Chapter 22 #2
He kisses me again, harder, “You’re going to own me,” he says against my mouth. “Is that what you want?”
I answer by dragging my hands down his chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle under his hoodie.
I tug at the waistband until it slips just enough for my fingers to brush bare skin.
He hisses, eyes going dark. I can feel him, thick and hot even through the fabric, and it makes my whole body go tight with anticipation.
“You don’t have to,” he says, but his voice is already breaking.
“I want to.”
At the stoplight, he leans his head back, throat exposed, and I press my mouth to the pulse pounding there.
I trail kisses down, nipping at his collarbone, and then lower still, until I’m breathing in the scent of him— wood, spice, earth, grounded and grounding.
I tug at his waistband again, and this time he lifts his hips so I can free him.
He’s already hard, impossibly so, and when I wrap my hand around him, he makes a sound that shoots straight through me.
I stroke him, slow at first, then faster, loving the way he bucks into my grip, completely undone.
I lean in and swirl my tongue around the head, tasting salt and heat and something that is just him.
He’s panting now, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard I think he might break it.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers as he pulls to the side of the road.
I keep going, never breaking eye contact, until his whole body goes tense and he shudders, coming apart with my name a curse on his lips. I watch the aftershocks ripple through him, and it makes me feel … powerful.
I settle back into my seat, licking my lips, and glance sideways at him. He’s just sitting there, breathing hard, looking at me like I’ve turned his world inside out.
“So,” I say, grinning, “still think I’m a problem?”
He laughs, loud and reckless this time. “You have no fucking idea.”
“Yeah, well, you too,” I tell him as he pulls onto the road and takes my hand, holding it against his chest.
“My problem is far worse.”
Not to be outdone, I tell him, “I could hardly watch the game tonight with my thoughts going to last night.”
He slides a hand across my thigh—open, casual, too familiar—and taps his thumb against the seam of my pajama pants.
“I don’t want to sleep without you. I want to sleep inside you.” I arch into his touch. “The hotel, I’ll—”
“I have a whole wing.”
“And your father will not have a problem with that?”
“We managed the other night, we can—”
“So, you’ll hide me?”
“No,” I almost yell. “No, not ever. It’s just difficult with his disease and—”
“You will never leave there, will you?” The way he asks is not accusatory, and there is no annoyance in his tone.
“How can I?” His hand moves to take mine.
“Okay.” He states.
“Okay?”
“I respect that, your love and your loyalty. I will spend time getting to know him, his disease, and routine.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, trying not to read into this too much.
“I told you I’m not sleeping without you. You stated you had a whole wing. He needs you. Consistency, routine, I’ve read about it, on the plane there and back. I will learn more.”
I wake in a bed that smells like us, but he isn’t in it.
The sheets are still warm on his side. I stare at the ceiling for a second, listening. Nothing. No shower or footsteps, just the quiet hum this place has always had.
I check my phone. Six in the morning.
He could’ve left already. He could’ve slipped out after we showered together, skin still damp, both of us a little wrecked and smiling in that stunned way you do after something shifts inside you. Mind-blowing doesn’t even begin to cover it, and I fell asleep within seconds.
When I sit up, that thought evaporates. His duffel is on the floor by the door.
The tightness in my chest loosens as I pull on my pajama pants and robe, slide my feet into slippers, and pad quietly into the hallway.
Then I hear voices. I slow down without thinking. They’re low, but I’d know both anywhere.
Chess pieces click softly somewhere ahead, that specific sound of wood on wood that belongs to only one room in this house.
I lean against the wall and listen.
My father speaks first. Clear, present, a good day. “Are you sure?”
There’s a pause. Long enough that I hold my breath.
“Yes,” Aleks answers with certainty.
Another pause. I picture my father studying the board, fingertips resting on a piece as it might answer for him. “How do you know?”
Aleks doesn’t rush when he answers; his voice is quieter, but steadier than anything I’ve ever heard. “I feel it in here,” he says. “And I’ve never felt that before.”
My hand comes up to my mouth before I can stop it, and the board clicks again.
My father exhales. “Please don’t take her away from me. Not yet.”
Something tightens behind my ribs. Not fear. Recognition.
Aleks answers immediately. “She won’t leave you.”
Another piece moves.
“And I won’t let this ruin her chance at happiness,” my father says, softer now. Protective in that way that has always been just for me.
Aleks’s reply is gentle, almost reverent. “How could you separate the moon from the sun?” he says. “She needs both.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“She’ll never have to choose,” he continues. “Not ever.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Sacred.
Then my father speaks again. “Would you stay here with her, then?”
“If she asked me to,” Aleks says, without hesitation, “I would.”
I step back quietly, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might give me away. I retreat down the hall, press my back to the wall, and let myself feel it all at once.
When I finally turn, Aleks is there.
Barefoot. Hoodie pulled on. Hair still a mess. He looks like he hasn’t slept much at all.
He sees my face and knows immediately.
“You heard,” he says softly.
I nod.
He steps closer, careful, like I might shatter. He cups my face with both hands, thumbs warm against my cheeks.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
I laugh, breathless and a little wrecked. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be anything but okay after that.”
His forehead rests against mine.
“I meant every word,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper. “But you have to be happy too, it’s not always a good day.”
“That’s why there’s also a night.”