CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Johanna
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Johanna
“INTO IT” — CHASE ATLANTIC
Present Day
The elevator doors close behind us with a soft, metallic click.
There’s no turning back now.
By the time we reach my room, I’m still fumbling through my clutch for the keycard with my clumsy, unsteady hands. Once I finally find the stupid thing, I swipe it against the lock and the door clicks open before I can fully catch my breath.
I’m nervous.
Nervous to be alone with him.
Not because I don’t want to be—it’s all I’ve been thinking about since the wedding planning night at Grayson and Mia’s house—but because of all the time that has passed.
Maybe it’s only been six years. To most people, that probably doesn’t seem like very long—but to me, it feels like an eternity.
When he realizes this version of me isn’t the same girl he fell in love with back then—in more than just a surface level kind of way—will he still want me the same way he claims to now?
My thoughts are still racing as we cross the threshold.
The door barely closes behind us before Brandon catches my wrist and gently turns me around, pulling me closer to him at the same time. He looks directly into my eyes and brushes a stray piece of hair back behind my ear.
“Look at me, Hurricane,” he murmurs. “Get out of that pretty little head of yours. You’re perfect—just like this.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I instinctively try to look away, but his fingers catch the edge of my chin, guiding my gaze back to his.
“I’m afraid that when you see what else has changed, you won’t feel this way anymore,” I whisper. “I’m talking about more than just a little piercing, Brandon. The last few years have been—”
“I know,” he says softly.
The interruption isn’t dismissive. If anything, it’s his way of telling me he understands.
“Can I show you something?”
Hesitantly, I nod.
He brushes his thumb lightly against my chin before dropping his hand to his side.
He takes a step back, moving further into the room, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the chair next to the desk in the corner.
Then he starts loosening his tie. My brows knit together as I watch him work the knot free.
“What are you going to show me that I haven’t already seen?”
He pulls the tie over his head and drops it beside the jacket before looking back up at me.
“You’re not the only one who’s changed,” he says.
His fingers move to the buttons of his white dress shirt. One by one, they come undone, revealing more and more of the colorful tattoos hiding underneath. When the shirt finally falls open, my eyes linger on the familiar lines of his chest before they lower to the sharp cut of his waist.
There are new tattoos—more than I remember.
I force my gaze back upward, but it’s not long before my attention is drawn to a very distinctive piece on the left side of his chest, conveniently located right above his heart.
Something unmistakable.
All the air leaves my lungs as I take it in, and my breathing stills.
It looks like… a hurricane.
It’s not obvious or cartoonish—instead, it’s something dark.
Completely real.
The ink spirals inward in tight, controlled chaos with jagged, sharp edges that perfectly depict the image of wind tearing through water. It’s hypnotic, the way everything is pulled towards the center, swallowing everything in its path.
It’s almost violent—but also strangely beautiful.
My pulse quickens as I take a step closer without even meaning to—drawn in by the image.
By him.
We meet in the middle of the room as I stretch my hand out to trace the intricate swirl permanently etched into his skin.
It’s not just a picture.
Not just a storm.
It’s me.
It’s not my name—not really—but it might as well be.
“When did you get it?” I ask quietly.
My voice barely sounds like my own.
His eyes flicker down to where my fingertips rest on his chest.
“Right after you left…when I realized you weren’t coming back.”
The fire radiating through me reaches a fever pitch, sharp and immediate—but before I can say anything, his hand meets mine where it rests against his skin.
Steady.
Grounding.
“Still think you’re the only one who’s changed?” he murmurs.
I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. There’s something different in his expression now—something I haven’t seen in a very long time.
“Brandon…”
My voice trails off.
I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
An apology?
An explanation?
Six years worth of both?
Everything I try to conjure up feels small compared to how much I owe him. Instead, I shift my hand and curl my fingers around his like I don’t want to let him go.
Like I can’t.
“You always do that,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“Overthink it all.”
My lips part to argue, but he steps closer before I can and the little bit of space between us disappears.
Again.
“You don’t have to say anything else,” he murmurs next to my ear, his voice low. “Not tonight.”
The warmth of his breath against my skin sends a shiver down my spine.
I feel myself relaxing into him—into the familiarity of it all, into how easy it feels to just exist around him. Like no time has passed at all.
“There’s a lot we still need to—”
“I know,” he interrupts gently.
His hand slides down to my waist, steadying me as his forehead dips closer to mine.
“We’ll get there,” he says. “Just… not right now. I’ve waited six years to have another night with you. Let’s just enjoy it, okay?”
I know exactly what he’s asking.
He wants me to stay.
Because if we start talking—really talking—about the last six years and everything that came with it… due to past behavior, he thinks I might bolt.
It’s a regrettably fair assumption.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, his thumb brushing slowly along my side before he pulls away just enough for his eyes to connect with mine again.
“Can you do that?” he asks quietly. “Turn your mind off and just be here with me tonight?”
The question settles deep in my chest.
I don’t want to run anymore—not from what’s good for me—and the honest to God truth is that Brandon Jackson is a good fucking thing.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I want to.”
His eyes search mine for a moment longer—like he needs to be sure I mean it.
