20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Annie
The morning light pours softly through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom, the kind of warm, golden light that normally coaxes a smile to my face. But today, it only makes me feel disoriented. My eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment to remember where I am.
Then it hits me—last night.
I sit up abruptly, clutching the blanket to my chest. My gaze darts around the room, but it’s empty. Of course, he’s gone. The space beside me is cold, the sheet untouched, as though he never spent the night at all.
My stomach churns with a mix of emotions I can’t quite pin down, and my entire body flushes as the memories from last night come back to me in flashes.
Last night, Cole had been… I don’t even have the words. Controlling. Demanding.
And I’d liked it.
No, I’d loved it.
The thought twists something deep inside me, and I feel a bit queasy. Remembering exactly what had happened between us and the way that I… I let out a low groan and close my eyes, sinking back into the pillows.
All I want to do is pull the covers over my head and not move for hours. Of course, Robbie will come looking for me soon if I do that.
A sharp jolt of panic rushes through me. Robbie!
I sit up quickly, toss the covers aside, and scramble to grab my phone. I’ve overslept. Shit, shit, shit! Why didn’t my alarm go off?
I’m ready to throw the covers back and rush to get ready when I see a message from Ellis:
I’ll be taking Robbie to school this morning. You have the morning off.
Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived.
I have the morning off? Why?
Is it because of… what happened last night?
I flush, the though mortifying me. Did Ellis know?
We hadn’t exactly been quiet.
Did Cole give me the morning off because I slept with him? Is that what he thinks this is?
Suddenly, even though I have the morning off, the thought of lying here doing nothing feels unbearable. I toss the blanket aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed— only to wince as a dull ache radiates between my legs and through my thighs, shocking me.
Oh. Right.
My cheeks flame as I use my hands to slowly stand, my movements careful and deliberate. Every step is a reminder of what happened, of how his hands gripped my hips, how his voice growled in my ear, how he made me feel things I’d never felt before.
Made me beg.
No. No. Don’t think about it.
I make my way to the bathroom, and the bright, sterile light only amplifies my discomfort. I avoid my reflection at first, busying myself with brushing my teeth, but as I rinse my mouth, my eyes catch my own in the mirror.
I look... different. Is it because I lost my virginity? That’s silly.
Flushed, maybe. Embarrassed.
The more I look at myself and remember—the way he kneaded my breasts, tortured my nipples with his lips and tongue. And did the same between my legs. Over and over and over again.
I can’t stop them this time. The memories come rushing back, unbidden. The way he’d controlled my body, how easily I’d submitted to his every command. The way he’d called me a good girl, and how it had made my stomach flutter in the most sinful way .
I’d begged him. Actually begged him. Begged him to eat me, touch me, fuck me.
My grip on the sink tightens as shame rises in my chest, hot and heavy.
What kind of person am I to have enjoyed that? To have been so obedient, so eager? To have given him control so easily?
I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they cling to me like a second skin.
By the time I’ve changed into a loose pair of sweatpants and a tank top, the shame has morphed into something heavier, something that sits like a lump in my throat. My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.
Refusing to give in, just sit on the floor in a little ball and weep.
Just as I’m stepping out of the bathroom, the door to my bedroom opens, and Cole strides in, a tray balanced in his hands.
I freeze, my heart lurching in my chest as the shame amplifies and nearly makes me throw up. “What are you doing here?”
He raises an eyebrow, unfazed by my sharp tone. “Bringing you breakfast.”
I glance at the tray—fresh fruit, golden French toast, orange juice—and suddenly feel sick. “I don’t want any,” I say quickly, turning away from him.
“You don’t want to eat anything? Evelyn made French toast.” His voice is calm, steady. Too steady.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my tone implying that I don’t want him there.
“You should eat a little anyway,” he says, still in the same patient tone.
“I said I’m not hungry,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended, and I don’t know why.
The embarrassment heaps on. Why am I acting like a petulant child? I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.
He sets the tray down on the small table near the window, moving with deliberate ease as if my irritation doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “You don’t have to eat all of it,” he says, turning to face me. “But you should eat something. You’ll feel better.”
The weight of his gaze feels like it’s pinning me in place. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want him to see me like this—tired, embarrassed, barely holding it together.
With the memory of last night hanging over our heads. The way I’d acted with him—shameless and desperate. The things I’d said…
My cheeks heat, and I hug my arms tighter around myself before I give in and start crying.
But he just continues to look at me with patience, and it’s irritating me. “How are you feeling this morning?”
His question throws me off balance. I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. “I told you. I’m fine.”
He exhales slowly, and the calm in his expression finally cracks, just a little. There’s a flicker of something—concern? Frustration? I can’t tell.
