Chapter 32 Bastiaan
Bastiaan
The gentle rocking of the houseboat stirs me awake.
For a second, I forget where we are—just long enough to believe the world outside isn’t dangerous. Then I feel her. Warm and soft in my arms. And I remember everything. The van. The roads. The fear.
But also her. Amber.
Morning light filters through the small windows, spilling over the rumpled sheets.
It touches her bare shoulder, her back, the soft curve of her arse peeking out from beneath the covers.
One of her legs is slung over mine, skin-to-skin, warm and smooth.
She’s still asleep, her body tucked into mine like she belongs there.
She does.
I let my eyes wander over her. Slowly. Hungrily.
The way I always do when I know she won’t catch me.
She’s beautiful in the way that undoes something in me.
Curves that fit perfectly in my hands. Skin I could spend a lifetime mapping with my mouth.
There are faint marks on her thighs, little bruises from where I gripped her last night, and the sight sends a dark, possessive pulse straight through me.
I never thought I’d wake up next to someone again—let alone her. Not like this. Not tangled in warm sheets with my hand on her hip and my chest full of something I don’t want to name yet.
Her breathing is slow, lips parted just slightly, lashes resting soft against her cheek. I could stay like this forever. I could worship this woman every morning and never get tired of it.
My cock stirs against her thigh, hardening just from the scent of her on the sheets, from the memory of the way she moaned my name. I press my lips to her temple and force myself to breathe through it. It’s not about that. Not right now.
Not when I’ve never wanted someone this much and this gently at the same time.
Eventually, she stirs—stretching with a quiet sigh and nuzzling into my chest. I feel her lips curve into a sleepy smile before she blinks up at me.
“Morning,” she mumbles.
God. She doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“Morning,” I say back, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
We stay like that for a while—pressed close, wrapped in the kind of warmth that doesn’t demand anything more than breathing. Eventually, I feel her shift again, and before I can stop her, she’s up and moving through the cabin in nothing but my hoodie.
I watch her from the bed, propped up on one elbow. She moves like she’s starting to feel safe here. Like she’s not waiting for the floor to collapse under her. I don’t think she knows how much that means to me.
She fills the kettle and lights the stove, barefoot on the old floorboards, humming under her breath. That sound—it ruins me. Not just because it’s soft and unguarded, but because it feels like a glimpse into a life we might have had if things were different.
Every so often, she pauses to peek through the curtain, scanning the dark towpath outside before letting the fabric fall back into place. Then she goes right back to moving around the small galley kitchen, the scent of brewing tea beginning to drift through the air.
I drag myself out of bed when I smell tea and something vaguely burnt, padding across the narrow space toward her. The boat rocks faintly underfoot, and for the first time in days, the air between us feels more like home than like a hideout.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” I say, leaning against the counter.
Her head turns, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You do?”
“Yeah.” I rest one hand on the edge of the counter, the other hanging loose.
My gaze drags over her face like I’m replaying it in my head.
“One of my early runs from the Dutch markets. Van was packed with tulips and roses. I pulled up outside your shop, and there you were—front window, potting plants. Hair piled in a messy bun, blonde ringlets falling everywhere, freckles across your nose.”
Her lips press together, a smile fighting to break through.
“They got me,” I say quietly.
Her brows pull in. “What did?”
“The freckles.” My voice drops, softer now, but deliberate.
“Sun hit you just right, made every single one stand out. You didn’t even look up, but I couldn’t stop staring.
You looked… alive. Not staged, not posed.
Just… you. And that,” I pause, letting the weight of the words settle between us, “was dangerous for me back then.”
She glances at the curtain again, pulling it back for a quick look outside, though I can tell her mind’s still on what I’ve just said. When she lets it fall, her cheeks are warm with colour.
Her hand lifts almost unconsciously to her cheekbone, fingertips brushing across the light scatter of freckles like she’s just realised they’re there. It’s a shy, almost fragile gesture—and it hooks into something deep in my chest.
I step closer, closing the small space between us until I can feel the faint heat radiating from her.
My hand catches her wrist gently, coaxing her fingers away, and I replace her touch with my own.
