Chapter 31 Henry
Thirty One
Henry
Now, she’s rolled onto her side, the sheets twisted around her, and I can’t stop staring. Normally, I’d have been gone before dawn to avoid the small talk and awkward goodbyes that follow. I’ve always been upfront — one night only, no confusion, no complications. But this… this is different.
With Matilda, everything is different.
The morning light spills across her bare shoulder, softening the lines of her body, and I realise I’ve never woken to anything so beautiful.
One time will never be enough. I don’t think a lifetime would be enough.
Her laugh, her scent, the way she scrunches her nose when she’s thinking — it’s all lodged itself somewhere deep under my ribs.
It’s like I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and there’s no chance in hell I’m shutting it again.
By the time she wakes, I’ve showered, thrown on a t-shirt, and I’m halfway through making French toast while the coffee machine hums quietly.
Then she appears — wearing one of my old gym shirts, her hair a mess of soft waves, her legs bare beneath the hem. It’s the most dangerously domestic sight I’ve ever seen.
“Morning,” she says, voice husky with sleep, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.
“Good morning,” I reply, setting a cup down in front of her. “Coffee?”
“Please. Did you do all this?” she asks, eyeing the plates like she’s stumbled into an alternate universe.
“Yes. I thought we’d carry on the French breakfast tradition.”
“Do we have a tradition now?” she teases, sitting down. “I like it. I’m impressed too — this looks amazing.”
“I could probably offer you scrambled eggs on toast next time you stay at mine,” I say casually.
She laughs, not realising what she’s just implied. “I haven’t shopped in a while.”
“When will I stay at yours?” I ask, leaning over the counter, amused by her fluster.
She blushes. “Whenever you want.”
“Really?” I grin, walking round to her, resting my hands on her hips. “What about tonight?” I lower my lips to her neck, feeling her shiver as I kiss a trail to her shoulder.
“But we have work tomorrow,” she gasps as I nip lightly at her skin.
“Yes. Luckily, we can carpool — our offices are close together.”
“But what if someone sees us together?”
“Matilda, we work together every day.”
“No, I mean in the car, idiot,” she says, laughing, swatting my arm.
I grin. “Then we’ll say I offered you a lift. Or better yet, I’ll drop you near the coffee shop, and you can walk in like normal — keep up appearances.”
“Okay, that could work.” Her eyes brighten. “Mine tonight then. Oh! I’ll cook for you. It can be our first official date.”
“I thought last night was our first date,” I tease.
She laughs and hides her face, but I tilt her chin back. “Don’t hide that smile from me.”
“Well, I don’t normally do that on first dates,” she murmurs.
The thought of her on dates with anyone else makes my stomach twist, but before I can dwell on it, she’s shoving a forkful of French toast in her mouth, humming her approval.
“Okay, dinner at yours tonight,” I say, leaning back. “So what do we do until then?”
She grins — that playful, dangerous grin — then bolts for the bedroom. She wants a chase. Always.
I arrive at her flat just before six. She left mine around two to prep, and somehow, four hours apart feels like too long.
The moment the door opens, I’m hit by the scent of spices. Soft jazz hums in the background, candles flicker across the room, and there she is — wearing a floaty pink dress, her hair half up, half tumbling down in loose curls.
She’s breathtaking.
“Evening, Mr. Chase,” she says with mock formality. “Please, come in.”
“Why thank you, Miss Green.” I hold up my overnight bag. “Where shall I put this?”
“Bedroom’s fine. I’m sure you remember where it is.” She flashes me a cheeky smile. “Wine’s open — Sauvignon Blanc okay?”
“Perfect.”
Her flat is everything mine isn’t — warm, colourful, and lived-in. It feels like her. There’s laughter painted into the walls, personality in every corner. And for the first time in years, I realise I don’t want to leave a place.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I say, stepping behind her as she stirs something on the hob.
“Well, I wanted to thank you properly for last night.”
“It really was beautiful,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She smiles. “It’s lamb biryani.”