“No,” he says, taking a step closer. “You’re not.”
I bristle at his observation, the heat in my cheeks intensifying. It’s a wonder I haven’t burst into flames. “Yes, I am. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”
Instead of leaving, he steps closer, his green eyes searching mine. “Talk to me, Annie.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, taking a step back.
I stiffen as he reaches for me, but his hand doesn’t touch me. Instead, he gestures toward the small sitting room off my bedroom.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down,” I mutter, backing up a step.
“Just for a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“No! I don’t want you here,” I bite out, though the lump in my throat begs to differ.
His patience seems uncharacteristic—this is a man who commands entire rooms with a glance, who isn’t used to being told no. And yet, he doesn’t push.
He exhales softly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Fine.”
Before I can react, he bends down, sweeping me off my feet with an ease that leaves me breathless.
“Cole!” I gasp, struggling in his arms. “Put me down!”
“No,” he says simply.
My heart pounds as he carries me into the sitting room and sits on the plush couch with me in his lap. He pulls me close and nestles me against his chest. The warmth of his arms around me is both soothing and disarming, and for a moment, I don’t know what to do.
I freeze, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Taking care of you,” he says simply, his voice softer now. “Like I should have last night.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I open my mouth to argue, to tell him I don’t need taking care of, but the lump in my throat is too big to speak around. I press my lips together, trying to keep the tears at bay.
We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of his arm around me both comforting and overwhelming. I don’t know how to feel about any of this—about him, about last night, about myself .
“What’s wrong with me?” I whisper finally, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Why do I feel like this?”
He sighs, his chest rising and falling under my cheek steadily.
“I should’ve explained this before we did anything, Annie,” he says, his chest rumbling with his words. It’s oddly soothing, and I become aware of his hand moving up and down my back. “I’m sorry that I didn’t. Last night was your first time.”
He says it so casually that I feel the flush working over my skin. When will the embarrassment end?
“But it wasn’t just your first time having sex, it was your first time with someone like me. Someone… who likes what I like.”
Never apparently. The embarrassment is never going to end.
“What we did is not common, and it would be intense for someone with years of experience. See, what happens is that everything intensifies during sex. You get a rush of endorphins and adrenaline. You can become emotional. Understand?”
I don’t respond, not really sure where he’s going with this or why he’s giving me a weird sex biology lesson, but I nod and he continues.
“Usually, afterward, you come back down from that feeling of heightened emotions and move on. But during particularly intense sessions, all those things are amplified. It’s not just a rush of endorphins, it’s an overload. You’re hit with wave after wave of everything at once, pushing you up high, way higher. And after it’s over, your system doesn’t just level out—it crashes.”
“What does that mean for me?” I whisper.
“Well, when your body goes through such a high and then drops low, you can feel down, maybe a bit depressed. Ashamed even. At the things you might’ve done, the way those things felt, and the fact that you enjoyed them so thoroughly. Does that sound right?”
I bite my lip, my cheeks flushing as I think about last night. How I’d begged him to take control, to push me, to give me more. I fight the urge to sob and nod my head reluctantly.
“I thought so,” he says gently, his voice tinged with regret. “I had hopes that you wouldn’t go through it.”
“So I’m not always going to feel like this? It’s not always like this?” I glance down at my hands, twisting my fingers together nervously. “Because I don’t like feeling this way.”
He shakes his head. “Not always. It depends on the person, the situation, and the intensity of the experience. What we did last night was new for you, Annie—emotionally, physically. That kind of first experience... it’s a lot. But it won’t always feel like this.”
His words offer some comfort, but they also make me curious. I bite my lip, debating whether or not to ask the question that’s tugging at the edges of my mind.
But he can apparently read my mind because he says, “ You can ask me questions. I want you to.”
Finally, I decide to just go for it. “You said... it depends on the situation. What did you mean?”
He hesitates for a moment, his hand stilling on my back. “It depends on the dynamic,” he says carefully. “What people are into, what they explore together.”
“Like what?” I press, my cheeks heating as the question leaves my lips. “What kind of... dynamics?”
“Some… dynamics are very intense. Every time. Intense in a way that you don’t get used to.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze steady and assessing, before continuing. “Some people like to incorporate pain into their dynamic. Spanking, flogging, things like that. For them, it’s not just about the sensation—it’s about trust. Control. Letting go.”
My eyes widen, my mind racing to process his words. “People actually like that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m both horrified and... fascinated.
Cole nods. “Some do. And for those people, it can be deeply fulfilling. It’s not about hurting someone—it’s about connection, boundaries, trust. The combination of pleasure and pain is usually a pretty surefire way to bring these feelings on. What you’re experiencing, I mean. The more intense it is, the higher you go, the further you have to fall. So, for a lot of people, this is pretty common, and they have ways of dealing with them. Rituals, routines. ”
I flush, the idea both intriguing and overwhelming. “Are you…?” I ask hesitantly, the words feeling awkward on my tongue.
