CHAPTER 16 – PASSION RECLAIMED
Tara
If I don’t move, I can almost convince myself the city isn’t watching.
I’m standing at the doors of Hunter’s penthouse, wearing a dress that cost me three weeks’ pay at my first job out of high school.
The dress is blue—cobalt, midnight, impossible to look away from.
I bought it because, once, in another lifetime, Hunter told me it would match my eyes.
Back then, I thought that was a line. Now I think it was a prophecy.
I ring the bell before I can change my mind.
My hand shakes, but not from cold. The old Tara would have waited for the man to open the door, pretty with a shy, receding smile.
The new Tara—the one who spent the last two days at Sanctum, taking long walks, doing meditation, and writing in her journal—knows exactly what she wants and is going to get it.
I hear footsteps, measured and slow, as if he’s trying to calm his heart before facing me. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there he is.
Hunter, in a suit—no tie, collar loose, shirt just a shade lighter than the stubble shadowing his jaw. He looks exhausted, but also like he’s about to win a Nobel or get on a GQ cover. For a long, tight second, neither of us says a word.
His eyes drop from my face to the blue silk, then back up again, and in that moment I know he remembers. He remembers every word he ever said to me, and probably a thousand more I never heard.
“Hi,” I manage. Not exactly the dramatic entrance I envisioned, but it’ll do.
His mouth quirks, a smile at the corner of his lips. “Hi yourself. You’re early.”
“Surprised?”
He shakes his head, one hand gripping the edge of the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “I hoped you’d come. I just just didn’t know what to expect—” He swallows, eyes closing for a half-second. “You look beautiful, Tara.”
I step inside before I can lose my nerve.
The penthouse is different. Not just tidy and perfect, but transformed.
The table in the entry is loaded with fresh lilies and tulips, so many that the air is heavy with their perfume.
The lights are low, and candles—actual wax, not those fake LED ones—are scattered along every surface, their flames reflected in the marble and glass.
It’s as if Hunter wanted to make the apartment special for me.
I follow him into the living room, careful not to let my heels click too loud on the floor.
There’s a tray on the coffee table: a decanter of wine, two glasses, a bowl of olives, and a tiny, perfect plate of crackers and cheese.
Hunter gestures to the sofa, but I stay standing. I want to see what he’ll do.
He pours wine into the glasses, hands me one, and the moment our fingers touch, the air gets heavier, hotter. His hand shakes just a little. I want to laugh at how nervous we both are, but I’m terrified if I do, I’ll fall apart.
We sit. Not side-by-side, but angled, so I can watch the city and him at the same time. He doesn’t speak at first, just swirls the wine in his glass and stares at it like it holds the answers to every question in the world.
I take a sip. It’s delicious, but anything Hunter selects would be.
“I’m guessing you want to talk,” I say.
Hunter nods. “I do. But only if you’re ready.”
I’m nod. “Go ahead.”
He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it rakishly tousled, and sets the glass down with a faint clink.
“It’s just a repeat of before, really. I want to say I’m sorry, Tara, but I don’t think that word covers it.
I’ve been selfish. I should have told you who you were from the start, but I—” He stops, breathes.
“I didn’t want to lose you. What about you? What have you been thinking about?”
There’s a pause, filled with the hum of the city and the faint sizzle of a candle wick burning too fast.
“I spent the last two days at Sanctum,” I say in a slow voice.
“Trying to figure out if I wanted to be Daisy or Tara, or neither. I thought maybe if I separated the feelings, I’d know which ones were real.
” I set my glass down, fold my hands in my lap.
“Turns out, they all are. I can’t untangle them.
I can’t untangle you from them, either.”
His eyes are wet, harsh streaks on those high cheekbones.
“I’ve always loved you, Hunter,” I say, and it’s so easy, so obvious, I almost want to laugh. “And as Daisy, I just finally got to say it out loud. I don’t think I would have had the courage, nor the freedom, to say it as Tara.”
He covers his face for a second. Then he laughs, a ragged, desperate sound.
“Thank you so much, sweetheart. I’m glad you came back, and I’m glad you said the words,” he says.
“I didn’t think you’d ever come back, and I had this whole script in my head for what I’d say, but now it all sounds stupid. ”
“I want to hear it anyway,” I murmur.
