Chapter 18 #2
“They win together,” he says, dead seriously. Then he flicks the towel at my hip and grins. “Or lose together. The theme is together.” He smiles. “This looks like a win to me.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, the kind of laugh you can’t have unless you’re off-guard and a little tired and completely unafraid of who’s watching you.
We fall into a rhythm, two people who used to orbit with maximum distance now finding the places they can touch, even if it’s just hands brushing in the soap suds or elbows bumping as we reach for the same plate.
He’s careful with the breakables, meticulous in a way that’s almost reverent, and I remember what Anna said about him: he only seems offhanded because he’s thinking five moves ahead.
He laughs softly, “I like that you don’t pretend this is normal,” he says, voice quieter now, “because it’s not. You and me, we’re going to have a family that is far beyond any dream we’ve ever dared dream. We’re going to be extraordinary.”
I stand there looking at him, guarded, expecting to be let down the moment I put all my trust in believing that it’s possible. A smirk, a laugh, anything, but there isn’t one thing, not one that leads me to believe he doesn’t fully imagine it’s possible.
I clear my throat and hand him the pan, that is now mostly clean to load in the dishwasher, “And what does extraordinary look like, if you dared to imagine it?”
He takes the pan from me, pauses before sliding it into the rack and taking his time adjusting it like he’s considering the question with the seriousness it deserves.
“Quiet,” he says finally.
I blink. “Quiet?”
He nods, eyes still on the dishwasher as he adjusts the pan, making sure it fits just right. “Not empty. Not boring. Just… steady. Mornings that don’t feel like emergencies. A table that gets used. A house that knows who belongs in it.”
He glances at me then, searching my face like he’s checking whether I’m still with him.
“Extraordinary doesn’t mean loud,” he adds. “It means no one’s afraid to go to sleep.”
Oh God.
He closes the dishwasher with a soft click and leans back against the counter, folding his arms, giving me space instead of taking it up. Always noticing. Always choosing restraint.
“It looks like Lucy knowing she’s not going anywhere,” he continues.
“It looks like you finishing what you started when you decided not to settle for a life that is so far beneath you it’s neighbors with Hell.
It looks like me learning how to see that what I want, and what is clearly destined to be mine, isn’t across the Atlantic. ”
I swallow. “Destined to be yours?”
He nods once, “Just like I am destined to belong to you.”
I try to think of a way to argue that, but I want to believe it’s true, just as he seems to.
“And arguments,” he says, because of course he does. “But fair ones. Ones that end with understanding, not exits.” A small smile tugs at his mouth. “And dinners like tonight, even if they’re messy. Especially if they’re messy.”
I look down at my hands, still damp, still smelling faintly of soap and rice and something warmer underneath it all.
“That sounds… possible,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He steps closer, not crowding me, just enough that I can feel the heat of him, the certainty. “It is,” he says. “With you. With me. With Lucy.”
He holds out his hand, expecting me to take it, and so I do.
He pulls me into a hug, a freaking hug, holding me there until I feel… tired, and ready to turn off all the questions I have and sleep.
I exhale, slow and careful. “Extraordinary,” I whisper, “might just be surviving the day and wanting to do it again tomorrow.”
He steps back just a fraction and smiles down at me softly, eyes moving from my eyes to my lips. “It’s a win.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when the space between us disappears.
I don’t remember deciding to move, only that his hand is still in mine and then it isn’t, because it’s sliding to my waist instead, fingers firm, hands lightly calloused, strong and anchoring.
My back hits the counter with a soft thud, not startled, just …
caught. He pauses there for half a heartbeat, searching my face, like consent is something he needs, just like that night.
I lift my chin and that’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine with a hunger that feels like before, like the restraint he’s held is snapping, like days of careful distance finally giving way.
It’s not gentle, not rushed, just deep and measured, his lips moving against mine like he’s trying to say everything he’s been holding back —we both have— without words.
I fist my hands into his shirt, dragging him closer, feeling the heat of him, the size and power beneath his clothes.
He groans softly into my mouth, the sound low and wrecked, sending a shock straight through me.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my lips, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I kiss him again, harder this time, all teeth, tongues, breath and need. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs pressing just under my ribs like he’s grounding himself. He kisses like he means it. Like this isn’t just want, it’s purpose.
My knees weaken and he feels it instantly, crowding in, bracing me with his body, his thigh nudging between mine.
The counter digs into my lower back, the contrast sharp but perfect.
His mouth trails from mine to my jaw, to the sensitive place just below my ear, and I gasp despite trying to hold it back.
“Hildy,” he breathes, and the way he says my name, like a promise and a warning all at once, makes my pulse trip.
I tug him back up, needing his mouth again, needing the kiss to stay front and center, because if he keeps discovering new places like that, I’m not sure I’ll stay upright.
He smiles against my lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s enjoying the way I’m unraveling, until he realizes so is he.
His lips crash into mine, this kiss, hungry and insistent. His hands grip my waist firmly, pulling me against him while my hands work their way through his hair and down his back to grasp at his shirt.
Our bodies sway together as he lifts me onto the countertop, my legs wrap around his waist, heals digging into his firm ass pulling him closer. He nips at my lip before kissing a trail down my jawline and along my neck again.
He slides one hand up under my shirt, fingers dancing along my ribs before taking hold of my breast and tweaking the nipple between his fingers until I gasp from the sensation.