“Into that?” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “No.”
There’s a pause where I go back and forth, trying to decide whether to ask him my next question.
“Have you—” I can’t get the rest of the words out, but he apparently understands what I’m asking.
His green eyes meet mine, calm and steady. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t hesitate. “Have I tried it?” he asks, finishing my question for me. “Yes.”
I blink, not expecting such a direct answer. My cheeks flush even hotter, and I glance down at my hands. “Oh,” I whisper.
“It’s a consequence of being young and not knowing what you want,” he continues, his voice measured, like he’s explaining something factual rather than personal. “You try different things, and that’s what I’ve done.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. Different things. I suddenly want to know everything. And absolutely nothing at the same time.
His is lips curve into a faint, almost wry smile, almost as if he can read my thoughts. “It’s about the pain, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s about the trust that comes with giving and receiving it. About pushing limits—mentally, physically—seeing just how far you can go, and knowing someone is there to catch you when you’ve reached it; that you’re safe.”
His words sink in slowly, and I find myself more curious than I should be. “But for you?”
He shakes his head. “For me, it’s not about pain. It’s about control. About pushing boundaries, but in other ways. Of course, there are some people who like a little more control and enjoy the ritual aspect of it, the honorary titles, the kneeling and worshiping and such. Some like total control, every aspect of someone’s life. I don’t desire that. I just need control in bed. Control of your pleasure, whether it’s withholding it or providing it.”
The casual way he says it, “control of your pleasure,” and remembering the way he’d teased me, tormented me, until I was practically begging for release, makes me want to crawl under the couch and hide forever.
“But there is a responsibility that comes with it,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, a note of something darker running through it.
I bite my lip, my thoughts racing. “Is that why you’re... here now?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at the sitting room around us. “Because of... responsibility?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Partly. But mostly because I care about how you’re feeling, Annie. Last night wasn’t just about control or pleasure—it was about you. Your first time, your experience. That matters to me.”
His words hit me harder than I expect, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. The lump in my throat starts to form again, but this time, it’s different. It’s not shame or embarrassment—it’s something warmer, softer.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit, my voice barely audible.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says gently. “But I want you to know that what you’re feeling right now is okay. It’s normal. And it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you or what we did.”
His reassurance pinpoints exactly what I’m feeling. The shame of being into… that. I don’t know if it exactly releases me from the feeling, but it’s soothing.
“It’s just... a lot,” I say finally.
“I know,” he says simply. “And that’s why I’m here. To make sure you’re okay.”
I glance up at him, studying his face. There’s no trace of arrogance or condescension—just sincerity. It’s disarming in a way I didn’t expect, and for the first time since I woke up, I feel like I can breathe again.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A small smile curves his lips. “Are you ready to eat now?”
“I’m still not very hungry.”
He nods. “I understand, but I want you try. It’ll make you feel better.”
I hesitate, but eventually nod.
He sets me aside gently, like I’m something fragile, and walks into my bedroom to retrieve the tray. When he places it in front of me on the couch cushion, he gives me a look that leaves no room for argument. “Eat,” he orders softly.
I pick up a piece of French toast and take a small bite. The sweetness of the syrup and the warmth of the toast are comforting in a way I hadn’t expected, and as I eat, I feel some of the tension in my body start to ease.
“Good,” he says, watching me with a satisfied expression. “You needed this. Drink the juice. You need hydration.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, glancing at him between sips.
He nods, his expression softening. “You don’t have to thank me, Annie. This is... part of it. Making sure you’re okay.”’
If anyone had asked me yesterday whether I thought a softer side of Cole Wagner existed, I would’ve given them a big fat no. But today? Today, I consider myself lucky to know the other side of him. The side not many people get to see.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all.
As I pick up the glass and sip the orange juice, a thought pops into my head—a question I was too afraid to ask him before. “When are you planning on opening the pool?”
His brow arches slightly at the sudden change in subject. Sexual dynamics to pools. I don’t blame him.
“The pool’s scheduled to open next month.”
I frown. “Can’t it be sooner? A lot of people keep their pools heated and open year-round in this climate.”
He shrugs. “I never had a reason to. I don’t use it, and Robbie doesn’t go in it much.”
“Well, I think he’d like to,” I say, my tone soft but insistent. “Plus, he’s made some friends at school, and I thought it would be nice to have them over for a pool party. The days are getting hotter, and the school year’s almost over.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I’ll make some calls.”
A smile spreads across my face, and for the first time all morning, I genuinely feel okay.
No, he’s not so bad after all.