I don't know. Some cunning scary animal.
Blair pushes off from the counter, moving closer, her chin tipped."I don't care if Maggie gets mad at me."
She means it. Now. But what about a week from now? "Blair?—"
"No, listen." She grabs my arm, her grip tight enough to leave marks. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, jaw clenched against the emotion threatening to spill over. "If there's even a small chance that something in that file could save her, I want her to know about it. I want her to try." Her voice cracks, but she clears her throat and takes a deep breath. "I need her to try, Ransom."
I pull her into my arms, feeling her trembling. "Okay. I'll talk to her tomorrow."
"We'll talk to her tomorrow," she corrects me. "Together."