Chapter 19
Bastiaan
The city outside hums with distant life—bikes on cobblestones, muffled voices, the occasional echo of water against stone. In here, the apartment is small and quiet, smelling faintly of sea air and old wood.
Amber is curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, blonde curls tumbling over one shoulder. Her fingers play absently with the burner phone, the black screen reflecting nothing but her own worried face.
“You want to call them,” I say softly.
She doesn’t look up. “Andrea and Jess. I keep thinking about them in the shop. Arranging flowers, laughing at something stupid, and I…” Her voice falters. “I hate that I can’t even let them know I’m alive, make sure they are okay...”
I crouch in front of her, resting a hand on her knee. “They’ll be okay. Jack won’t let anything happen to them.”
“I know,” she whispers, but it’s the kind of I know that means she doesn’t believe it in her bones.
Her thumb brushes the edge of the phone, and I see the fight in her—the need to reach out battling the fear of what could happen if she does. I understand it too.
“I feel the same,” I admit, my voice low. “About Abel.”
That makes her glance up, her blue eyes softening. She’s never met my son. All she knows are the pieces I’ve let slip over the years—little stories tucked into quiet moments. But even without meeting him, she looks at me now like she feels it too.
“He’s six,” I say, the words catching in my chest. “Sandy hair that never stays down, blue eyes that get wide every time he sees a new rocket picture. He’s obsessed with space right now. Wants to fish on the moon with me one day.”
That pulls a soft laugh from her, warm and sad all at once. “He sounds perfect.”
“He is,” I murmur. “He loves fishing with me on the Oude Rijn. Says we’re the only two members of our ‘secret club.’” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck. “I hate missing him. Hate that Sanne has to explain why Pa isn’t home again.”
Amber slides a hand over mine, her palm warm and grounding. “He knows you love him. Even from here. Kids… they feel that. I’m just so sorry this is happening.”
God, she always knows what to say.
“What did I say about thank you and apologies?” I say softly. Trying to reassure her.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her cheek, my thumb lingering on her freckled skin. She leans into my touch, and something shifts between us—less heavy now, but charged as hell. Warm. Electric.
“Amber…” Her name comes out like a groan, rough and low, my body already betraying me.
She tilts her face up, and I kiss her. Slow at first, tasting her soft lips, the little sigh that makes me feel like I’ve just been handed oxygen after drowning. Then the kiss deepens, and every damn thing I’ve been holding back—fear, longing, pure need—comes flooding out once more.
She fists my shirt and tugs me closer, and I can’t help myself—I haul her onto my lap like she weighs nothing. Christ, the way she presses against me, her heat grinding over the hard length in my jeans—I’m already half-crazed.
“Bas,” she whispers against my mouth, and it’s like flipping a switch.
Two steps and we’re at the bed. My glasses slide down my nose, and she takes them off gently and sets them on the bedside table. God, she’s looking at me like I’m the only man alive.
“Are you sure, liefje?” I rasp, my voice thick. “Because once I start, I’m not stopping.”
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”
Fuck me. That’s it. I’m done for.
I lay her down and kiss her hard, hungry, like I’ve been starving for years—because I have. My hands roam everywhere: over the curve of her tits, her waist, down to her hips. I yank her shirt off, and Jesus, white lace this time. My cock throbs like I’m eighteen again.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” I mutter, palming her through the lace. Her nipple hardens under my thumb, and the sound she makes—half whimper, half plea—punches straight to my dick.
I mouth her breast through the bra, sucking until she arches up, then slide my hand into her leggings. Holy fuck. She’s soaked, hot and slippery, and my fingers come away wet.
“Jesus, Amber… you’re dripping for me,” I growl against her skin, and she gasps, her head falling back.
I rub her clit slowly, teasing, and she bucks in my hand, nails digging into my shoulders. When I slide two fingers inside her, her tight little body grips me so hard I see stars. I have to grit my teeth not to come in my fucking pants.
“Bas—oh God—” she cries, hips rolling, and I work her steadily, curling my fingers to hit that spot that makes her gasp my name over and over. Watching her unravel is the filthiest, most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
She comes with a sharp cry, pulsing around my fingers, soaking my hand. I can’t stop myself from groaning like an animal, kissing her through it, letting her ride every shiver against my chest.
Clothes are gone in a blur. I get a condom on, line up, and finally slide into her tight, wet heat—and I almost lose my mind.
Fuck. Tight. Hot. Perfect.
I start slow, grinding deep, because I want to feel every inch of her, and she meets me with soft little moans that shred my control. Her body clings to mine, slick and warm, her nails leaving marks on my back.
“God, I could fuck you forever,” I growl against her throat, driving in deeper, her whimpers making my balls tighten.
Her legs lock around me, and her body clamps down, pulling me under with her. She comes again, milking my cock, and I’m gone—burying myself to the hilt as release rips through me, groaning her name against her neck.
When it’s done, I collapse against her, both of us shaking. I keep her pressed to my chest, my hand over her racing heart, the scent of sex and her soft hair filling my lungs.
I know I should be thinking about the danger, the Reapers, the fact that I just broke every wall I’ve built—but all I can think is:
Mine.