Chapter 30 Ridge #2
She considers that. "You're not wrong. But shouldn't that be my decision to make?"
“You're right. It should be.”
She nods once slowly. “That matters.”
She shifts on her stool, angling toward me, one knee brushing mine. It isn’t accidental.
She lifts her glass but doesn’t drink. She turns it slightly instead, watching the light catch along the curve.
“I knew what your world was,” she says. Not looking at me. “From the beginning. I wasn’t na?ve about that.”
I wait, letting her find the rest of it on her own.
“What mattered to me,” she continues, “was that I trusted you to know where the edges were. I didn’t want to have to spell it out.”
Her fingers still. She finally looks at me.
“My instinct was to put distance between you and anything that could hurt you,” I say. “I didn’t stop to consider what that distance cost you.”
Her mouth tightens.
“It was hard, I'm not going to sugarcoat it,” she says. “But I understand why you did it.”
She takes a sip, then sets the glass down. I watch the red legs of the wine crawl slowly back down the curve of the glass.
“I missed you,” she says. The words come out quieter than the rest. “And hearing you answer that question tonight, about the fentanyl.” She pauses. Breath steady. “It settled something in me that I hadn't realized was still an open wound.”
I watch her carefully.
“I never believed that was who you were,” she adds.
“I wouldn’t have left it unanswered if I’d known,” I say. “In the moment, I needed to be sure before I spoke.”
“I understand that now,” she says.
Another silence opens. This one is heavier.
“All I’ve done these last months,” I say, “is deal with what I inherited, working hard to put things back in order.”
I stop there. I don’t list it or try to justify it beyond that simple truth.
“I didn’t want you living inside that,” I add finally. “And I couldn’t keep living in constant reactive mode.”
She studies me for a long moment, then looks away, down at the bar, like she needs something solid to focus on.
“I didn’t move on,” she says.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I’m weighing strategy, but because this is the point where honesty costs something. “I didn’t either.”
She turns back to me. Her expression shifts.
“Why didn't you?” she asks.
I keep it simple. I don’t reach for language that makes it safer. “Because I didn’t want anyone else.”
The words sit between us. I realize the word "else" tells her and me everything we need to know. There has never been anyone else but her.
She exhales slowly, the tension easing out of her shoulders. We sit there like that, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her arm, not touching, not retreating either.
She finishes her wine and sets the glass down. “I should probably get going.”
I nod, even though I don’t want her to.
She reaches for her purse, pulls out her wallet. I put my hand over hers. “Let me.”
She studies me for a moment, then lets go.
I pull a bill from my money clip and set it on the bar. When she stands, I lift her coat and hold it open. She steps into it, and for a second my hands rest at her shoulders and neither of us moves.
“Can I see you again?” I ask.
Her gaze sharpens. Not defensive. Focused.
“You’re not going to tell me this is a bad idea.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to promise me safety.”
“No.”
She nods once. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Thanks for the wine,” I say. “It was almost as good as the company.”
She smiles faintly, then steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her.
“Can I interest you in another Pinot at my place?”
The question isn’t playful. It isn’t coy, either. Instead, it's offered the same way she's offered everything else tonight, deliberately, like she already knows what the answer will cost.
“I can't think of anything I'd like more,” I say without hesitation.
We don’t linger after that. Not because we’re rushing, but because there’s nothing left to negotiate. She pulls her coat tighter around herself as we step outside. The air has cooled enough that it feels like a clean line drawn across my face.
We walk without talking. The street is quieter now, the kind of quiet that presses in instead of opening up.
Her steps fall into rhythm with mine without effort.
At the corner, she glances over, then reaches for my arm, not tentatively, just anchoring herself there.
I don’t comment on it. I adjust my pace and let her stay.
Her place isn’t far. When we get inside, she flicks on a single light and kicks off her shoes, moving through the space like it belongs to her in a way that isn’t performative. She sets her purse down, then pauses, suddenly aware of the silence.
“I just need to say this out loud before we go any further” she says before turning around to face me. "If we’re doing this, I need it to be a conscious decision, not a habit or muscle memory."
“I completely agree,” I answer.
