Chapter 29 Ava #2
After the bookstore, after George, after the tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding in every muscle—I just need to breathe. And Elijah gives me that. He always does.
The lights in the living room are dim, just the soft golden glow of the lamp by the couch. The kettle hums in the kitchen, and I watch him as he moves, barefoot and steady, like he belongs here, because he does.
Because he does.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me watching. His lips curve in that way that always melts something low and deep in me.
“You want tea or just me?” he asks, voice warm.
I pretend to consider it. “Both.”
He chuckles, crosses the room, and hands me the mug first before sinking beside me on the couch. His thigh presses against mine. Solid. Present. My anchor.
For a while, we just sit like that. His arm slung casually around my shoulders, my head on his chest, the tea forgotten on the table. His fingers stroke slow patterns against my skin. Soothing. Reassuring. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being known.
“You didn’t tell me you were scared,” he says softly.
“I didn’t want to give him more space in my head than he already took.”
He hums. “Fair. But next time, just say it. Let me carry some of it.”
I nod against him. “I did. I texted you.”
“You did.” He kisses my hair. “I'm so proud of you. My good girl.”
That makes my heart skip. Not in the flashy, lusty way. In the way that makes me feel folded into something safe and sacred.
I curl closer. “You always make me feel... like I don’t have to hold everything on my own.”
“You don’t,” he murmurs against my temple. “That’s what I’m here for. To hold whatever you can’t.”
My hand slides along his chest, and I lift my head just enough to look at him. His eyes are soft, but I can feel the quiet intensity there too—the part of him that doesn’t just soothe, but commands, protects, leads.
That part has been growing between us. Not in loud declarations, but in quiet rhythms: the clothes he lays out for me, the little notes, the way he holds me accountable without ever making me feel small.
I shift my weight and climb into his lap without a word, straddling him. His hands go to my hips like it’s instinct. Maybe it is now.
“Elijah?”
“Mmm?”
“Can you just…” I trail off, uncertain of the words, but he waits. Like he always does.
“Can you take over tonight?” I ask finally, quietly. “I don’t want to think. I just want to feel.”
He leans in, nose brushing mine. “You sure?”
I nod. “Completely.”
He kisses me then. Deep and deliberate. Not just with hunger—but with intent. With promise.
His hands slide up my thighs slowly, warm through the fabric of my leggings. “Take these off, baby,” he murmurs. “And then come right back here.”
I do, without hesitation.
Because I trust him.
Because this—being led, being cared for—this is where I feel strongest.
When I return, Elijah’s waiting on the couch just like before, but something in him has shifted. I can feel it in the way he looks at me. He crooks a finger, and I step forward, slipping back into his lap, this time bare from the waist down.
His hand cups the back of my neck. “Good girl,” he says again. “Daddy’s got you.”
And I melt.
His mouth moves along my jaw, trailing down to the sensitive spot beneath my ear. Every kiss, every touch, draws me deeper into the space we’ve created between us—a space where I get to surrender, and still be strong.
A space where I am entirely his. I feel his breath warm against my skin, the subtle pressure of his lips grazing my neck, a quiet invitation that stirs something deep inside me. Every kiss is patient, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the curve of me, learning every inch with reverence.
His hands move from my neck down my back, steady and sure, sliding beneath my shirt to feel my bare skin. Goosebumps rise where his fingers trace, slow and worshipful. I close my eyes, letting his touch wash away the last of the tension from earlier—the sharp edges George left behind.
“You’re mine baby,” Elijah whispers, voice low, a rumble vibrating through my chest. “All of you.”
The words settle like a balm, and I nod, trusting him completely. The world outside ceases to exist.
His hands explore further, sliding to my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the weight of his desire through the fabric of his shirt, the heat pooling between us like a secret promise.
“Elijah…” My voice is soft, trembling with need.
He cups my face, thumb brushing my lips. “Shhh. No need to say anything. Just feel.”
I lean in, parting my lips, and he kisses me—slow and deep, coaxing the breath from my lungs. The heat of his mouth against mine makes my knees weak, but I stay grounded in the moment, letting myself be completely undone.
His hands slide under my shirt again, fingers threading through the hem as he lifts it over my head, revealing my skin to the cool air of the room—and to him. I shiver, not from cold but from the electric awareness of being seen.
He’s careful, patient, but there’s a hunger there too—a controlled fire that promises so much more.
