Chapter 19
Nineteen
Jaclyn
Ten Years Later
The house is warm, glowing and loud with familiar chaos.
Junior leans back in his chair, running a hand through his dark brown grown out hair, his college hoodie wrinkled like he hadn’t unpacked it since his flight.
He looks like my baby still, the one I would hold when I would feel alone and cry when I was living in New York.
He is taller now, and has put on muscle from working out.
He has taken on fighting like his father and plans on being a champion just like him, too.
Junior told us he has a girlfriend back in college. He would have brought her over but she’s with her family this year.
He’s growing up so much from the boy I raised and I couldn’t be prouder.
“You are not cooking next year. We’re ordering in.” He points a fork at me.
He said I put too much seasoning in the chicken.
All I did was follow my mom’s recipe but I guess I put too much seasoning.
“I underestimated my measurements. It happens to everyone.” I roll my eyes at him.
Easton snorts from across the table, already halfway through his second plate.
He always loved my food, and would demand more food from me when he was a kid.
He’s seventeen and still growing. His dark hair is messy in an artist or rebel look. He is wearing worn out paint splattered sweats and a hoodie from some art gallery in New York. My son, he got my creative side that’s for sure.
He moved out at a very young age since he got into a private school in New York for art. He took up art in secondary school here and showed me his drawings and I told him he should go to school for it, especially if it makes him happy.
Easton never really got along with kids from his school and that’s because they just didn’t understand his mind.
But he’s talented and doing great at school in New York. He visits whenever he can.
Hayden still doesn’t understand how his son made a small career out of drawing, but God help anyone who criticizes him in front of his father.
“Mom's cooking isn’t even bad. You’re being dramatic.” River rolls her eyes.
She’s twelve now and fiercely independent.
She is still young and figuring herself out but she is doing great at school and has made a lot of friends for her age. I’m not worried about her, not yet at least.
She is curled up next to Hayden who is sitting beside me.
She has one hand tucked into the crook of his arm and the other holding a mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
Her curls are tied up in a messy bun and her voice has already started to change from that girlish tone to something more defined and confident which makes me proud.
I promised myself I would always make sure she is strong and only sees herself in a beautiful light instead of darkness like I had.
Hayden looks at our kids with a proud look on his face, almost like a ‘we made it’ expression.
He hasn’t gone back to Killian, not once and life has been peaceful and beautiful. I stopped worrying and overthinking and he stopped lying.
He chose me, our family.
Killian and him are still friends but he doesn’t do any favors for him anymore.
We made it.
After everything, we truly made it.
The night passes by in a blur.
The kids argue and we play one round of UNO before they go upstairs to their rooms for bed.
Hayden and I stay downstairs to clean, the lights are dim and I stand by the sink.
“You didn’t let me help.” He wraps his arms around my waist and whispers into my neck.
“You helped enough,” I whisper back, leaning into him. “You cut the chicken and even managed to go through the evening without swearing.”
“Personal growth.” He shrugs.
I turn around in his arms and there he is, just as he's always been. Dangerous, tender, broken, and whole. A man who has been to hell and back with fire in his eyes and heart still intact.
And here I am, surviving everything we’ve gone through together.
“Did you see them tonight?” I ask softly, cupping his face.
“Every second.”
“Junior has a girlfriend and is taking on fighting like you. Easton has such a creative mind with his drawing and he’s doing really good in New York. And River is growing up into someone I wish I could have been when I was her age.”
“I know, and I’m just thinking about how lucky I am that you didn’t give up on me.”
“You gave me reasons not to.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else but instead he just leans down and kisses me, slow at first, familiar, but it doesn’t stay soft for long.
His hands slide down my hips, pulling me tight against him. I gasp in his mouth and he takes that sound as permission to deepen the kiss. He pushes me gently back against the edge of the counter.
“Everyone’s asleep,” he mumbles against my mouth, voice low.
And still after more than twenty years of being together, he still can’t get enough of me.
Now that the kids are older and the boys are out of the house, he takes whatever chance he gets with me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, already breathless.