Then his hand slides back up to my face, his fingers brushing lightly along my jawline before tilting my chin upwards.
When our lips finally meet, it’s slower.
A different kind of intensity from our moment in the elevator.
This time, it’s not rushed or desperate to make up for all the time we lost.
Now, it’s intentional—like for the first time, we’re both choosing each other.
The thought barely settles before his tongue parts my lips and explores my mouth as if he’s trying to relearn me. My hands move to his shoulders and pull off the unbuttoned dress shirt the rest of the way until it slips down his arms, falling to the floor.
I return to his skin immediately, anxious to trace over and memorize the tattoos I don’t recognize yet—especially the storm next to his collarbone.
While his fingers move to my back to drag the zipper down on my dress, his mouth trails from my lips, to my jaw, then down to my neck. It’s devastatingly slow, enough that I feel every single second of it.
“Still overthinking?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Trying not to,” I breathe, closing my eyes and letting my head fall to the side.
I feel the black silk sink into a pile around my feet, leaving me completely bare, as he pushes the thin straps off my shoulders. Stepping out of the dress, I steady myself by gripping his hips before walking us backwards to the bed as I undo his belt buckle.
There’s a slight jolt as the back of his legs hit the bed.
“Careful, Hurricane,” he smirks, his hands tightening instinctively at their place on my upper arms as his balance shifts.
There’s no real warning behind his words. In fact, it’s more like a taunt with the low, familiar edge that always makes my pulse spike.
“I thought you liked it when I showed you who’s in control, Daddy,” I pout as I finish working his belt loose.
He raises a brow as I tug it free and toss it somewhere behind me.
“You wanna be in charge?” he asks. “You can have every inch of me, baby. Take me—I’m yours.”
I lift my gaze to his, my breathing uneven.
With one solid push against his shoulder, he lets himself fall back onto the mattress as he watches me the entire way down like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this.
Of me.
I lean over him slightly and undo the button of his pants. He lifts his hips so I can tug them off with his boxers and discard them to the side. His cock springs free—hard, already weeping, and waiting for me.
“Do we need a condom?” he asks.
“IUD,” I say breathlessly. “And I’ve been tested recently. There’s been no one new since then. You?”
“Johanna,” he sighs, looking me directly in the eye. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you left six years ago. It’s always been you.”
Holy fucking hell. He cannot be serious.
As soon as I finish the thought, though, I know—he’s not lying. He’s never been one to just throw words around. He’s completely serious.
“Brandon, I—” I start. “I never asked you to—”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “You’re it for me, baby.”
In a past life, those words would’ve scared me, but now? I know he’s it for me, too. I’m just not ready to tell him yet.
He shifts upwards on the mattress, giving me room to balance myself as I climb onto the bed on top of him.
His eyes move over me slowly, taking me in to see what else has changed.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize he’s memorizing me, as if he’s making sure that if I’m gone in the morning again, he won’t forget exactly what I look like in this moment.
Taking his length at its base, I stroke upward as he begins to tremble beneath me. He lets out a soft moan at my touch and thrusts into my hand, needing the contact just as much as I do.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure him, leaning forward to find his lips again. “Let me make you feel good, B.”
The kiss deepens, heavy with every missed moment and everything we know but haven’t said yet. We move rhythmically against each other, the friction and heat driving us further.
Eventually, I pull back as he pants, breathless, but still never takes his eyes off me.
“I’m desperate for you, Hurricane,” he murmurs. “I need to feel you—need to be inside you.”
His words are all the encouragement I need. I lift myself up and position myself above him until his tip is at my entrance. I hover there for a moment, letting him feel how ready I am for him, too.
“Oh, fuck me,” he groans as I sink down onto him.
My head falls back and I cry out at the connection until I’m completely full of him, my dark curls cascading down my back.
I grind my hips against him as I brace a hand against his shoulder and his hands grip on my sides, keeping me in place. His breathing becomes short and I can feel his body tense as he digs his fingers into me.
“So good, Jo,” he grits out. “So fucking beautiful when you ride my cock. I want to watch you come like this.”
His words alone nearly push me over the edge. Intensifying my rhythm, I guide one of his hands up to cup my breast. He twists my nipple between two fingers—and the extra sensation pushes me over the edge.
He bucks beneath me as I cry out his name, and we tumble into our release together.
It’s close to euphoric, the way my orgasm crashes into me like a tide coming into shore. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be with him—the power, the intensity, the feeling of being completely connected to each other—but now that I’ve experienced it again, I’m never letting him go.
No other man in my life, no matter how much I’ve tried, has ever compared to Brandon.
We’ve both changed, that much is clear—but the important things?
They’re exactly the same.
Out of breath, I collapse onto his chest with a satisfied sigh. For a moment, we just lay there with him still inside me as our breathing aligns and he traces slow, lazy patterns along my spine.
As I lay there in his arms, I realize that—even if Brandon won’t ever see it this way—leaving all those years ago was the best thing I could’ve done.
I needed to grow up.
To learn what it means to be in love rather than in lust.
And more than anything, through all the loss and the heavy cards life has dealt me—I know now I’ll never take the way Brandon loves me for granted again.