Chapter 28 The Veil #2
His grip isn’t rejection—it’s restraint. And there’s something in his eyes, in the sharp set of his jaw that tells me this isn’t about teasing or control.
“Shit,” he breathes. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched tight. “I can’t. Fuck.”
I blink, stunned. The fog in my head clears just enough to process it.
Is he… saying no?
To me?
But then he lets out a ragged breath. “The… piercing. Fuuuuck.”
“Oh.” I close my eyes, deflating. “Oh.”
And now the questions I didn’t ask earlier are back. In fact, they slam into me like a freight train.
How bad is it? How long does that kind of piercing even take to heal? Days? Weeks?
I don’t want to stop. God help me, I really don’t want to stop.
“I want to,” he rasps, like he’s struggling to hold himself together. “God, Ashley… I want you so fucking bad.”
I feel it—coiled tight in the tension of his muscles, the way he’s braced above me like he’s this close to breaking.
But he won’t. He literally can’t.
And darn it, that makes me want him more.
His eyes rake over my face, and I see—frustration, hunger, regret.
“So bad,” he murmurs. His mouth finds my cheek, my jaw, then the hollow just beneath my ear—the one that lights me up like a match to fireworks.
And then, I feel his hand moving lower.
“I’ve got this,” he whispers, the promise ragged and low.
Then we’re kissing again, so deep. His body shifts beside me—half covering me.
“Sweet Jesus.”
His hand slips under my top, skimming up my ribcage, his palm warm and familiar against my bare skin. I arch, gasping as he finds my breast, and then teases it lazily with his thumb.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the hem of my cotton shorts, and I lift my hips, letting him pull them down, letting go of everything except the feel of his hand along my inner thigh.
He kisses the hollow of my throat, and then lower, and my body is already trembling when his hand finally finds me.
I part my knees.
“I want in you so damn bad,” he murmurs.
“Um hmmm.” I want to say more but I’ve seemingly lost the ability to talk.
He slides two fingers along my center, slow and deliberate, circling my clit but never quite giving me everything. My hips lift instinctively, chasing more, but he just chuckles—low, dark, wicked.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice a gravel-soft tease against my skin. “I want to take my time.”
His fingers move again, lower, daring, exploring, then back up to circle, to torment. I can’t stop the gasp that tears from my throat, or the way my legs open wider. My way of begging for… more.
“You’re so wet,” he says, kissing just below my ear. “Is this all for me?”
“Yes.” I’m barely breathing. “God, yes.”
“Damn straight it is.” He dips a finger inside, then another, the stretch achingly perfect. Curling. Pressing.
“You feel like heaven,” he whispers. “I could do this all night.”
When I cry out, hips rocking, he slows just a little, dragging me back from the edge.
“Not yet,” he growls softly. “I want to watch you fall apart. Again. And again.”
I clutch at his arm, my whole body trembling, a sound slipping from me that doesn’t even feel human anymore. He finds that rhythm again—just right, deep and sure—and everything inside me tightens.
His lips brush my temple. “Now, Ash. Let go for me.”
Orgasms crash through me, not like an avalanche, but in waves—one after another—my body seizing, pulling him in, my breath breaking, the pleasure almost too much, too deep.
I sob his name into the crook of his neck, and he just holds me through it—hand gentle now, soothing.
There are no words. No pressure, and for a few stolen seconds, the world shrinks to nothing but the sound of our breathing and the hum of the ship’s engine.
Then his phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Intrusive. Annoying. Persistent.
I freeze. My skin still shivering. My heart still open.
“Don’t,” I whisper against his mouth. “Don’t answer it.”
He doesn’t move at first. His forehead rests against mine, and for one suspended breath, I almost believe he won’t.
That this time, I matter more.
But then he sighs—rakes a hand through his hair—and the shift is unmistakable.
He’s pulling away.
“I have to,” he says.
Cold air hits me.
He grabs the phone, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s on the balcony, closing the door behind him.
And just like that, it’s last year all over again.
Warmth replaced by silence.
I sit up, stunned—but only for a second.
You stupid, stupid woman.
I don’t just hear the words once. I hear them on repeat.
I scramble for my underwear, my shorts—fumbling as I shove myself back together. I grab the veil and my sewing kit like I’m packing shame into a getaway bag.
The massive walk-in closet calls to me, the only place in the suite that feels remotely safe. I step inside, close the door behind me, and sink onto the carpet.
Tulle spills across my lap in soft, crumpled waves, and I press trembling fingers to the fabric, trying to remember what I was doing before everything turned upside down.
It’s fine. It didn’t mean anything.
My hands are shaking but I still manage to thread the needle.
Temporary relapse, that’s all.
Passing the needle through. In. Out. In. Out.
Piercing the delicate fabric, like each stitch will hold the wedding together. Luna’s wedding. Not my debacle of a marriage. Hers is still ahead of her.
After all she went through with her old boyfriend, my sister deserves something beautiful. And it doesn’t have to be perfect, but it damn well better be forever. So I focus on that—on her.
My fingers move faster now. Mechanical. Clean. I won’t think about Beckett’s mouth or the way his hands felt on my body. I won’t think about what it means that I didn’t just let it happen, I begged for it. I won’t think about the part of me that still wants him. Or what that says about me.
But this cruise? This wedding? All for Luna.
But it’s getting harder to lie to myself.
A soft knock on the door. Then his voice.
“Ashley?”
I hate how fast my heart reacts.
“Babe, I… I’m sorry.”
His voice is low, coaxing. Like that could make this better.
“Who was it?” I hate. Hate. Hate that I ask. Because he won’t answer. He never does.
There’s a pause. “It’s almost over.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’s complicated. But I swear—Ash, I swear I’m doing everything I can to fix it. Open the door?” he adds. “Please?”
“Fuck you, Beckett.”
The words sound foreign coming out of my mouth, but also… appropriate for the situation.
Silence.
Then, “It’s not what you think. I—”
“I don’t even know what to think. Because you won’t tell me anything! So just… Stop.” My voice cracks. “Just go away.”