My knuckles graze over her skin in the same path she traced, slow enough that my breath matches the pace.
“You know,” I murmur, my voice barely above the low hum of the kettle, “these still get me.”
Her breath hitches. My thumb skims just under her eye, dragging with deliberate care. “Even now,” I add, “especially now… after I’ve had you under me.”
She leans into my touch like she can’t help it, her eyes dropping for a second before meeting mine again.
“I don’t even remember seeing you that day,” she whispers.
“You didn’t,” I tell her. “You were lost in what you were doing, humming under your breath. I set the buckets down, signed the slip, and walked out. But I thought about those freckles all damn day.”
My mouth curves slowly into a smirk—low, wicked. “Still do. Just… in different ways now.”
Her laugh is quiet, but her blush deepens, and she doesn’t pull away. My hand stays at her cheek, thumb sweeping slow arcs over her skin like I’m committing every inch of it to memory.
The boat shifts gently beneath us, the water outside whispering against the hull.
She glances toward the curtain one last time, but doesn’t move it—her attention stays locked on me.
And in that small, charged stretch of stillness, I know we’re both thinking the same thing: for the first time in a long time, danger feels far away.
I let my hand drop at last, but not before brushing the back of my fingers along her jaw. “Smells burnt,” I murmur, letting the words carry a faint tease. I tip my head, pretending to sniff the air. “You cooking again, liefje?”
Her eyes narrow in mock offence, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
I grin, closing the distance just enough to bend and press a slow kiss to the tip of her nose. She moves to the oven to check on our burnt breakfast, and I slip in behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She leans back into me. “Technically, I’m reheating pancakes. So if they’re bad, that’s your fault.”
“Bold of you to assume I made them well the first time.”
She turns in my arms, resting her hands on my chest, her eyes searching my face with that quiet, steady kind of affection that knocks the breath out of me. I kiss her forehead and let my hands settle on her hips, grounding myself in the feel of her.
We eat together on the small bench beside the fold-out table, laughing quietly between sips of tea. Her laughter is soft but real, like it’s finally breaking through everything we’ve been carrying.
It’s the sound I didn’t know I missed until I heard it again.
Later, when the sky shifts to grey and a breeze picks up through the tiny cracks in the windows, I light the stove and settle beside her on the narrow couch. She’s wrapped in one of the spare blankets, legs curled beneath her, hair damp from our earlier shower.
Her body leans into mine like she’s done it for years. I can’t help myself. My arm goes around her shoulder. My fingers start tracing idle circles on her arm.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
And yet I don’t want to fill it with anything but truth.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I murmur.
She turns, wide-eyed. “Then don’t.”
Christ. She says it like it’s simple.
I search her face, and the question rises before I can swallow it down. “Amber, there’s something I want to know.”
She nods, slowly. “What is it?”
“Have you…” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Been with anyone before? A boyfriend, someone you cared about?”
She freezes for a moment. I almost regret asking. Almost.
Then she takes a breath and says, “No. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never really… been with anyone.”
My brow furrows. “You mean—”
“I had sex once,” she says quickly. “When I was young. I didn’t enjoy it. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t… this.”
My throat tightens. “Amber—”
“I grew up with my dad’s MC in the background,” she says, looking down at her hands. “There was always some threat—nothing like this, but bad enough. Always some reason not to get close to people. I didn’t want to drag anyone into that mess. So I didn’t. I kept people away.”
She looks up at me, eyes wide and honest. “It means more than you know that I’m in this with you.”
I reach for her face, cradling her cheek in my hand. “I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“It’s not something I talk about,” she says. “But I wanted you to know. To understand.”
“I do.”
The words don’t feel big enough, but they’re all I have.
“You don’t have to be scared with me,” I add, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Not now. Not ever.”
Her voice cracks a little. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
I smile, slow and warm. “You could never mess it up with me.”
She leans into my touch, and I kiss her—slow and deep, the kind that says I’m not going anywhere. That she’s safe.
When we fall into bed again, it’s not rushed.
It’s not new.
It’s known.