Chapter 32 I Tried to Forget #3
I take him deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat. His hips buck and I hold him still, sucking slow, then fast, hollowing my cheeks until he’s shaking.
“I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—” He pulls me off with a groan, his hand tangled in my hair.
“I don’t want to come yet.”
I smile, flushed and high on the power.
“Then you better fuck me before I change my mind.”
He doesn’t need telling twice.
He flips me over, slides between my thighs, and pushes into me in one long, slow stroke. We both moan, tangled in heat and breath and skin.
He drives into me with punishing thrusts, each one brutal and precise, like he’s trying to erase the space between us.
My body slams into the mattress with every stroke, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls.
I claw at his back, gasping, delirious, every nerve ending lit up like wildfire.
It’s overwhelming—how deep he goes, how full I am, how completely I unravel beneath him.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I can only feel—and right now, he’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.
He fucks me like it’s instinct, like it’s the only truth his body’s ever known.
Release tears through me on a single breath, my body shuddering, lit up by the feel of him.
He follows with a sharp jerk of his cock, a moan breaking free as his fingers dig into my hip hard enough to bruise.
And then he slows.
We move together in rhythm with the push and pull of our bodies. The need to make the orgasm last as long as it can. I’m a live wire, lit up by every touch, every wordless vow in his kiss.
When we finally collapse into each other, spent and shaking, we stay wrapped in tangled sheets and breathless silence.
His fingers trace idle shapes across my ribs.
“I want to stay,” he says softly. “I know Hazel’s here. I know it’s a lot. But I don’t want to leave.”
I brush my fingers through his hair.
He lifts his head, searching my eyes.
“I love you,” he says. “I love Hazel. I want this, Morgan. I want to be part of your life. Your family. Because I know better than anyone—family isn’t blood. It’s who shows up for the scuffed knees, the missing teeth, the glitter bombs and the fucking mess,” he lets out a small laugh.
My throat tightens.
He’s not asking to stay the night.
He’s asking to belong.
I roll on top of him, straddle his hips, and guide him inside me.
“Yes,” I whisper as I ride him, feeling his cock harden. “Stay.”
His breath catches. His hands grip my hips, pulling me harder into him.
“Fuck, Morgan—”
I ride him slow, grinding down, my breasts brushing his chest, my mouth at his ear.
“You feel so good,” I breathe, and he takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough that it pulls deep in my womb. “You’re gonna make me come again.”
He groans, desperate. “You’re killing me.”
He thrusts up to meet me, one hand gripping my ass, the other tangled in my hair. Our mouths meet again, frantic and messy.
Then he flips us. My back pressed into the mattress as he looks down at me. He loves me. Maybe I always knew. I was scared to admit it.
But I’m not scared anymore.
He slides inside me and I lift my legs to wrap around him. But he doesn’t fuck me. He makes love to me like I’m his whole world.
Like I always have been.
Like I always will be.
After, as we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers trailing lazy patterns on my back, I feel something I haven’t felt in years: peace.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice soft in the darkness. “With Left Turn and Stonewall? With my design career? With us?”
He kisses the top of my head. “Whatever we decide. Together. Your company, your designs, your daughter—they’re all part of you, and I want all of it. The merger, if you want it. Support for your fashion career. A future together. Whatever you need, I’m in.”
“I want Left Turn to survive,” I say, tracing patterns on his chest. “Not just the name, but what it stood for. The way my father believed in finding raw talent, in giving artists creative control. His legacy.”
“We’ll keep all of it,” he promises. “It’s what made Left Turn special—what set it apart. I’d be an idiot to change a thing.”
“But I don’t want to run it,” I admit, the words both terrifying and freeing. “Seeing my dress on Ivy tonight… it woke something up in me I’d tried to bury. I want to design.”
“The industry’s response was incredible,” Dylan says, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my skin. “Three major houses have already inquired about commissioning pieces. étienne wants to discuss a collaboration.”
I lift my head to look at him. “Seriously?”
He nods, a smile playing at his lips. “I may have set up some meetings. Just in case you were interested.”
“You were that confident?”
“Hopeful,” he corrects. “The way you light up when you talk about your designs, the way your ideas come alive on paper—I knew then how talented you are, Morgan. The world should see it too.”
I lay my head on his chest, my mind racing with possibilities. “And Hazel? I can’t keep missing her moments.”
“The easiest part,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll handle the day-to-day operations of Left Turn. We’ll keep your father’s artists, employees, and most importantly, his vision. You’ll be free to focus on your design work and Hazel.”
“Just like that?” I ask, hardly believing it could be so simple after months of stress and impossible choices.
“Just like that,” he confirms. “Left Turn becomes part of the Stonewall family but keeps its identity. I get the label I’ve always admired. You get to pursue your passion and be there for Hazel. And your father’s legacy continues exactly as it should.”
I lift my head to look at him, finding nothing but sincerity in his eyes. “And if I want it all?”
He smiles, the crooked, confident smile that used to infuriate me and now makes my heart race for entirely different reasons.
“Then take it all, Morgan. It’s yours.”
I think of my father and what he would say if he could see me now.
For so long, I’ve been trying to be him—to run Left Turn exactly as he would have, to preserve every detail of his legacy.
But the best way to honor him isn’t by sacrificing my own dreams. Maybe it’s by letting his vision continue through someone who truly values it, while I pursue the path I was meant for all along.
“You know what my dad used to say about business partnerships?” I ask softly.
Dylan’s fingers pause their tracing on my skin. “What?”
“They only work when both parties bring their strengths to the table and respect what makes the other special.” I smile at the memory. “He turned down three acquisition offers in his final year. Said he’d rather let Left Turn die with dignity than see it stripped for parts.”
“It’s not what I want,” Dylan says firmly. “I want Left Turn to thrive, not just survive.”
“I know.” I trace my finger along his jaw. “I didn’t trust you before, but I do now. You’ll protect what made Left Turn special.”
“I promise,” he says, eyes serious. “Your father’s legacy is safe with me.”
The weight that’s been crushing me for months lifts slightly. “No more missing recitals. No more choosing between being a good mother and preserving Left Turn.”
“And no more pretending we’re not crazy about each other,” Dylan adds, a playful gleam in his eye.
I laugh softly. “That too.”
As I drift toward sleep in his arms, I think about tomorrow—waking up with him beside me, making breakfast with Hazel, building something meant for all of us.
It won’t be perfect. It will be messy and complicated and sometimes impossibly hard.
But it will be ours.
And it’s more than enough.