He glances over, searching my face for some sign of hesitation, but there’s none. I am exactly where I want to be.
Hunter leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands twisted together. “I talked to a lawyer,” he says. “After you left. About us.”
I blink, surprised. “A lawyer?”
“Yeah. I needed to know if we were doing anything illegal.” He manages a half-smile, but the nerves are obvious. “Turns out, since we’re not blood related, there’s nothing stopping us. Except maybe a couple thousand years of human taboos, I suppose.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
He shrugs, helpless. “I guess I just want you to know there’s nothing in our way, except what we decide for ourselves.”
I feel the alcohol boiling in my stomach, and for the first time in days, the pressure in my chest lifts.
Hunter takes a shaky breath, then reaches for me. I let him. His fingers are rough and warm, yet tender as well. He cups my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“I don’t know who I am without you, Daisy,” he whispers.
I lean in, just enough so our foreheads touch, and close my eyes.
“You don’t have to find out,” I say.
We sit there, breathing in the scent of lilies and bourbon, the city pulsing below, and for the first time, it feels like we’re not alone. We’re together. We’re real.
He presses his lips to my temple, then my cheek, then pauses just above my mouth.
“May I?” he says.
I answer by kissing him first.
The kiss is slow, desperate, and holy. I taste wine, salt, and the trace of his last breath. I taste every moment we spent denying ourselves, every hour we spent missing each other.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy, but in a good way.
I stand up, holding out my hand. “Show me your favorite room,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
He stands, not letting go of me, and leads me down the hall. The city lights follow us, reflected in every polished surface. The candles burn low, their wax running in slow rivers across the marble.
In the bedroom, I turn to face him.
“This is me, Hunter,” I say. “I’m not Daisy anymore. But I’m not just Tara, either.”
He nods, stepping closer. “You’re both.”
I undo the buttons of my dress, one by one, letting the silk slip off my shoulders.
It puddles around my ankles, blue against the white carpet.
I’m nude underneath, save for my high heels and a pair of thigh high stockings.
My breasts are ivory mounds, the nipples pink and succulent.
My pussy’s wet, a glimmer of arousal evident on my thighs.
Hunter just looks at me, reverent, his hands at his sides. “You’re perfect,” he says, like it’s an oath.
I don’t feel perfect. I feel scared, but brave.
And I want him to see every part of me.
He kisses me again, slower this time, hands gentle but urgent. The city watches through the window, silent witness.
We fall together onto the bed, lost in the hush of the world’s approval and disapproval both, and I know, for the first time, exactly who I am.
I am the girl who was loved, lost, and found. I am Daisy and Tara, both and neither.
And in Hunter’s arms, I am finally enough.
Within moments, I’m lying on the bed, sheets cold against my knees, with Hunter looming over me in that deliciously predatory way—shirtless now, his pecs heavy and abs defined. He’s a gorgeous specimen of man, and I want him. Even better, none of it is shame. All of it is hunger.
He waits for me to make the first move.
So I do. I crawl up his body, slow as a cat, and kiss him—open, wet, biting.
His hands go to my waist, then higher, thumbs tracing up and under my ribcage until they cup the curve of my breasts.
He palms me, gentle and rough, squeezing hard enough to leave prints.
The look in his eyes is worshipful, yet also hesitant.
“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice thick.
I straddle his lap, my bare skin to his mass, and press myself into the heat of him. He’s already hard, so hard, and I love knowing I did that just by being me.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I say, running my hands down his arms, mapping every muscle. “I can be both women to you. Simultaneously, if you want.”
He grins, the old wolf back, but there’s a sweetness now, a soft catch at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he whispers.
I grind against him, feeling the velvet roughness of his suit pants against my bare slit. “You like it.”
He grabs my ass, fingers digging in, then lifts and flips me onto my back in one smooth motion. The world spins as my big breasts bounce. I laugh, giddy, and grab at his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.
We’re both desperate, but he slows things down, kissing my jaw, then my neck, then the hollow just above my collarbone. He takes his time, memorizing me. I want to scream for him to hurry up, but also want this to last forever.
He works his way down, mouth on my breast, then tongue, then teeth on my nipple. The jolt goes straight to my core. I arch, moaning, and he groans into my skin.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he says.
“Show me, then.”
He does.