“Don’t care.”
He kisses me again, eager like we are still in our twenties, sneaking around and touching each other wherever we can.
He slides the dress straps from my shoulders slowly, too slowly, and he lets the dress fall to the floor.
“I should make you wait,” he murmurs. Dragging his fingers over every curve of my waist. “For every time we had to stop, every time I had to hear one of the kids yell at us like we were criminals for touching each other.”
I laugh breathlessly. “Then stop talking and take what you want already.”
His eyes darken.
I don’t even see it coming, just the way his mouth crashes into mine, tongue hot and possessive like he is claiming something that has always been his.
He picks me up and places me on the counter. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he yanks me to the edge of the counter. This time he doesn’t hesitate.
“Every inch of you belongs to me and tonight I’m going to remind you exactly how much,” he growls.
I’m already soaked for him.
He knows it too. He slides a hand between my legs and presses his fingers against my clit, through the thin lace of my underwear. I gasp and buck into his hand.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his voice mixes with reverence and cocky satisfaction. “God, you’re so ready for me.”
“You’re cocky as ever,” I rasp. “That hasn’t aged a day.”
He smiles, teasingly. “Neither has this mouth.”
And then he drops to his knees.
Right there on the kitchen tile in front of the stove. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and tugs them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “You remember what I said the first time I fucked you?” he asks, his breath warm against my skin.
I barely choke out, “You said I was made for you.”
His mouth curves into a sinful smirk. “That’s still true.”
Then he buries his face between my legs.
My head slams against the cabinets as I cry out, my fingers digging into his hair like I could hold myself there. His tongue moves with expert precision, slow strokes followed by sharp flicks. His stubble scraping the inside of my thighs, grounding me in the best way.
He moans against me and I swear that makes my stomach flip.
“Hayden,” I whimper quietly, trying my best not to make too much noise. “If you keep-”
“I’m not stopping,” he says roughly, dragging his mouth up to nip my inner thigh. “Not until you’re dripping for me. Until you’re shaking with need.”
He delivers that promise.
He makes me cum twice on his face.
By the time he stands, my skin is flushed while my chest is heaving. I am practically begging him to thrust inside me.
He unbuckles his jeans with one hand and the other is still gripping my thigh
“Turn around.”
I blink. “What?”
“Bend over the counter, now.”
Something about the authority in his voice makes my entire body clench.
I slide down, legs shaky and turn, my palms bracing on the countertop with my hair falling in my face.
His hand grips my ass and slaps it. “If the kids weren’t here, the things I’d do to this body.” He then pushes into me with a deep, unrelenting stroke. I nearly collapse. “Fuck, princess,” he rasps. “Still so goddamn tight, you’re mine, you hear me?”
“Yours, always,” I pant.
His palm covers my mouth as he thrusts into me harder, deep and punishing, like he had years to make up for, like every stroke is a love letter written in sweat and skin. His hands grip my hips, needing to anchor himself as he moves in and out.
“You take me so good, princess. Just like that. Fuck, just like that.”
The sound of skin slapping echoes in the kitchen and I am praying that the kids won’t hear or come down here.
I am gasping against his hand and clawing at the counter. He tilts my head up so that he can bite at my neck.
“You love when I fuck you like this,” he whispers.
“I love everything you do to me,” I moan quietly.
His movements stutter, cock tensing.
He is close.
With one hand still on my mouth, the other slides down between my thighs, he sends me over the edge with a flick to my clit.
“Come for me.”
I shatter, my body trembling and legs barely holding me up as he follows me within seconds, groaning my name like a prayer.
We stay there for a long time, him still inside me, our bodies slick with sweat and tangled in the aftermath of something that felt like more than just sex.
Over twenty years of love and ache and chaos and devotion.
He pulls out and kisses my shoulder. He helps me stand upright and turns me around.
He looks at me with dark eyes and a rough voice. “I love you, princess.” He grips my waist in his hand and pulls me closer to him.
“I love you, Hayden.”
This is our forever.
No matter how chaotic or hard or messy.
We always find our way back.