Chapter 9
At nine thirty, Abel walks me to my front door after the board dinner, then stops on the porch instead of following me in.
"Len is staying in the car until midnight," he says.
"Len told me. He also told me my porch light has inadequate coverage."
"It does."
"Men keep having opinions about my fixtures."
"You deserve better coverage."
I laugh because I am tired, wired, angry, and attracted enough to make several bad decisions.
Abel does not move closer.
I unlock the door and step inside. Then I turn.
He stands below me on the porch step, hands in his coat pockets, eyes on my face. The house light catches the silver in his hair and the sharp line of his jaw. He looks controlled. He also looks like control is costing him.
Marshall’s restraint always made me feel managed. Abel’s leaves the choice with me.
"The marriage is over," I say.
His gaze does not flicker. "I know."
"I told him. I took away his code. He stood on my porch and sort of threatened me." My hand stays on the open door because I am not asking him to guess what I mean. "You read Len’s report, so why are you still standing down there?"
His breath leaves slowly.
"Because if I come inside, I am not coming in as your lawyer."
"You were never my lawyer."
"Close enough to require care."
"I’m done being handled with care by men who don’t trust me to choose."
He hears the truth. I see it in his face.
Abel comes up one step.
"If I come in, you can change your mind at any point. You can stop me with one word. You don’t owe me anything because I helped you."
"Abel."
"Say it anyway."
I understand then.
He needs to hear me separate desire from gratitude. From crisis. From the convenient little story Marshall would tell if he could see us now.
I step closer.
"I want you because you’re careful when you want not to be.
Because you believe me. Because you look at me like I have a brain and a body, and you don’t act surprised that both exist." My voice goes lower.
"And because I have spent months sleeping beside a man who treated me like an obligation on his schedule, and I am done with that too. "
Abel’s eyes darken.
"Honor."
"Come inside."
He does.
I lock the door behind him.
For a second, neither of us moves. The foyer is too quiet. My house, my father’s house, my not-Marshall’s house now, holds both of us with all the lights on.
Then Abel steps toward me, slow enough that I can step back.
I do not.
His hand lifts to my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, and the gentleness almost breaks me before his mouth even touches mine.
The kiss is not careful.
Thank God.
It is hot and deep and overdue for reasons that have nothing to do with time. His hand slides into my hair, loosening the pins. My back hits the wall beside the coat closet, and I make a sound that embarrasses me for half a second until he answers with one of his own.
Not polished.
Not controlled.
Mine.
He pulls back enough to look at me.
"Bedroom?"
"Upstairs."
"Are you sure?"
"I am going to become very difficult if you ask that every eleven seconds."
His mouth curves. "Noted."
"Excellent."
The word slips out, and I almost laugh because apparently my brain has abandoned standards.
He kisses me again before I can make a note about it.
We make it halfway up the stairs before I shove his coat off his shoulders. He lets it drop on the runner, which is good because I briefly worried he might fold it. I pull at his tie. He takes over when my fingers fumble, loosening the knot and tossing the tie over the banister.
"That was an expensive gesture," I say.
"I’ll survive."
"Heroic."
In my bedroom, he stops again.
I know why.
This was my marital bedroom.
It has my pale curtains, my books, my mother’s silver tray on the dresser, and the king bed Marshall slept in for months without reaching for me. The thought of Abel in it with me now feels less like betrayal and more like taking the room back.
"Here?" Abel asks.
I walk to the bed and strip off the top cover.
"There," I say. "That feels better."
He laughs under his breath, and then I am done with restraint too.
I cross to him and unbutton his shirt myself. One button, then another, revealing warm skin, a scattering of hair on his chest, the solid muscle of a man who does not live at a gym but still owns his body. I press my palms against him. He closes his eyes for half a second.
That little loss of control makes me ache.
"You’re beautiful," he says.
"In this lighting?"
"Everywhere."
My throat tightens.
"Do not make me emotional while I’m undressing you."
"I’ll try."
