Chapter 43 #2
His hand comes between us, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing in slow, perfect circles that make me quiver. The moment he surges forward, the air leaves my lungs in a sharp, helpless sound. My body begins to unravel, and my muscles turn molten, every nerve lit up.
The heat swells so fast it steals my breath.
There’s no time to brace, no space between the wave building and the moment it crashes.
My body tightens, my thighs trembling around him, and then I’m falling apart—quaking, clenching, coming so hard it feels like pleasure and pain blurring into one sensation.
Seconds later, Ford’s rhythm falters, his breath hitching against my mouth. Then he’s driving into me with a desperate edge, a guttural sound ripping from his throat. For a few perfect seconds, the deep, primal roar of him spilling into me drowns out the broken sounds of my own release.
For a moment, neither of us move. When I look at him, there’s something different in his gaze that makes my throat tighten. My vision blurs as fresh tears slip down my face.
“I’m not sad,” I tell him softly.
Ford lifts a hand, and brushes my hair back from my face, cradling my cheek in his palm.
He examines me for several long seconds, then he whispers, “I know.”
His thumbs brush under my eyes, catching the tears before they can fall any farther. The gesture is gentle, almost reverent, and it makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the sex we just had.
He eases us to our sides keeping his cock still inside of me, guiding me with him until my back is flush to his chest. I feel weightless, dazed, like the air around us has thickened.
Carefully reaching down, he tugs the blankets up from the foot of the bed, wrapping them around me until I’m swallowed in the heat of him, his scent, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the deep weight of his cock still buried inside of me.
He tucks my head under his jaw, and I blink against the warmth of his neck.
“We’ve got a little while longer,” he murmurs. “Just let me hold you.”
So, I do.
Three days later, I’m halfway through answering emails when Becca slides into the empty chair beside my desk, holding her coffee like it’s a glass of wine and we’re about to gossip at happy hour. A slow, knowing smile tugs at her lips as she leans in slightly.
“Laaaandyn,” she whispers, drawing it out for dramatic effect. “Okay. Spill it. What’s happening?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
Becca raises a brow. “You’re glowing. What’s up?”
“I’m not glowing.”
“She’s glowing,” Marco calls from the next desk over without even looking up.
“I hate you both,” I mutter, trying not to smile as I type out a reply to a vendor.
Becca leans in even closer, her voice conspiratorial. “You sleeping with the boss or something?”
That does it. My face breaks wide open, a smile curling at the corners of my mouth. I don’t even try to hide it. My cheeks flush…and Becca’s jaw drops.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “You are!”
Marco spins in his chair so fast that it squeaks. “No. Shut up. No.”
I press my lips together, trying to look innocent. And apparently failing.
Becca points at me, eyes wide. “You totally are!”
I shrug, still smiling.
Marco throws a folder at my desk. “You sneaky little secret keeper. You’ve been sitting here drinking oat milk lattes and acting normal while you are clearly getting wrecked after hours.”
Becca chokes on her coffee. “Marco!”
“What? Look at her face! That’s not a well-rested smile. That’s a well-sexed smile.”
I laugh, burying my face in my hands. Becca grins like she just solved a mystery. “Well, damn. Good for you.”
Marco raises his coffee cup in a mock toast. “May your meetings be short, and your make-outs be long.”
“You two are impossible,” I say, but my smile doesn’t falter. Because they’re right. And I’ve never felt more okay about being found out.
“Go with the dark roast,” a voice says behind me. “Vanilla’s a trap.”
I turn, smiling before I even see him. “Hey Jesse.”
He grins, leaning against the doorframe with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a backwards ball cap on his head. In the office. It’s a look only he could pull off .
“You hiding in here?” he asks.
“Are you?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Noah is on a spreadsheet warpath. Something about variance margins and quarterly goals, and I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that kind of energy before noon.”
I laugh and turn back to the machine, taking his advice and picking the dark roast. Jesse moves into the room, opens the fridge, pokes around like he might find buried treasure in there.
“So…” he starts, casually. Too casually. “Ford mentioned this weekend.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
He straightens and closes the fridge door. “Barbecue at his place with your tiny human.”
There’s a soft catch in my chest. “Poppy,” I say.
