Chapter 35
JULES
Cookies turned into a movie, one where I spent most of it curled on the couch with Cole tucked against my side.
He asked about the various things around my house, told me he was impressed by my father’s woodworking skills.
Never in a million years would I have dreamed up this scenario—me, cuddled up on the couch with Cole, who I once thought had a permanent stick up my ass.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
We were back in the kitchen now, an open bottle of red wine and takeout from O’Malley’s spread across the table between us.
“I was just thinking about my nickname for you before Italy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh God. Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not,” he said, smiling.
“You need to try this,” I added, pushing my plate toward him. “They make the most delicious grouper anywhere in the Finger Lakes.”
“If you remember from Italy,” he said, “I don’t like fish.”
“Just one little bite?”
He eyed my plate like it might come alive and attack him. The expression made me laugh, but I was determined he’d at least taste it.
I cut off a small piece, speared it with my fork, and stood, walking toward him.
“One bite for a reward.”
He looked skeptical. “What’s the reward? I need to know first.”
I glanced at his phone sitting beside our plates. “A secret. I’ll tell you a secret if you take a bite.”
His mouth opened immediately, his head tipping back slightly.
Seeing him like that?
Dear Lord, give me strength.
I slid the fork into his mouth. He closed his lips around it, chewing, making a face. I waited, not sure why I cared so much whether he liked it.
“Okay,” he finally said. “That’s not as fishy as I expected. And it’s not terrible.”
Not terrible. I’d take it.
I should’ve moved away. Gone back to my seat. Instead, he leaned down and kissed me—soft and quick.
“You taste like grouper,” he said. “Add that to the reasons I don’t like fish.”
I returned to my seat, and we finished the meal. When the kitchen was cleaned and the inevitable question still hovered between us, I debated what to say.
He should probably head back. Check on Mason. See if they needed anything.
Or—
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” I asked. “Too bad you didn’t bring a change of clothes,” I added. “You wouldn’t have to go back out in the storm to the inn.”
“I didn’t have a change of clothes last night,” he said. “And that worked out okay.”
Truth was, the decision had probably been made before I even brought it up.
And so, for the second time in my life, later that night, I stepped into my bedroom with Cole behind me. I imagined the sticky notes tucked into my drawer.
I handed him a spare toothbrush. He stripped down to his boxers. It felt like the most natural thing in the world—climbing into bed after what could only be described as a peaceful, easy day.
When he came back into the room, one lamp glowing softly, me already in bed, there was zero chance he’d be able to resist me—and he didn’t bother trying.
He told me to take off my clothes, and I did. He told me to straddle him, and I did. He didn’t tell me to wrap my hand around him—he didn’t need to. He was already hard, like he always was around me. But I knew he liked watching me like this.
“Have you ever touched yourself thinking about me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “You?”
“Do you really have to ask? Come here.”
I moved closer, close enough for him to slip his fingers into me, already slick and waiting. I didn’t need to be primed, but he did it anyway. My lips parted, my hands braced on his thighs, my head tipped back.
“Come for me like this.”
My eyes snapped back to his. “I—”
“I wasn’t asking.”
That did something to me. I was even wetter now, and he took his time—circling, teasing, pushing me closer. When I felt myself tightening around his fingers, he replaced them with his cock.
I was already coming. I rode him, lost in it, my body moving above his as he thrust up, gripping my hips, pulling me down. We came together—fast, intense, shattering—the pleasure tearing through me, heightened by the look on his face.
I loved seeing him like that.
I loved coming for him.
I loved Cole.
It was as though that last thought—lying there afterward, tangled together, the aftermath of quick but utterly satisfying sex—made him pull away. As if he were reading my mind.
“I think I’m going to head back to Heritage Hill,” he said.
Still tucked against his chest, I lifted my head to look at him. The question was there, unspoken.
“If I stay,” he said quietly, “I’ll make promises I’m not ready to keep.”
I expected to push him away. To tell him to go.
Instead, I kissed him. I think it was meant to be quick, small—but it lingered. The kind of kiss that made leaving necessary.
When it felt right, he kissed my nose and slipped out of bed.
I didn’t say a word. Just sat up, pulling the covers around myself.
I was waiting for him, and I wasn’t sure another day together would be a good idea.
“I’ll text you?” he asked.
“Sounds good. I’m free after eleven tomorrow.”
That was the invitation.
He nodded instead, and before he could change his mind—or fuck things up further—he left my room.
I walked him out only in my head, through the quiet domestic comfort of my small house, out onto the front porch. The lightning was gone, the thunder too—just steady rain.
I imagined him looking at the Grado Valley truck, then toward Cedar Falls Square in the distance.
This place wouldn’t be enough for a lot of people.
But it would be for him.