Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The rain hammered against the cabin's tin roof like a thousand restless fingers, each droplet a sharp percussion that matched the tension coiling inside Chase's muscles. He watched Jewel as she strode to the bathroom, water dripping from her hair and clothes onto the hardwood floor.
Why was she here? The sadness in her eyes spoke volumes—a complex language of hurt and uncertainty that he'd never fully deciphered. Her wet shirt clung to her body, revealing the outline of her form, but Chase wasn't thinking about desire. Not right now.
"Are you upset that she's mine?" His voice sounded rough, uneven.
Jewel didn't immediately respond, simply paused in the doorway to the bathroom, her shoulders hunching forward as she hesitated. "I don't know, I'm just processing," she said, her words wooden and hollow, uncertain and so unlike the Jewel he knew.
Her back to him, she looked over her shoulder—not quite meeting his eyes, but close enough that he could see the shimmer of something—pain, maybe. Resignation.
She stepped inside but didn't shut the door. Chase moved to the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel but froze while drying his hair. He was frozen in place, water still dripping from his own clothes, creating small puddles on the cabin's wooden floor.
He watched her undress like some perv but couldn't bring himself to move.
The shower started, creating a white noise that filled the silence between them. She hadn't answered the question really, but her body language screamed volumes—shoulders tight, hands slightly trembling as she took off her shirt, not even caring that he could see into the bathroom.
They both knew the truth now. The weight of that revelation pressed against his chest like a physical force, making each breath feel deliberate, calculated. His body focused on the physical while it was on autopilot as his mind scrambled with the raw reality they both now faced.
Jewel stepped out of her pants, tossing all her clothes into the hamper. The steam from the shower began to curl around Jewel's form, transforming her into something ethereal, almost untouchable. And yet, he wanted to touch her, to understand her, to heal whatever fracture had formed between them and either move forward together or apart.
He couldn't keep wondering if she would take a chance on him. She'd run away after their first kiss, then had come back and they'd slept together. Only to not talk for weeks as she avoided him again.
He had to know, if not tonight then before she left in the morning, whether this was all they'd have together. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this night—right here, right now—would change everything.
She stepped forward, her movements deliberate but slightly unsteady as she opened the shower door. Pausing, she turned back to him, their eyes meeting across the room.
It was inevitable. The pull between them, the unspoken history, the raw truth of Destini—all of it converged in this moment. Slowly, he moved toward the bathroom, each step deliberate as she watched him steadily.
As he stepped into the bathroom, his heart clenched—she was crying, silent crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks. Her shoulders trembled, the slight hitch in her breathing, the lost look in her eyes… She needed him, whether she admitted it out loud or not.
He stripped, tossing his clothes and stepping toward her. Silently, she opened the shower door and led them both inside. The water was hot, comforting, washing him free from his past so he could step out into his new future as a father.
Jewel turned, her eyes glistening—not just from the water, but from tears. "Chase," she whispered, the name catching somewhere between a plea and a confession.
He opened his arms, and she collapsed into them, her wet body pressing against him, her tears turning to sobs. Last time, he'd been the one broken and crying in the shower. This time, it was her.
His heart ached with a painful knowledge—these tears were about Destini. About the daughter he now knew was his. He'd never felt so unworthy, so utterly unlovable.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. He was sorry for going to prison, for the accident, for not being there for her and Destini for the past fifteen years. His words weren't enough and never would be, so he just rocked her softly, gently from side to side and let her cry.
When her sobs finally slowed and he felt the tension in her shoulders shift, he tried to pull away—driven by a misguided sense of preserving her modesty perhaps—but she moved with lightning speed. Her hand tightened on his back, fingers digging into his skin.
"No," she said, the word sharp and immediate, her head pulling back and chin tipping up to look at him. He was captured in her baby blues, glittering with tears on her long lashes. Desperation flashed, but underneath was something more, something she'd long buried and continued to hide.
Before he could respond, she pulled his head down. Her lips met his in a kiss that was frantic, consuming, a kiss that seemed to say everything words could not. Her breath shifted, transforming into something else—something more urgent, more physical, more primal.
Unable to deny her—unable to deny himself—Chase pressed her against the shower wall. The cold tile made her gasp, her body arching instinctively against his.
The water continued to fall around them, a relentless, indifferent witness.
His hands found her curves, gripping her ass firmly. In one fluid motion, he lifted her. She responded instantly, legs wrapping around him, holding him with an intensity that made him groan. The contact—skin against skin, wet and urgent—felt impossibly good.
She moved against him, a subtle, desperate rhythm. Her hips rocked, whimpering sounds escaping her lips. "Please," she breathed, the word barely audible over the shower's steady cascade.
Those soft, needy sounds speared through him, igniting something ancient and uncontrollable. He was beyond rational thought, driven by pure need. With deliberate precision, he aligned their bodies, and then—slowly, achingly slowly—slid inside her.