He nods, voice quieter. “Poppy.” He says her name like he’s remembering his mom.
“I’m excited,” he says, flashing a crooked smile. “Been waiting a long time to meet her.”
“I know,” I say. It’s quiet for a beat before he leans against the counter beside me, arms crossed, voice still light.
“You know, when Ford told us, I didn’t say much. Mostly because I was stunned and wanted to murder someone, but also because I figured it wasn’t my story to react to.”
I grip the edge of the counter, meeting his eyes.
“But I’ve been thinking about it. And I just want you to know…I get it.”
I blink, surprised. “You do?”
He nods. “Look, I’m not built for deep. I’m going to be the fun uncle. But I know Ford and I know what this means to him. I see what you’re doing to make this right.”
My chest pulls tight. “Jesse… ”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, looking at me. “You don’t even have to say anything.”
I don’t realize my eyes are glossy until I blink too fast, and a tear escapes. He grins—a little lopsided. “Also, if she doesn’t like me, I’ll be the one who’s crying in the corner. Just giving you fair warning.”
“She’s going to love you,” I say, meaning it. “You’re ridiculous. She’s going to think you’re the greatest thing ever.”
“Perfect,” he says. “That’s the energy I’m bringing. Uncle of the year. She’ll be like, Wes and Noah who? I’m going to buy her love with a Hello Kitty scooter and probably a pink leather jacket.”
I laugh. “You’ll spoil her.”
“That’s the whole point.”
He gives me a wink and a gentle nudge with his elbow before pushing off the counter and for the door, leaving my heart feeling full and just the tiniest bit fragile in the very best way.
Four hours later, a message pings on my screen, and I sit up straighter before I even register who it’s from.
Ford Winters.
My heart skips—actually skips —like I’m 20 again and he’s texting me to meet him, which is ridiculous. Embarrassing actually. One message from him should not make me feel this way, yet here I am, staring at my screen and smiling like an idiot.
Ford: I miss you.
Ford: I want to take you home.
My stomach does that ridiculous swoop again. Home. It doesn’t matter that we live in different houses, wherever Ford is will always be my home.
I shut down my computer, grab my bag, and tell Becca I’m heading out, ignoring the smug little smirk she throws my way.
Then I make my way to his office. He’s standing near the window, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, the late afternoon light painting him in gold.
God, he’s beautiful. Masculine. Steady. Mine.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He turns and smiles, eyes immediately warming. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, already grabbing his jacket.
“Mine,” I say. “We’ll pick up Poppy on the way. I thought we could work on bike riding again?”
His smile deepens. “You mean she’ll work on it, and I’ll pretend not to have a heart attack when she veers into the bushes.”
“She only veered once.”
“She hit a tree.”
“A tiny tree.”
He grins and opens the door for me. We’re halfway down the hall when he pauses and pats his pockets. “Shit,” he mutters. “I forgot my keys.”
“I’ll grab them,” I offer, already turning.
He calls after me. “Top drawer.”
I head back into his office, the door clicking closed behind me. I move around his desk, and pull open the top drawer, expecting to find his keys. What I find instead makes me freeze.
There, tucked in the corner like something private, sacred, is the old black leather bracelet I gave him when we were in college. It’s worn, the edges fraying. The little silver clasp I added is tarnished but still intact.
He kept it. All this time.
A lump rises in my throat as I pick it up. My fingers tremble slightly as I run them along the edge, memories hitting me in waves. He wore this every day the summer we fell in love.
I turn as the door opens behind me. He sees what’s in my hand and stops. Neither of us speaks right away.
“You kept it,” I whisper.
He nods once. “I couldn’t throw it away.”
My throat tightens.
“It was the only thing I had left of you. Of us.”
I walk toward him slowly, bracelet still in hand. When I reach him, I take his wrist gently in mine and slide it on.
It still fits.
Of course it does.
He watches me, eyes unreadable but soft.
“I used to think it was just a silly, cheap bracelet,” I say, fingers brushing over the worn leather. “But maybe it was more than that.”
He lifts his hand, places it over mine. “It was everything,” he says quietly.
We stand there for a second, hearts thudding, that bracelet between us like the past and the present finally lining up.
And then he presses a kiss to my forehead, simple and soft. “Let’s go pick up our girl.”