Chapter 9 Nova
nova
Being with Ollie’s family, I realized how much I missed my mom. I missed Aunt Mae. I missed the three of us together. This feeling—the camaraderie, the warmth—was what I’d been missing. Being here filled that hollow part of me, even if for a little while.
There was so much warmth in the room. The kind that didn’t come from the fire or the afternoon sun, but from the laughter, the easy conversation, and the shared stories.
We’d spent the entire afternoon laughing.
Ollie’s mum had dug out his secondary school yearbooks, flipping through the pages with pride as I doubled over at his awkward teenage photos.
His dad joined in, pulling out old newspaper clippings from when Ollie had played rugby, recounting stories of his glory days on the pitch.
Ollie groaned, rubbing his temples. “Why do you keep all this stuff? Honestly, it’s like you’re waiting for moments like this.”
“Of course we are,” his mum said with a mischievous grin. “You’re our only son. We’ve been waiting years for this.”
“This is annoying,” Ollie muttered.
Underneath the table, he set his hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. My gaze shot up to meet his, startled, but the look in his eyes wasn’t teasing or cocky. It was searching, like he needed reassurance.
I nodded quickly, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my jeans. I liked it here. I was comfortable.
His mum was in the middle of recounting some story from when Ollie was a kid, her eyes gleaming with delight. Just as she was about to reach the truly embarrassing part, Ollie straightened and cut her off.
“Okay, that’s quite enough.”
His hand stayed on my thigh. I didn’t push it away. I let it stay for a moment.
When he finally stood, his hand slid away, only to reach down for mine.
Grab it, I thought to myself. Grab his hand and let him take you.
I hesitated. Shaking my head, I got up on my own, leaving his hand lingering in the space between us.
Relying on someone would mean opening that fragile, guarded part of my heart.
I wasn’t ready for that. Not when, in a few weeks, my belly would start to grow rounder, and he’d realize I was carrying my alcoholic ex-husband’s baby.
“I’m taking Nova on a walk,” Ollie announced, his tone light but pointed, cutting through the moment.
“Finally,” I murmured, low enough that only he could hear.
He smirked, that annoyingly charming smirk, and this time, when he reached for my hand, I let him take it.
As we headed for the door, I paused long enough to hug his parents, promising I’d say goodbye properly before we left.
Ollie led me outside, and we walked down the block, the quiet streets of the countryside wrapping around us like a comforting blanket. The air was cool, the leaves crunching beneath our feet.
“Sorry about that,” he murmured, gesturing to the house behind us.
“I enjoyed it,” I said earnestly.
“You okay, though? I know your mum passed . . .”
“I haven’t enjoyed a good family home in a long time, so that was nice.” I shuffled my boots along the cracked cement.
“You cold? Think your roommate packed you a sweater.”
I shook my head.
We continued down the road, crossing over a small, arched bridge that spanned a narrow stream. The water below reflected the golden hues of the trees, the tranquil scene almost enough to make me forget everything weighing on my mind.
The sound of a car engine broke the quiet, roaring toward us far too fast for such a narrow road.
“What the hell—” I started, but before I could react, Ollie grabbed my hand and yanked me behind him, his body blocking mine.
The car slowed enough for me to see the glint of a camera lens through the window as the passenger side erupted in flashes.
“Oliver Stone,” someone shouted from inside the car before it sped off, tires screeching.
I stood frozen for a moment, trying to process what had happened. “What the hell was that?”
Ollie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to face me. “Shit. Sorry. Sometimes, especially out here, the press likes to take photos of me. It’s not usually this bad, though.”
Great. Just great. The flash of those cameras, his name—it all came rushing back.
The gossip, the speculation, the whispers of strangers about things they didn’t understand.
I didn’t need this. I didn’t need my face plastered on some site with Ollie, the “big rugby player,” while people dissected every glance, every step, every fucking moment like it was their business.
I could feel Ollie watching me, trying to figure out what was going on behind my mask. I didn’t want him to see it—the frustration, the exhaustion, the endless tangle of emotions I couldn’t even make sense of myself.
“Come on. Let’s head back to the house.”
I nodded, and without a word, he led me back the way we came, his hand brushing against mine, but not taking it again.
