Chapter 9
nine
Three Weeks Later
I keep expecting this whole situation to fall apart.
Somehow, it hasn’t.
Hope’s shoes sit by the door where she left them, toes angled toward the hallway instead of lined up against the wall. A glass rests on the counter with a faint tinge of lip gloss on the rim. The scent of vanilla and citrus floats through the air.
My formerly stale living space is filled with dozens of examples of her presence, and I relish everyone.
I don’t ever want her to leave.
Three weeks ago I stood a few feet away from her and couldn’t get a sentence out. Now I hear her moving in the next room while I work and it’s normal in a way I don’t question.
She’s stronger. I see it in how she crosses the room without reaching for anything to keep her balance. The first days she moved carefully, testing each step before committing to it. Now she forgets and just walks.
The random headaches still come. I catch the shift when her hand moves to her temple and her shoulders go still. I don’t ask questions. I keep an eye on her until it passes.
Work stays open on my laptop. I answer what can’t wait. The rest stacks up.
She keeps her music playlist low during the day. An eclectic mix of everything from Beethoven to Taylor Swift to Teddy Swims. Sometimes she sings along. I recognize the songs now without asking. They’ve repeated often enough to have settled into memory.
At night I read to her for entertainment since screen time is off limits for now. She lies back with her eyes closed, feet stretched across my lap. I don’t question it. My hand settles at her ankle, my thumb moving slow, steady to keep her relaxed.
Tonight we finish three chapters.
“I have good news.” I close the book and place it on the table. “Everything cleared. Work handled it. Your medical bills are covered.”
“Wow.” Her eyes open slowly, adjusting. “Thank you. My guardian angel. I’m not sure how to make this up to you.”
I shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do.” She watches me, eyes narrowing slightly, almost as if she’s searching for something hidden.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Because I’m hopelessly in love with her. I hate what happened to Hope, but somehow I know her being with me is fate.
“No, I like having you here.” The confession escapes before I can swallow it back. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Her expression softens, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “I can’t believe you tried to talk to me before all this happened and I blew you off.”
“Yeah.” I’ve told her the entire story of the day she was attacked many times to try to jog her memory.
She exhales a frustrated sigh. “I don’t remember anything. My therapist says it’s my body’s natural way of protecting me so I can heal.”
“You will eventually.” I dig my thumb into her arch. “It was traumatic.”
I know she’ll eventually remember her attack. As for me? I was nothing but another face in the crowd.
“It bugs me.” She closes her eyes. “You came up to me and I missed it.”
“You were busy.” I give her grace.
“Yeah.”
“I handed you a tip and tried turning it into an invitation for a coffee.” My own memory floods back. Her, effortless, untouchable. Me frozen, clutching rehearsed words gone stale in my mouth. “You took it and said you were late for work.’
She presses her lips together. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Silence fills our temporary home.
Hope moves and her foot slips from my grasp as she sits up. Deliberate, graceful. I remain still, afraid to shatter whatever moment she’s creating.
She closes our distance.
Her fingers brush my jaw, settling against my skin with impossible warmth.
Then she kisses me.
No hesitation. No warning. Her mouth crashes against mine, urgent and unapologetic. My mind blanks for a heartbeat before instinct takes over. My hand finds the gentle curve of her waist, sinking into the soft cotton of her shirt, and pulls her closer.
She melts into the motion, her body warm beneath my palm. Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging. Not gentle, confident.
Holy hell. This is real, every nerve insists. I don’t slow down or question it. My body responds.
Her mouth moves against mine with a certainty I lack, drawing me deeper into a haze of sensation. My grip at her side tightens. Her weight shifts, heat radiating through thin fabric. Her skin smells like the faint scent of soap and sun-warmed stone.
Every dream I’d stitched together for this moment falls short.
Her hand slides from my jaw, trailing across my chest, electric with intent. Drifts lower. My cock stiffens to capacity before my mind catches up. I close my fingers around her wrist, softly but firmly enough to pause her.
She pulls back just far enough to see my face, brows knitted in question. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”
“So much.” Words lodge in my throat for a second. “It’s just. Um… I haven’t…” I swallow. “I haven’t done this before.”
My embarrassing confession hangs between us, raw and unvarnished.
She watches me, curious, her gaze warm. “You mean—”
I nod, heat blooming across my cheeks. I brace for distance, for rejection.
She stays. Her hand covers the bulge in my pants.