Her scalding pussy was hotter than the water around them, but he wanted the burning brand of her love. He pressed harder, pulled out almost all the way, then plunged inside once more, joining them in a timeless dance. She was deliciously tight, and he hissed with every thrust.
Her gasp was sharp, her body tensing and then relaxing around him as she gripped him. His hands remained locked on her ass, supporting her weight, controlling their connection. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, impossibly closer, pressed together from lips to heart to core.
They settled into a rhythm—slow, deep, consuming. Each thrust punctuated by shared breaths, by the slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Their lips never separated, tongues dancing in time with their bodies. A kiss that was both a claim and a surrender.
He didn't want to let her go again, and the thought made him drive in harder. The shower continued its steady rhythm, a counterpoint to their more urgent music.
His heart expanded, cracking open with a sudden, overwhelming realization. He loved her—truly, completely. Not just in this moment of physical connection, but on a soul level. Perhaps he always had.
The knowledge settled into him like a deep, unshakable truth. He wanted to give her the world, to smooth every jagged edge of her pain, to protect her from anything that might ever hurt her again.
This wasn't just desire. This was something deeper, more profound.
Her body began to tense, muscles drawing tight. A soft cry escaped her—not of pain, but of building pleasure. She froze, clenching on him in quivering waves, her hand at his nape going up to grip his hair as she tipped her head back and cried out, echoing off the shower walls.
Her orgasm triggered something deep inside him. He thrust harder, deeper, with a wild abandon that came from somewhere beyond conscious thought. Each movement became more intense, more urgent.
His body tightened. Muscles coiled. His balls drew up, and then he was pouring all his love into her, a love without words, a soul connection without explanation.
Slowly, they came apart. Her legs trembled—delicate, vulnerable. He set her carefully on her feet, ensuring she was stable. Her body swayed slightly, spent and sensitive. Without breaking contact, he stepped under the shower's stream, rinsing away the evidence of their moment, letting warm water wash over both of them.
Fuck, he loved this woman. She was strong, to have weathered all she'd gone through in her life, but if she didn't learn to lean on him, trust him… love him… he didn't know what he'd do. He squeezed her tightly and stroked her back, just holding her.
When she shifted on her feet and stood on her own, he stepped out of the shower, droplets cascading down his skin. The terry cloth towel absorbed the moisture, wrapped snug around his hips. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, drying himself methodically while his mind replayed fragments of their intimacy.
The old cabin's tub beckoned—massive, built for comfort. He twisted both faucets, watching lavender-scented bubbles bloom and multiply. The cabin's plumbing groaned softly, a familiar sound that spoke of age and reliability. While it filled, he went to the kitchen.
With deliberate movements, he gathered wine, cubed cheese, and crackers. Each item selected with the same care he'd use selecting a gift for someone precious.
When he returned, she had already slipped into the bath. Her head rested against a folded towel, eyes closed, pale skin emerging from a cloud of iridescent bubbles. The sight made his breath catch. She looked so relaxed, yet fragile, and he wanted to hold her more.
He set the tray down carefully, reaching across her body to balance it on the ledge. Her eyes opened—liquid blue, vulnerable, holding something between exhaustion and tentative hope.
Their gazes locked, and he was mesmerized. She smiled, soft, uncertain, and indescribably beautiful. He didn't know where to go from here, how to tell her he loved her. He knew that it was probably too soon. He had to make sure she didn't run away again, like she had the last time he admitted that he wanted to take care of her.
A knot of tension clenched in his stomach. Something inside him—years of guardedness, of keeping people at arm's length—suddenly wanted to let this woman inside. He waved a hand, casual yet charged with intention, and dropped his towel.
"Sit up," he said, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. "I want in too."
Her eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and amusement dancing across her features. "Really? Guys take bubble baths?" A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "Did you draw this for you? I'm sorry, I'd just assumed?—"
The hint of vulnerability in her voice caught him off guard. Assumptions. They'd been dancing around those for weeks, for years maybe. Her words carried the weight of past judgments, of expectations that had likely disappointed her more times than he could imagine.
Chase watched her, reading the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers momentarily gripped the porcelain edge of the tub. One assumption after another had probably built walls around her heart—walls he was slowly, deliberately, determinedly dismantling.
He wanted her to see him, not as another man who would disappoint, but as someone genuine, someone who could surprise her, someone who would care for her like no one else.
"There's a lot about me that might surprise you." He slipped into the tub behind her, his hand gentle on her shoulder as she started to rise. "We can share the bath. Stay. Talk. Just let me hold you."
The words hung in the steam-filled bathroom, vulnerable and raw. No demand or expectation. Just a simple, profound desire for connection with her. The warmth of the water, the soft scent of lavender bubbles, created an intimate cocoon around them. With practiced care, he pulled her back, settling her between his legs.