Ollie was right—the guesthouse had two bedrooms, each on opposite sides of the main room, giving us plenty of space.
What he didn’t tell me was that everything in here smelled like him. His scent clung to the pillows, the blankets, even the sheets. It was everywhere, wrapping around me in a way that made it impossible to escape him.
I sank onto the bed, breathing it in despite myself, and all I could think about was him.
The way he looked at me, the warmth of his hand on my thigh earlier, the way he’d stood protectively in front of me on the bridge.
He was unsettling. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
The fucking peach was making me horny beyond belief, and with his scent tangled everywhere in this damn cottage, I felt like a feral animal. It was ridiculous—his stupid cologne or whatever it was had permeated everywhere.
I groaned, shifting uncomfortably in the tiniest pajamas Luna could’ve possibly packed.
Not my usual comfortable sweats, no—of course, she had to pack the satin shorts that barely covered anything and the cropped shirt that didn’t even pretend to hide my breasts, which had grown noticeably with the pregnancy.
I tugged at the hem of the shirt, annoyed and restless, the fabric brushing against my skin in a way that only made things worse.
The ache building in my core was unbearable, relentless, and I knew there was only one way to find even the slightest bit of relief.
I slid my hand beneath the satin shorts, the cool touch of my fingers sending a shiver up my spine. Slowly, I trailed them lower, teasing myself until I finally slipped two fingers inside.
A soft groan escaped my lips, the tension in my body easing ever so slightly as the sensation flooded me. The ache didn’t disappear entirely, but it dulled enough to let me breathe.
My fingers slid down, teasing along my slick folds. I arched into my own touch, savoring the way my walls clenched around my fingers. Slowly, I curled them, my thumb rolling firmly over my clit.
I couldn’t stop the soft gasps and whimpers that escaped as my pace quickened, pressing my thumb harder, teasing circles that made my thighs tremble. I slid my free hand up, cupping my breast through the flimsy fabric of the cropped shirt, pinching my nipple until I gasped.
The ache in my core only grew, burning hotter with every movement. My hips bucked instinctively, chasing the pressure, the friction, the pleasure.
I let my imagination take over, picturing his rough hands replacing mine, a low voice growling filthy promises in my ear, lips brushing over my neck, teeth grazing skin.
“Come on, love,” the low, gravelly voice I thought I was imagining said.
My head whipped toward the open door, my breath catching when I saw him—Ollie—standing there, shadowed in the dark.
“How?” I asked, but my fingers didn’t stop. They moved slowly, deliberately, circling in a way that had me gasping.
“You’re loud, Nova. I could hear you down the hall,” he murmured.
Instead of feeling embarrassed, I let my head fall back onto the pillow, my eyes fluttering shut. None of this made sense, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. It was a fever dream, and I wasn’t about to wake up.
“Replace my fingers,” I demanded, my voice thick with need.
The pause that followed was electric, the room thick with tension.
“You sure?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly, his control slipping.
No.
“Yes.”
I didn’t stop, didn’t falter, but every nerve in my body burned with anticipation as I waited for him to move closer, to take over. I didn’t care about anything else—not the consequences, not the reality—just the aching need consuming me.
“Nova,” he murmured, his voice thick and gruff as he shifted, climbing onto the bed beside me.
The room seemed impossibly smaller, the air charged with something I couldn’t name, but craved desperately. He was wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. From here, I could see the hard, throbbing length of his cock, straining against the fabric.
His hand skimmed up my thigh, dragging fire across my skin.
I sucked in a sharp breath as his touch climbed higher, until his fingers finally reached me.
He pressed—slow at first—before slipping inside, curling in a way that made me gasp, my hips bucking into his touch.
With his other hand, he braced against the bed, muscles taut, jaw strained as if he were holding himself back.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered, his voice raw, his gaze burning into mine.
“This is for pleasure,” I murmured.
Ollie brushed his thumb over my clit.
“Look at me, love,” he demanded, his tone a mix of command and something softer—something almost pleading.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head.
I couldn’t look at him. Looking at him would make this real. It would mean I wasn’t in some fever dream, letting a man—essentially a stranger—take me apart in his bed, with his parents a stone’s throw away. I couldn’t face that.
“Tell me this is . . . a need,” I demanded, my voice tight. “It means nothing but . . .”