“Okay,” she says without any trace of judgment.
My chest loosens with relief. Her hand returns to my face, this time slow, gentle, her palm warm against my skin.
“You didn’t have to tell me.” She stares deep into my soul.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to screw up the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I repeat what I said earlier like an idiot.
She studies my face as if reading a map. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.”
Exhaling the tension, I shake my head slightly. This is a lot.
Hope leans back fractionally, altering the angle of her body against mine. The intensity between us softens into something steadier.
Embers settling into coals.
We sit with barely an inch between us, breathing the same charged air. Her fingertips rest against my jaw, tracing slow lines.
“If you want,” she murmurs, gentle as dusk, “I can take care of you.”
No pressure. An invitation.
“I want this.” My heart stutters, but my answer is clear. “As long as you do. I don’t have much experience, though.”
A soft smile lifts her lips. “You’re fine. Let me.”
Her hand stays pressed to my jaw, then trails down my chest with deliberation.
I don’t move. My mind flickers through three weeks of quiet evenings together. Reading beside her on this couch, reminding her to eat, watching for a telltale wince when a headache claims her.
Now, her fingers are at my belt buckle, the metal clicking softly as she works it open.
She studies me for a heartbeat. Leans in again. The second kiss is patient and open while her hands move with quiet purpose. The rasp of my zipper seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. My breath catches as her fingers brush against my cock through thin cotton.
Panic unravels, threading itself into something manageable. Her touch is deliberate and unhurried as she slips beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs. I focus on her pace, the pauses she offers before taking the next step.
I stop trying to keep up. I simply lose myself in the experience.
Her hand emerges with my cock in her grip, thick and flushed dark against her pale fingers. I observe, transfixed, as she strokes from base to tip with deliberate pressure, making my thighs tense and breath catch.
Each upward motion reveals the sensitive head, glistening wet now, making me gasp with pleasure when her thumb circles it. The lamplight catches the movement, casting shadows across her wrist as she works me with growing confidence. My hips lift involuntarily to meet her rhythm.
She pulls back slowly, her forehead brushing mine, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between us. When she parts, her smile is knowing, eyes flicking down to where her hand still moves.
“You’re not in your head anymore,” she whispers.
I exhale with a chort. “Maybe a different head.”
“Good.” Her eyes find mine through lowered lashes. Her voice is soft but steady. “You okay?”
I can barely form words. “Yeah.”
“How does it feel?” Her thumb traces circles on my crown, making my vision blur.
“Like I’m in some sort of heaven…” I swallow hard. “I can’t think straight.”
A smile curves her lips. She shifts closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Can I taste you?”
The question alone nearly makes me come on the spot.
I manage a nod.
She lowers her head, holding my gaze until the last possible moment.
The first sensation of her mouth is warm and wet.
My hands grip the couch cushions as she takes me deeper, her lips stretching around my width.
Her tongue traces the underside, finding a sensitive spot, causing my hips to jerk involuntarily.
She hums approval, the vibration shooting through my core. When she pulls back, her lips glisten in the dim light, and she focuses on my face as she descends again, taking me deeper this time.
The sight of Hope, eyes half-lidded but locked on mine, mouth full of me—is almost too much to process.
I don’t try to figure out how I got here. I watch, mesmerized, as her hand works me in long, deliberate strokes, her grip tightening just enough on the upstroke to make my vision blur.
Her tongue circles the sensitive head with exquisite precision before taking me deeper to the back of her throat, lips stretching taut. The wet heat of her mouth is almost too much.
She pulls back, twisting her wrist in a motion sending electricity up my spine. Descends again, establishing a tantalizing rhythm. I have to fight to keep still.
“You can move,” she whispers against my skin, and something breaks loose in me.
My hips rise to meet her, careful not to push too hard. She moans approval, the vibration undoing me completely.
Pressure builds, unstoppable now. I try to warn her, fingers tangling in her hair, but she only takes me deeper.
When I come, it’s with a force leaving me gasping, spilling into her mouth in hot pulses. Some escapes, trailing down her chin. She swallows and licks me clean, her eyes never leaving mine.
She crawls up my body and kisses me. I taste myself on her tongue and it’s the single most erotic moment of my life.
“How do you feel?” Hope’s voice is husky.
“Amazing. Best day of my life,” I manage to respond.
She brushes hair from my forehead. “I’m glad. Are you ready for more?”
Hell yes, I am.