“My favourite,” I blurt, grinning like an idiot.
“I know,” she says simply, offering me a spoonful. The flavour hits and I groan. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s the only takeaway menu you’ve ever kept, and you always order the same thing,” she says with a smirk.
I laugh. “You notice everything.”
She shrugs. “Organisation is the key to unlocking chaos.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I read it on a poster in a stationery shop,” she admits, giggling.
Dinner is perfect — the food, the laughter, the easy rhythm of conversation. I find myself lowering every wall I’ve spent years building. She makes me forget the noise, the expectations, the weight of it all.
Afterwards, when she stands to clear the table, I take the plates from her hands. “No. Sit. You’ve done enough.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my boss?” she laughs.
“Am I really that bad?”
“Henry, you once made me walk back in the rain because the coffee shop got your order wrong.”
Shame burns in my chest. She doesn’t say it with malice, but it stings all the same. I don’t want to be that man anymore.
When she joins me at the sink, leaning against the counter, she speaks softly.
“You know, there were times I wanted to throw my binders at your head. But I also saw how hard you were trying. You built a business from the ground up, dealt with your dad’s illness — you were carrying a lot.
I’m not saying it excuses how you could be, but… I understand.”
Her honesty disarms me. I laugh, flicking water at her to break the tension, and she squeals, the sound lighting me up inside.
When the kitchen’s clean, we collapse onto the sofa. She curls up against me, her body fitting into mine like we were designed that way. I don’t remember feeling this content before — not in years.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, tracing lazy circles on her arm.
“Mmm?” she hums.
“What did you think of me when we first met?”
“At the interview?”
“Yeah.”
“I was terrified,” she admits, laughing softly. “You were… intimidating.”
I grin. “Why are you embarrassed?”
“I’d seen photos. You looked handsome enough, but in person you were… a lot.” She buries her face in my chest, hiding.
I tip her chin up. “When I first saw you, I thought you were beautiful. It actually pissed me off.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “Pissed you off?”
“I thought hiring you would be a huge mistake because I didn’t think I could sit across from you every day and get anything done.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” I hold her gaze until her smile falters into something softer.
“Then why were you such—” She stops herself.
“A dick?” I finish for her. “Because I figured if I kept you at a distance, I’d be able to focus. But work took over, my dad got sick, and… it just became who I was.”
She studies me for a long moment, then asks, “So why hire me at all?”
“Because I couldn’t let you walk out the door,” I admit quietly. “If it was a mistake, it’s the best one I’ve ever made.”
Her breath catches. “Henry…”
When she says my name like that — low and warm — it undoes me.
Every thought, every ounce of restraint dissolves.
Burning hot desire pours out of me like sugar from a bag.
I pull her up onto my lap so either thigh is hugged over mine.
Each time she moves my erection grows harder.
I pull one strap at a time until her shoulders are bare and slide the dress down her breasts.
She gasps as I slide my palms down her nipples.
Her skin is hot matching the flush in her cheeks and I can’t stop my hands tracing her entire body.
Working my way down until my hand is pressed underneath her dress between her legs.
She arches into me and lets out a breathy moan and I fucking love how she responds to my touch.
I’ve been with women but it’s never felt like this.
I’ve never felt connected, like I need to pleasure her in every possible way to feel satisfied.
I enter into her all while kissing her, chasing her lips as she builds in pleasure.
Her hands unbuckle my belt letting me know what she needs.
Releasing my hand and then myself I make love to her on the sofa.
I can’t call this anything other than making love, because nothing is rushed, there is no selfish gain here, each touch, kiss, lick is to please the other and to be pleased.
Everything is shared and savoured. Our bodies fit and never parting for a second until we’re both left panting and fucking drunk from our organisms. Her head lifts from my shoulder where she had rested it for a solid minute, she trails soft kisses up my jaw, then locks her eyes on mine and I swear when her eyes meet mine I know in that moment I will never have enough of this woman.