Chapter 32 #2
His voice was raw, each word arriving on its own shallow breath.
“I can’t wait to have you again. Every part of you.
” His eyes locked on mine before drifting down, dark with hunger.
“I’m imagining it right now—my mouth on you, tasting how wet you are for me.
I’d take these into my mouth, bite down just enough to make you scream.
” A shudder ran through him, and he paid for it, a pained grunt breaking beneath the groan, his knees briefly losing their certainty before he locked them again.
“And I’d have you pressed against this wall right now,” he rasped, words coming slower, more air between them. “Water pouring over us, your thighs spread for me, and I’d bury myself inside you until you couldn’t stand, until I was the only thing holding you up.”
Every word ripped through me, and heat flooded low in my body, leaving me aching, as if he had already staked his claim.
“When you’ve healed,” I whispered, “I want you to do every filthy thing you’ve ever imagined.” Our eyes locked, and I poured every ounce of feeling into my next words. “And you’ll know, without a doubt, that I am yours.”
“Fuck, Ari,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I love you so much.”
He shuddered. He couldn’t stand much longer—it was visible now. His legs trembled, his breathing shallow and tight, sweat breaking across his brow that had nothing to do with the steam. His good hand braced harder against the wall, knuckles white, shoulders rigid—as if will alone kept him upright.
“Fuck,” he ground out, jaw tight, trying to bite back the agony. I saw it in the tight pull of his chest, the way his breath came sharp and shallow with every movement, his broken ribs making him pay for every second of it.
“Are you hurt?” The words rushed out, panic tightening my throat. Of course, he was hurt—broken, bruised—and I’d been selfish enough to forget. “Tell me what to do. Please.”
He tried to straighten, but a groan broke from him, his arm curling protectively around his ribs. “It’s fine,” he forced through clenched teeth, though his expression said otherwise. “Just… give me a second.”
I held him steady, my hands gentle against his back, supporting him as he leaned into me.
His head rested heavily on my shoulder, his breathing uneven and deliberately slow—each exhale controlled, the way someone breathes when they’re managing pain rather than feeling it.
For a brief moment, he allowed me to share the burden he could no longer carry alone.
A fresh wave of guilt washed through me again, leaving me uncertain and helpless.
Then he whispered, a rough chuckle breaking through his labored breath—small, careful, cut short before it could expand into something his ribs would punish him for. “The shower is worth it,” he grunted. “So damn worth it. I’d do it all again, even if it brought me to my knees.”
I watched him sleeping beside me, his face softened in rest. The pain medication had pulled him under almost instantly, leaving him peaceful. My mind, though, refused to follow. It drifted back to the past—to the night of our engagement party, when everything shattered.
Before that night, our love had felt untouchable, unshakable, as if we were two halves of a soul destined to be together. I remembered how completely he had given himself to me, how fiercely he had loved me, and how deeply I had loved him in return.
Lying there now, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, I understood something with sudden, piercing clarity.
That love had never truly left us. His or mine.
It had been buried under hurt and pride, hidden behind harsh words and distance, but it had never gone out.
There was no doubt left in my mind that he loved me still, as wholly and fiercely as I had always loved him.
The truth of it settled deep in my soul, like a secret the heart had known all along.
The peace was broken by the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
I turned to pick it up, seeing Sandra’s name flashing across the screen.
Carefully, so as not to disturb Grayson, I slipped out of bed and padded quietly from the room.
I’d been texting and calling her for days, asking if we could talk, but she’d been too busy to respond until now.
“Sandra,” I said into the phone, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t carry back to the bedroom.
“Ariana,” Sandra greeted me from the other line. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reply to you earlier. Things have been nonstop.”
“It’s okay,” I said, leaning against the cool hallway wall. “I understand you’re busy.”
“I’ve read the report and updates you emailed me,” she began, her tone shifting into the focused, no-nonsense cadence I knew well. “I’m very pleased with Ana?s’s performance. And your second restaurant, Amélise, is still on track to open soon, correct?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. A note of professional satisfaction resonated in my voice, despite the late hour. “In two months.”
“And the deal you secured from Mercer Group was excellent. How did you negotiate such favorable terms? I anticipated a much harder fight.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about, Sandra.”
“What about it?” she asked, her tone sharpening with interest.
“About our deal,” I said evenly. “I want out. And I need to tell you why in person.”