As our mouths continue exploring each other's taste and warmth, he guides one of my hands to his belt, encouraging me to unbuckle it and free his erection.
I do as he guides me, and as I wrap my fingers around his throbbing member, a soft groan escapes his lips.
He starts to undress me slowly, shedding my shirt and bra before slowly dipping his hand inside my waistband.
His fingertips trace the lace edge of my panties as he meets my gaze, silently asking for permission.
I nod and arch my hips up, allowing him remove the rest of my clothes, expose my wet heat to him.
He runs a finger between my slick folds before pressing it into me with a gentle but urgent need while our mouths continue their hungry exploration. As I begin to rock against his hand, he suddenly withdraws and tugs down his boxers.
He positions himself at my entrance, teasing me with the head of his cock. There’s a beat — a pause, a question. “Do I need a condom?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges, all low tension and restraint.
My mind is already gone, lost in the sharp ache of wanting him, but I still find the air to answer, “No,” because if it was ever going to matter, it would have been a different night, a different story.
He doesn’t move at first; he just holds there, the anticipation almost unbearable, body pressed between my knees, eyes fixed on mine as if daring me to change my answer.
My thighs tremble around his hips and I bite my lip, waiting for the burn, the stretch, the feeling of being overfilled.
When he finally pushes in proving I wasn’t.
It’s slow, deliberate, drawn out until I’m certain I can’t take anymore but also that I’d die if he stopped.
Inch by inch, he slides into me, thick and hot and so much, his hands planted on either side of my hips as if he needs to brace himself against the force of it.
I gasp when he thrusts deeper and my body clenches involuntarily, the pressure making my vision shimmer at the edges.
He holds still, buried to the hilt, just letting me get used to him, breathing hard through his nose.
His jaw grinds like he’s wrestling himself into not moving, not rushing, but the tension radiates from every part of him.
The kitchen lights above us paint his hair gold and cast his face in gentle shadow, and I can’t stop staring: the line of his throat, the sweat beading at his temple, the way his focus never leaves me, not for a second.
He rocks his hips the tiniest bit, testing. It sends a shock through me, heat and pleasure and the bite of being so full, and I dig my nails into his back, trying to pull him deeper even though physically, that seems impossible.
“You okay?” he says, barely above a whisper, voice raw with effort.
“God, yes,” I manage, laughing a little, half delirious. “Just—don’t stop.”
“Couldn’t if I tried,” he says, and then finally, finally, he begins to move.
At first, it’s a slow rhythm, careful and controlled, every movement deliberate, as if this is still part of some negotiation where he refuses to take what I haven’t given.
But I want him to take it, want to be ruined by this, and once he knows it—really knows it—something in him breaks loose.
His grip tightens on my hips, his thrusts grow stronger, desperate, making the counter rattle and my whole body arch up to meet him.
He leans in, mouth pressed to the shell of my ear, and grinds out, “Your pussy, Hildy, is—” A savage pause; he breaks off, shudders, then tries again, his hands gripping my hips like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second.
“Fucking perfect. Better than perfect.” He’s losing words, but not intensity, and every syllable feels like it’s branded into me, low and true and wrecked.
“So tight, so fucking sweet, I can’t—” He groans, the sound barely human, and it shoots straight through me, makes me clutch him harder, legs locked around his waist, all of me clutching and clinging and wanting.
My name in his mouth is an act of worship. His tongue finds the line of my jaw, like he’s tasting proof. The sensation’s so sharp I nearly cry out, but I bite it back, meeting his rhythm, daring him not to lose control.
He lifts me from the counter and I cling to him, mouths still tasting each others as he moves us down the hall, past Lucy’s room, and into mine, where he lays me on the bed, never breaking our connection.
The pace builds, raw and reckless, nothing gentle left, just want and friction and the drive to get closer, deeper, as if we could fuse. He keeps muttering things, half-English, half-broken, all hot and desperate. “God, Hildy, fuck—never—never like this—”
I don’t know if it’s meant for me or for himself, but I take it all, let it curl down to the base of my spine, let it erase every story I’ve ever told myself about being too much, or not enough.
The world condenses to this: the slick sound of us, the slap of skin, the trembling coil of something huge and inevitable about to break, and the reverent filth of his words, pushing me closer to the edge.
My body is so alive it hurts, so hypersensitive I’m not sure if I’m about to sob or scream. I pull his head down, whisper into his hair, “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
He answers with another hard thrust, the kind that makes the bed groan, and suddenly we’re both silently laughing, breathless, wild, like we’re not even in control anymore, like the only way out is through.
He wraps an arm around my back, hauls me upright against him so our faces are level. Our noses bump. We’re both grinning like idiots, teeth flashing, eyes locked, the two of us suspended in a loop of pure never ending want.
When he kisses me this time, it’s nothing like before: it’s unhinged, needy, both of us on the verge. His hips jerk hard and fast, chasing something, and I realize with a jolt that he’s right there, barely holding on.
I don’t want him to.
“Come for me,” I say, and the words are more command than plea.
He shudders, shoves forward, and I feel him go, every muscle going taut before he collapses, forehead pressed to mine, breath tangled with my own.
"Extraordinary," I whisper into his chest.
"We can have it all," he murmurs into my hair while holding me tight against him.