Chapter 32
Saif knew the exact moment the regret hit her.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. It was in the sudden stiffness of her spine, the way her fingers stilled against his chest. Her gaze drifted away, unfocused, as if retreating inward.
But he wasn’t going to let her run—not emotionally, not physically—not this time.
What they’d shared hadn’t just been incredible—it had been raw, electric, and intimate in a way that knocked the air out of him.
His thoughts were still hazy, still tangled in the scent of her skin and the heat of her touch.
His face was nestled against the curve of her neck, and he began to kiss her again.
First gently—reverent little brushes against her damp skin—but soon his mouth lingered, coaxing her back to him with each pass.
He felt her begin to relax, the tightness in her body melting just a little as her thigh brushed along his hip in a slow, unconscious caress.
“Have you stopped?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, lips teasing her earlobe.
“Stopped?” she echoed, her voice soft, drowsy, but wary.
“Stopped regretting making love with me,” he clarified, tracing a path along her shoulder with his mouth. “Stopped trying to figure out how to escape. Stopped replaying every second in your head, trying to calculate what this means for tomorrow.”
He kissed her lips again—just a whisper of contact—but this time, his forearms bracketed her face, anchoring her in place as his fingers tangled in her hair, splayed wild across his pillow like a halo.
Jemma’s expression wavered—her smile flickered, then faded. “No,” she whispered, eyes glistening.
His chest tightened, but he nodded and kissed her again, softer this time. “It’s okay,” he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Tell me what’s going through your mind. Tell me why this feels like a mistake to you.”
“It…muddies the issues,” she replied, her tone heavy, laced with unease.
“What issues?”
She swallowed. “What’s going to happen between us.”
Saif shook his head slowly, his dark brows drawing together. “There are no more issues, Jemma. You left because you thought I didn’t want kids.” He rolled away, reaching for a tissue before standing and crossing the room to the bathroom. Just before disappearing, he turned and looked at her.
“Now you know I do. I want kids. I want our kid. I want you.” His voice dropped, husky but firm. “And I’m going to show you—every day—that I mean it.”
Water ran in the bathroom as Jemma propped herself up on her elbows, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.
The room was beautiful—dark blue and silver, like a storm contained in elegant lines—but it wasn’t hers.
The décor was crisp, modern, masculine. Nothing soft. Nothing fragile. Nothing like her.
And yet… she didn’t feel unwelcome.
When he emerged a moment later, a towel slung casually over one shoulder, Jemma’s breath caught. Her eyes raked over the sculpted muscles she remembered too well—the broad shoulders, the tight waist, the way his body moved like a panther on the hunt.
Her gaze lingered a beat too long.
His body tensed under her scrutiny, and a knowing heat flickered in his eyes.
Damn it.
He smirked, then lay back on the bed beside her, tugging her gently across his chest. His fingers slid into her hair, massaging her scalp with practiced ease.
“Stop overthinking,” he said, his voice half-teasing, half-command.
She curled her hand into a fist and muttered, “I want to punch you.”
He grinned and caught her hand, slowly prying her fingers open. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“Stop doing that!” she snapped, but didn’t pull away. His skin was warm beneath her cheek, his steady heartbeat thudding against her ear. Despite herself, she relaxed into him, the heat of his body warding off her doubt like a shield.
He stroked her hair again, slower this time. Familiar. Tender.
It was almost worse than the passion—this gentleness.
Next time, she told herself, she wouldn’t be so open. Wouldn’t give herself away. Wouldn’t let him touch that vulnerable part of her that still hoped.
“Stop doing what?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Stop reading my mind.”
His low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I’m not reading your mind, Jemma,” he said, voice rich with affection. “You balled up your fist. You’re a little obvious.”
She scowled, pulling back to glare at him—but her eyes softened as she met his. He was studying her, not like a man trying to seduce, but one trying to understand.
“You don’t realize how much you give away when you’re vulnerable,” he murmured, his fingers tracing a lazy path down her spine.
“I’m not vulnerable,” she shot back, frowning.
He only smiled. “You’re soft and sweet right now,” he murmured, his hand sliding lower to cradle the curve of her hip. “And I like it. I like you. All of it. The fire, the fight, the way you melt when I touch you, and how you hate that you do.”
She made an inelegant snort and shifted, propping her chin on his chest, trying to deflect the emotion tightening her throat. “You think you know me so well?”
“Well enough,” he replied, his lips twitching into a knowing smile.
“Okay, then,” she challenged, narrowing her eyes and smoothing her expression into something neutral. “What am I thinking now?”
He didn’t hesitate. His index finger traced a slow, gentle line along her cheekbone.
“You’re terrified I’m going to discover you’re still in love with me.”
Jemma froze, the air locking in her lungs. As soon as he said the words, her vision blurred. Tears burned behind her eyes, uninvited but unstoppable.
“And you’re terrified that I’ll leave you,” he added softly, shifting so he loomed over her again. His eyes searched hers, but there was no mockery there—only quiet certainty.
“Like so many other people have left you.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a tender brush of lips that undid her more than passion ever could.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, though her jaw tightened and her fists clenched in the sheets beneath them. Her voice trembled despite her efforts.
“You’re more than fine, Jemma,” he said, pulling her hands out from their hiding place, gently lacing his fingers through hers. “But your father left you.”
Her body went still, her chin lifting just a fraction. “He left,” she repeated flatly. “How do you know about my dad?”
“You mentioned him once,” Saif said, his voice quiet. “It was a long time ago. We were at that dive bar after a late meeting. I said my father was coming into town, and you told me you were taking your mom away for a spa weekend.”
He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze when she tried to pull away. “You didn’t want to meet my dad. And I get it.”
“My mother had just started feeling sick,” Jemma said, her tone defensive but fragile. The memory sliced through her like glass. “It had nothing to do with your father.”
“And then your mother left you.”
Her head whipped around. “My mother passed away,” she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying the ache she still carried. Her chin trembled, and she bit down on her lower lip to stop it. “She didn’t leave us,” she insisted.
“She gave up,” he said gently. “She stopped fighting. Jasper told me.”
Jemma recoiled like he’d struck her. Her hands shoved at his chest, and he let her go without resistance. She stood, wrapping his shirt around herself, buttoning it with shaking fingers as her vulnerability screamed through every movement.
“How did he find out?” she whispered. But the question broke halfway out of her mouth, a sob curled into the sound. Her shoulders hunched inward, trying to fold the pain back into herself.
“I don’t know,” Saif said, rising and following her. He didn’t press, just pulled her into his arms again, his embrace solid and grounding. “And then I left you.”
“I pushed you away,” she murmured, hiding her face against his chest, the texture of his skin warm and familiar under her cheek.
She should pull back, should end this before it got any harder.
But instead, her arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around his waist, holding on like she was drowning.
“I let you push me,” he countered, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. “I should have fought harder. I should have stayed. I should have made you tell me what was going on.” He lowered his head, speaking directly into her ear. “I shouldn’t have left you.”
Her body began to tremble, and he felt the first, sharp hitch of breath before the sob broke free.
It wasn’t just one. Her whole body shook as another tore from her, raw and full of grief.
“Why did she leave me?” Jemma cried, clinging to him, her voice small and splintered. “Why didn’t she fight harder?”