37. Ivy
IVY
T he air hits me like a dream, salty and warm, thick with sun and promise. I step down from the plane and onto the tarmac, wind curling around my legs, sunlight brushing my cheeks, and I can’t stop smiling.
Jack follows a few steps behind me, and when I glance over my shoulder, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, yet also like I’ve known him forever.
He’s walking toward me with that easy confidence, the afternoon light catching the gold strands in his hair and the shadow of a smile curving his mouth.
And in that moment, I remember everything, the heartbreak, the longing, the risk it took to trust him again.
I feel it all rush back, not as pain, but as proof of how far we’ve come.
The man I once feared I’d lost is here, whole and mine, and the weight of that realization presses into my chest with something close to awe.
His sleeves are rolled, jaw shadowed with just the right amount of stubble, eyes locked on me like I’m the miracle.
And God, he’s devastating. Handsome in that calm, unshakable way that used to drive me crazy.
Still does. I’ve never felt so seen. Or so desired.
Or so thoroughly ruined by a man just standing in the sun, looking at me like that.
We walk slowly across the tarmac, the breeze playing with my hair, the hum of the engines still vibrating faintly in my chest. A sleek black limo waits near the edge of the hangar, its polished surface gleaming under the Caribbean sun.
As we approach, the driver steps forward and opens the door with a slight nod.
Jack touches the small of my back and guides me inside, our hands still linked.
The cool interior wraps around us, the leather seats soft and inviting, a chilled bottle of water tucked into the console.
We settle in, our knees brushing, eyes meeting in the hush that follows the thrill of arrival.
as I take in the view. The airport behind us gleams white and modern, but ahead, it’s all palm trees and blue sky and the kind of stillness that promises escape.
My fingers brush Jack’s, and he catches them instantly, lacing his hand through mine like it’s instinct.
That spark is still there. That low, unmistakable heat beneath the surface. He looks down at me, and it’s not just love, it’s hunger, too. A question and an answer folded into one shared glance.
“I can’t believe you pulled this off,” I murmur.
He grins. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
I let myself look at the ring again, huge, brilliant, utterly him, and I remember every terrifying second before he slid it onto my finger.
The way I thought he’d chosen someone else.
The pit in my stomach, the spiraling fear, the silence that followed my own footsteps out of his life.
But I also remember the way he kissed me when I showed up at his door.
The way he looked at me like he hadn’t exhaled in days. Like I was home.
Now we’re here. In the Bahamas. Engaged. Laughing. Surrounded by sun and sea and the kind of impossible, spontaneous magic I never let myself believe in before him.
I turn toward him, lift onto my toes, and kiss him, not because it’s expected, but because I can’t not. He pulls me in, warm hands at my waist, and for a moment, I forget the flight, the past, even the heat. All I feel is him.
“Ready to see where we’re staying?” he asks, low and close.
“Only if it’s got a bed,” I tease.
His answering look is nothing short of sinful. “Oh, it does. Several.”
And just like that, I’m breathless again.
I glance at him, so unshakably sure, so completely mine, and I remember what it felt like to think I’d lost him.
That night I saw the photo. The way my stomach turned.
The way I ran instead of asking. The way I didn’t trust what I knew of him, what I felt every time he looked at me like I was his entire world.
I thought he’d chosen someone else. And the worst part wasn’t the jealousy.
It was the fear that I hadn’t mattered as much as I hoped.
I let the silence stretch between us as we walk, sunlight wrapping around our joined hands. Then I say, quietly, “I thought you were with someone else.”
He looks at me sharply. “That day?”
I nod. “Sienna saw you with a woman on the street, and I assumed the worst. I didn’t know she was the planner you hired, not until we showed up at your place and found her there, and you explained.”
Jack turns to face me. “I would’ve chased you, Ivy,” he says, but there’s something behind his eyes now, a flicker of the panic he must have felt, the desperation of not knowing where I was or if I was ever coming back. His jaw tightens as if the memory alone could drag him under.
“I didn’t care where you went. I would’ve turned the city upside down to find you.”
“I know.” I swallow. “I just… I need to say this. I should’ve trusted what we had. I should’ve come to you sooner. And next time, if there’s ever another moment like that, I will. I promise.”
His jaw clenches, not in anger, but in something that looks like restraint. Then he lifts my hand and presses his mouth to it. Slow. Firm. Certain.
“There won’t be a next time,” he says. “But if there is, you come to me. No running. No shutting down. Just us. Talking.”
I nod, blinking back something behind my eyes. “Okay.”
He studies me for a beat longer, then smiles, this soft, unguarded thing that makes my chest ache.
“Let’s go find that bed now,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
His smirk is immediate. “God, I love you.”
The words wrap around something tender inside me, like a salve on a wound I didn’t realize still ached.
After everything we’ve been through, all the silence, the doubt, the longing, he says it like a truth that’s never wavered.
My throat tightens, but not with sadness.
With something closer to relief. To wonder.