I slide my hands down to his belt. He catches my wrists, not stopping me, just slowing me.
"I want to take care of you tonight."
I almost look away.
Then I remember I do not have to make my wants easy for anyone anymore. Especially not tonight, with him.
"Then listen," I say.
"I am."
I tell him what I like.
It is awkward for the first two sentences, because naming what I want out loud feels too exposed. Then Abel’s expression changes, hunger and attention together, and the awkwardness burns off fast.
He unzips my dress slowly. Not teasing to control me. Watching my face, checking each breath, each nod. The dress falls to the floor. His gaze moves over me in my black bra and underwear, and there is nothing polite about the way he looks.
"Honor."
My name in his voice is not a warning now. It is want.
He kneels before me.
I stop breathing.
"You don’t have to," I say, which is a stupid thing to say to a man already on his knees.
He looks up. "I know."
Then he puts his mouth on my thigh.
My hand goes into his hair. Sandy, soft, real. He kisses higher, patient enough to make me swear. When he hooks his fingers in my underwear and looks up again, I nod before he asks.
"Yes."
He takes them down my legs and touches me like he listened because he did. Slow first, then firmer when my hips move. His mouth follows, and the first stroke of his tongue makes my knees soften so fast he catches me with one arm around my thighs.
"Abel."
He hums against me, and I almost come from that alone.
It has been so long since anyone treated my pleasure like the point instead of a nice afterthought if time allowed.
He uses his mouth, his fingers, his patience.
He learns me in real time. When I pull his hair harder, he gives me more pressure.
When I go quiet, he slows, then finds the rhythm that makes me gasp again.
There is no guessing. No managing his ego. No translating myself into the version a man can tolerate.
I come with my hand over my mouth and his name breaking through anyway.
He stands and kisses me, letting me taste myself on him. That should feel shocking. It feels filthy and intimate and completely right.
"Still with me?" he asks against my mouth.
"Barely. Keep going."
That earns the full smile.
Worth it.
We undress him together, though I get distracted at his belt and he gets distracted when I touch him through his briefs. He is hard and thick in my hand, and the sound he makes is so rough I feel it between my legs.
"Condom?" he asks.
"Nightstand."
He gets it, then pauses with the packet in his hand.
"Honor."
"I’m sure."
"Tell me if anything changes."
"If anything changes, you’ll know because I will use words and possibly throw a pillow."
"Fair."
He rolls on the condom, then comes over me on the bed.
The first press of him against me steals every joke from my mouth.
He does not push. He waits, one hand braced beside my shoulder, the other on my hip.
"Slow?" he asks.
"At first."
He enters me inch by inch, watching my face. The stretch is sharp, then good, then so good I grip his shoulders and breathe through it. When he is fully inside me, he stays still.
I open my eyes.
"If you are waiting for me to recite poetry, you will be disappointed."
His laugh is strained. "I’m trying not to move until you’re ready."
"I’m ready."
"How ready?"
"Abel."
"Useful data."
He starts to move.
Slow, then deeper, then with the kind of rhythm that makes my body stop being shy about wanting. He watches me, listens to every sound, changes when I ask, and curses softly when I wrap my legs around him. I feel wanted everywhere. Not admired from a distance. Not managed. Wanted.
When I come again, it is louder. Messier. My nails dig into his back, and he loses the last of his restraint with a sound that sends heat through me all over again.
He follows me over, hips hard against mine, mouth at my throat.
After, he does not roll away.
He keeps his arm around me and kisses my shoulder until my breathing stops trying to leave the state.
"That was not a rebound," I say eventually.
His chest moves under my cheek. "No."
"That was an upgrade."
He laughs.
"I’ll accept it."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I groan. "If that is Marshall, I am joining witness protection."
Abel reaches for it, then stops and lets me pick it up.
Claire.
Freeze order signed. Queued transfers are now exhibits. Sleep if you can. Gloat later.
I show Abel.
He kisses my temple.
"Later, then."
"Later," I agree.
For the first time in months, I believe in later as more than a place to hide paperwork.