Chapter 16 ASH
ASH
Blindfolded
By the time I drag myself out of bed, Olive’s long gone. The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the espresso machine and Liam groaning dramatically from the couch like he’s nursing a war wound.
He finally sits up, hair wild, muttering about hangovers and regret.
I smirk. “Next time, I’m only serving you water.”
He flips me off without much energy and grabs a banana.
I barely listen to his rambling as I make coffee—because my brain is already sprinting toward the weekend. Toward her.
Olive.
I’ve hardly had her to myself these past few days. Now it’s Friday, and she’s mine after work. No more kindergarten talent shows, no meetings, no Liam sprawled on the couch like a human roadblock.
Just us.
I want her in my bed, on my couch, in my lap—anywhere she’ll let me have her.
Liam finally shuffles out the front door with a lazy wave. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I grin. “That narrows it down to… absolutely nothing.”
He disappears down the walkway, and I shut the door behind him with a quiet sense of triumph.
Then I lock it.
Deadbolt. Chain. Extra latch.
Because I am done playing host.
This weekend is about her. About us.
If someone knocks, I’m not answering. Not even if it’s Beyoncé with cupcakes. Not even if it’s the Pope himself holding a VIP pass to the afterlife.
Unless it’s Olive.
Because the next time that front door opens, it better be her walking through it.
Preferably wearing nothing but a smile.
And maybe that soft little robe she sometimes wears in the morning. The one that slides off her shoulder like a goddamn invitation.
I glance at the clock and groan—still hours to go.
Might as well put the time to good use. I start on dinner: homemade garlic bread and fresh pappardelle in a vodka cream sauce.
To me, cooking is like songwriting—only with garlic and butter instead of lyrics and chords. And tonight, I want everything to be perfect.
When the bread is baking and filling the house with the rich scent of garlic and herbs, and the pasta simmers on the stove, I set the table in the sunroom. Evening light spills in like honey. Two plates. Cloth napkins. Candles.
I pause for a second and check the time again. She should be home any minute.
The sound of keys in the door nearly makes me drop the corkscrew.
I toss the last of the salad, wipe my hands on a towel, and try to act casual.
Olive walks in, hair a little windblown. Bag slipping off her shoulder. Wearing one of those soft cardigans that makes her look like every fantasy I’ve ever had of home and heat and something real.
She pauses in the entryway, nose scrunching. “What smells so good?”
I step into view, leaning against the doorframe like I didn’t rehearse this exact moment twice in my head. “Dinner. I hope you’re hungry? I wanted to surprise you.”
She smiles, soft and delighted, as her gaze follows the flicker of candlelight toward the dining nook. “Ash…” Her voice dips, warm and a little breathless. “You did all this?”
I shrug like it’s nothing, though I’m burning under her eyes. “Just thought you deserved a night where you didn’t have to take care of anyone.”
She drops her bag, walks forward slowly, gaze drinking in the scene.
“Okay,” she says, lowering herself into the chair I pulled out for her.
“This is seriously the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in forever.
I might cry. And not the good kind of cry.
The messy, ‘I need a nap and a therapist’ kind. ”
I chuckle, setting her wine glass down. “Let’s aim for neither. Food first. Breakdown later.”
She lifts the glass with both hands like it’s holy. “You are an angel. A foul-mouthed, inked-up domestic angel.”
“I prefer ‘kitchen god,’ but I’ll allow it.”
She gives a tired smile that tugs at something deep in my chest. And then we eat.
I watch her twirl the pasta around her fork with near-reverence. She takes a bite and lets out a low, throaty sound that makes me forget how to chew.
“Oh my god,” she says, eyes wide. “This is amazing.”
I grin, proud. “Told you—I’m a man of many talents.”
She smirks. “That’s usually something men say when they’re talking about what’s in their pants.”
I wink. “That too.”
She laughs—really laughs—and it’s the first time all day she looks like herself again. The tight lines around her eyes start to soften. Her shoulders drop. Her voice isn’t edged with tension.
I refill her wine glass and ask, “Rough day?”
She sighs. “You know how kindergartners are like tiny humans hopped up on sugar and unfiltered emotion? Multiply that by thirty and add a plumbing emergency.”
“Oof.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a saint,” I say. “Or a gladiator. Or both.”
She gives a dramatic bow. “Miss Hart, kindergarten warrior.”
I raise my glass. “To Miss Hart—who kicks ass, educates tiny humans, and still looks like a dream in candlelight.”