“I know,” I whisper.
***
The limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the hotel, and a uniformed valet opens the door with a crisp nod.
Jack steps out first, offering his hand with a crooked smile.
I take it, letting him help me out as the warm breeze rushes over us again.
We walk up the marble steps, our fingers still linked, past towering palms and water features that sparkle in the late afternoon light.
As we enter the lobby, a wave of cool air welcomes us, scented faintly with jasmine.
The receptionist greets Jack by name, and we’re offered chilled towels and a welcome drink while our bags are discreetly whisked away.
We arrive at the hotel minutes later. It’s not just luxurious, it’s art.
Sleek lines, marble steps, turquoise pools framed by palm trees, soft music drifting through the open-air lobby.
A cool towel and chilled drink are offered as we check in. Jack’s hand never leaves mine.
We’re led through winding garden paths to our suite. The door opens to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows, white linens, a private plunge pool, and the ocean stretching just beyond the glass.
I step inside, stunned. “Jack…”
He sets the room key on the table, then comes up behind me, arms sliding around my waist.
“You like it?”
“It’s perfect.”
His lips graze my shoulder. “Not as perfect as you.”
I turn to him, catching the spark in his eyes.
And then we’re kissing, deep and slow, and full of everything we haven’t said yet.
He walks me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed.
His hands are everywhere, possessive, reverent, as he slowly undresses me.
He peels my dress down my shoulders with agonizing care, kissing each inch of skin he reveals.
When it pools at my feet, he drops to his knees, pressing his mouth to the soft skin above my hip, making me shiver.
His hands skim up my thighs as he slides my underwear down, eyes dark and hungry.
I reach for him, breathless, but he catches my wrist, kisses my palm, and whispers, "Let me take care of you.
" Then we fall onto the bed together, tangled in sheets and laughter and heat.
His mouth trails from my lips to the edge of my jaw, then lower, brushing the sensitive dip at my throat before dragging along my collarbone. I feel every flick of his tongue like a live wire, and my skin tingles in its wake.
He cups my breast, thumb circling until I gasp, and then his mouth is there, hot, wet, claiming.
I arch beneath him as he moves lower, his hands parting my thighs with aching slowness.
He kisses the inside of one, then the other, teasing, torturing, before finally giving me the kind of attention that makes me cry out.
My fingers twist into the sheets as his tongue moves deliberately, unhurried, building pressure until I’m trembling.
“Jack…” I whisper, broken and breathless.
He rises, eyes dark with hunger, mouth slick from me.
“I’m not done,” he growls. He takes a moment, hovering over me, gaze locked with mine, possessive, utterly certain.
His hand slides beneath my thigh, lifting it, anchoring me.
With one slow, deliberate thrust, he slides his dick inside, inch by devastating inch, claiming every part of me until we’re completely joined.
He holds there, buried deep, exhaling like he’s finally come home.
“You feel like heaven,” he rasps.
Then he moves, slow and deep, every thrust a promise, every stroke a claim.
Each movement lights up my body, and the sensation of him, of us, is overwhelming.
It’s not just physical; it’s everything we’ve been holding back, now laid bare in the press of his body against mine, in the loud, rough sounds he makes just for me.
I clutch at his shoulders, his back, anchoring myself as pleasure and emotion collide in a storm that feels like surrender.
I meet him, again and again, each movement stoking the fire until we’re both ready to shatter.
His hand finds mine and laces our fingers together above my head as his hips drive harder, deeper. My body tightens, poised on the edge.
“I’ve got you,” he groans. “You’re mine. Every part of you.”
When I come apart, it’s not just violent, it’s soul-deep, rolling through me in waves that leave me gasping and crying out his name. My back arches, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure shudders through every nerve.
He watches me, eyes locked to mine, lips parted in awe as if watching something filthy and beautiful all at once, like sin wrapped in devotion.
And then he’s following, a raw sound tearing from his throat as he thrusts once, twice more, spilling into me with a groan.
He clutches me like I’m the only thing tethering him to the world, and maybe, I am.
We collapse into each other, tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin, chests rising in sync. His hand drifts up my thigh, slow and reverent.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I breathe. “And I love you too. Harder than I ever knew I could.”
We lie there, hearts still pounding, the ocean murmuring outside.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t dream of running.
I dream of staying. With the right man. With the right brother.
The one who saw me, even when I didn’t fully see myself.
The one who waited, who fought, who never once gave up.
All that time I thought I needed safety, tradition, the plan.
What I needed was this, him. This fire, this depth, this impossible kind of love I thought only existed in dreams and late-night fantasies. And now it’s mine. He’s mine.
Staying used to mean settling. Now, it means choosing.
Again and again, even on the hard days. It means building something flawed and beautiful and real.
A life where we stumble and laugh and love, where I don’t vanish at the first sign of fear, and he never lets go first. It means waking up to the same steady heartbeat beside mine and knowing I’m exactly where I want to be.