She grips my coat by the lapels, holding me there. We’re close enough that I can feel her breathing.
Then she pulls me in.
Her lips find mine in the dark, her hands still gripping my coat. I back her against the wall, my fingers threading through her hair. She tastes like wine and desire, familiar and new all at once.
"I've thought about this," I murmur against her neck. "Every night for months."
She pulls at my shirt, buttons catching on her fingers. "Show me."
I don't waste time with patience. My coat hits the floor, followed by my tie. Her hands are already working at my belt as I push her jacket from her shoulders, letting it pool at our feet.
"Bedroom," she gasps when I bite gently at her collarbone.
We stumble down the hallway, a trail of discarded clothing marking our path. Her dress slides down her body, revealing black lace underneath. My breath catches.
"Jesus, Coco."
She smirks, walking backward toward the bed, crooking her finger. "Come here."
I follow, shirtless now, my pants undone. When her legs hit the mattress, I place my hands on her waist and lower her down.
"I want to taste you," I say, my voice rough with need. "I've missed how you smell, how you sound."
Her eyes darken. "Then do it."
I slide her underwear down her legs, dropping to my knees beside the bed. Her skin is warm beneath my hands as I spread her thighs. The scent of her arousal makes my head swim.
"You're already wet for me."
She lifts her hips impatiently. "Don't tease me."
I don't. My mouth finds her center, my tongue tracing her folds before circling her clit. She arches off the bed, a gasp tearing from her throat.
"Fuck, Ridge."
Her fingers twist in my hair, guiding me where she needs me most. I slide two fingers inside her, curving upward, feeling her clench around me.
"I've thought about this," she admits, breathless. "Alone in my bed, remembering how you feel."
The image of her touching herself, thinking of me, nearly breaks my control. I increase my pace, her thighs trembling against my shoulders.
"I've missed you," I murmur against her skin. "Every part of you."
Her breathing quickens, her body tensing. "Ridge, I'm close."
I don't stop, working her with my fingers and tongue until she shatters, my name a broken cry on her lips. I kiss my way up her body as she recovers, her skin flushed and damp with sweat.
"Get these off," she demands, tugging at my pants.
I stand and shed the rest of my clothes. Her eyes roam over me, hungry and appreciative.
"Come here," she whispers.
I settle between her thighs, my cock hard against her stomach. She wraps her legs around my waist, guiding me to her entrance.
"I want to take my time," I tell her, fighting for control. "Make up for everything we missed."
She reaches up to touch my face, her expression suddenly serious. "We have time for that. Right now I just need you."
I push into her slowly, watching her eyes close in pleasure. When I'm fully seated, I pause, overwhelmed by the sensation of being inside her again.
"I love you," I say, the words simple and true. "I never stopped."
Her eyes open, meeting mine. "I love you, too."
I begin to move, drawing it out, savoring each thrust. She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails digging into my back.
"Harder," she demands, lifting her hips. "I need more. I've missed you."
I hook my arms under her knees, changing the angle, driving deeper. Her second orgasm builds quickly, her inner walls clenching around me.
"Come with me," she gasps, her body tightening. "Please."
My control snaps. I thrust hard and deep, my release crashing through me as she climaxes again.
My forehead stays pressed to hers while our breathing slows, the space between us close enough that every exhale crosses the same small distance. Her eyes stay on mine, steady and unguarded, and I do not look away.
My hand remains at the back of her head when my thumb traces the line of her jaw once, then stills.
Her breath brushes my throat, uneven at first, then settles. Mine follows a moment later as the room returns to me gradually. The low hum of the city seeps through the window, the sheet twisted tight around my wrist, the weight of her body pressed into mine.
I lie awake for I don’t know how long, holding her, smelling her, letting myself savor her skin against mine. Goddamn, I’ve missed her.
At some point, she shifts, reaching for the edge of the sheet, tugging it up without thinking. The motion is small. Domestic. Ordinary, even.
I notice it, but I don’t speak, for fear of breaking this.
She rests her head against my shoulder, not asking, not negotiating. Choosing.
When I finally move, it isn’t to leave. It’s to reach for my buzzing phone on the floor and turn it off. I don’t even look to see who it is.