She blushes, but doesn’t look away. “Thank you. For this. For all of it.”
I rise slowly, walk around the table, and hold out my hand.
She blinks up at me. “Ash?”
I don’t answer right away. I just bend, tilt her chin, and kiss her.
Her lips part under mine and she sighs into the kiss—and that sound? It undoes me.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” I whisper.
She swallows hard and nods.
I lift her into my arms. She lets out a quiet laugh, startled, looping her arms around my neck. “Ash, I can walk.”
“Shh,” I grin. “Kitchen god, remember? I carry my conquests.”
Her laugh is warm against my neck as I carry her down the hallway, but by the time I nudge open the bedroom door with my foot, she’s gone quiet.
She slides down my body when I set her on her feet, her hands lingering on my shoulders like she doesn’t want to let go. I don’t want to either. Not tonight.
I step back slightly, reach into the drawer by the bed, and pull out the soft, dark silk scarf I tucked away earlier—just in case.
Her brows lift as I hold it up.
“Hart, do you trust me?” I ask, my hands cradling her face.
She looks at me for a long moment. Then nods once, slow and sure. “Yes.”
I brush her hair back with both hands, then lean in and kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. When I move behind her to wrap the scarf around her eyes, she’s still. Steady.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur. “Just like this.”
I tie it gently—carefully—letting the silk settle over her eyes like a whisper.
She exhales, sharp and trembling.
I guide her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. “Lie back, sweetheart,” I say, voice low. “I want you to feel everything… without knowing what’s next.”
She sinks down onto the bed, her breath quickening. I stand over her for a moment, just watching. The way her chest rises. The way her fingers clutch the sheets. She’s beautiful like this. Laid out. Trusting me completely.
I kneel beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face, then leaning down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is warm. Flushed.
Another kiss—just under her jaw.
Then her shoulder.
Then lower.
I take my time.
I kiss the inside of her wrist. Down her arm. Over her collarbone. I worship her like I’ve been waiting forever to touch her this way.
She’s trembling with anticipation. And fuck, I love it.
“You can’t see a thing, can you?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, lips parted.
“Good,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles lightly along her waist.
She lets out a soft sound—half whimper, half challenge—and I grin.
My hand glides under her shirt, fingers teasing the warm skin at her lower belly. I lean down, mouth close to her ear.
“I’m sliding your shirt up… slowly. You feel that?” My fingers move, dragging the fabric inch by inch. “That’s my mouth. Right there.”
I kiss just beneath her ribs, letting my stubble scrape lightly against her skin.
She arches into me, her breath catching.
“You’re so sensitive like this,” I murmur, licking a trail across her stomach before pulling her shirt higher. “Every nerve lit up. Every breath shaking.”
I pause just below her bra and sit back for a second, admiring the way she squirms. Not from discomfort. From want. From the not knowing.
“You want more?” I ask softly.
She nods, cheeks flushed.
“Use your words, Olive.”
“Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”
God help me.
I ease her shirt the rest of the way off, my hands grazing her arms as I do. I toss it aside, then trail my fingers slowly over the lacy edge of her bra.
“Now this…” I murmur, “I might leave on for a bit. Just to torture us both.”
She lets out a tiny, needy noise.
I kiss along her sternum. Down her side. Over her hipbone. Slowly, I work her pants down, inch by maddening inch.
Just enough friction to make her gasp.
“Still doing okay?” I ask as my hands glide over her thighs.
“Better than okay,” she whispers.
I grin. “Good.” I grab the little dish I’d tucked away earlier—strawberries. Cold. Juicy. A little decadent.
I pick one up and press it gently to her lips. She gasps at the chill, then opens her mouth and bites down, humming as she chews.
“Good?” I ask, watching her lips.
She nods.
“Want another?”
She nods again.
I smile and this time, I lean closer. “Open up,” I murmur.
She does, and I feed her another—this time brushing my thumb across her bottom lip after. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
Her breath is a whisper now. “Then show me.”
God.
“I’m going to kiss your thigh,” I warn, sliding down the bed. “Right here.”
She tenses—then moans as my lips find the soft skin just above her knee. I don’t rush. I kiss the inside of her thigh, slow and hot, inching up until she’s nearly panting.
Her hands fumble blindly for mine, and I grip them gently, pinning them beside her head as I hover over her.
“You trust me?”
She nods, lips parted. “Yes.”
“Then just lie back,” I whisper, brushing her hair from her forehead. “And feel everything.”
“Please,” she whimpers.