His palms press warm and firm along my ribs, down to my waist, giving me time to savor every moment. He pulls me closer, fingers tracing the curve of my hips, the soft skin of my thighs.
“Elijah…” I whisper again, breathless.
He silences me with another kiss—this one deeper, more urgent—his hands steady but commanding as they roam, grounding me, holding me.
I’m burning, aching for more, but also safe. So safe.
“Tonight,” he says softly against my lips, “you’re not just my girl. You’re my princess. And I’m going to show you exactly how much you’re loved.”
I nod, heart pounding, ready to follow wherever he leads.
His hands guide me down onto the couch, and the rest of the world falls away as we begin to explore each other—slow, deliberate, a dance of trust and desire, where every touch says, I see you. I want you. I cherish you.
Elijah kneels in front of me, the soft glow of the lamp casting golden light over his features. His eyes meet mine—steady, unwavering—and something in my chest loosens.
He touches me like I’m something rare, something fragile and powerful all at once. His fingers trail from my knee up the inside of my thigh, his palm warm and wide. My breath stutters, but he’s not rushing. Never rushing.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
I do. And the way he’s looking at me—it’s not just hunger. It’s reverence. Like I’m the only thing in the world worth holding onto.
“You’re doing so well, baby,” he whispers, brushing a kiss against my inner thigh. “Let me take care of you. Let me show you how safe you are.”
I nod, too breathless to speak.
His hand grazes between my legs, cupping me over the thin lace of my panties. The heat there is unbearable now, and I arch toward him instinctively. He presses just enough to make me gasp, but not enough to satisfy me. He’s teasing. Testing. Building.
“Elijah…”
“I’ve got you.” His voice is a promise.
He eases my panties down slowly, dragging them over my thighs. I tremble as cool air hits my skin, but it’s the intensity of his gaze that makes me feel completely bare.
“You’re so wet already,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the slick heat between my legs. I moan—quiet, desperate—and he smiles, low and soft. “That’s my good girl.”
When his tongue replaces his fingers, I cry out, my hand flying to his shoulder for balance.
He doesn’t stop. He works me open slowly, methodically, like he’s studying every reaction, every sound.
My legs start to shake as he laps at me, slow and deep, and he hums with satisfaction when I gasp his name again.
“I love the way you taste,” he murmurs against me, voice rough. “Love making you fall apart like this.”
“Elijah—please…Daddy…”
He rises then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with heat. “I know, baby. You need more.”
I reach for him, needing the weight of his body, needing the grounding only he can give. He kisses me hard now, tasting me on his tongue, and I melt into him completely.
“Lie back,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “I want to see all of you.”
I do, trembling under his gaze as he stands to undress. He’s slow with himself too, as if every layer he removes is another step closer to something sacred.
And when he finally presses over me, skin to skin, I feel everything. The weight of him, the warmth, the connection that starts deep in my belly and stretches outward like light.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he breathes, sliding inside me inch by inch. “So wet. So tight. So fucking mine.”
I gasp, the stretch delicious, filling. He stays still for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, letting me adjust. Our breaths sync, hearts racing in rhythm.
Then he begins to move, slow at first, rolling his hips against mine with unrelenting tenderness. Each thrust is deliberate, coaxing pleasure from the deepest parts of me.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers again. “You’re safe. You’re perfect. Let go for me, baby.”
And I do.
My climax builds like a tide, unstoppable, sweeping me under. I cry out, clinging to him, every nerve ending alive, trembling as I fall apart around him. He follows moments later, groaning my name as he presses deep, holding me through it.
When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away. He wraps me in his arms, lips pressed to my hair, his body a shield around mine.
“You’re everything,” he whispers. “You don’t even know.”
And in the quiet after, tangled together on the couch in the soft light of our little world, I believe him.
My limbs feel like water—boneless, weightless—but it’s not exhaustion in a bad way. It’s release. Like something heavy I’ve been carrying has finally slipped free.
Elijah doesn’t move away, not really. He shifts just enough to keep from crushing me, but he’s still there, surrounding me with warmth. His arms curl around me, and he kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth, like he’s gathering me back together one soft press at a time.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, still catching my breath, my fingers clutching at his back. “Yeah. I’m… good. Really good.”
He smiles against my skin, and his hand strokes slowly down my spine. “Color?”
“Green.” I nuzzle into him. “Still green.”
He pulls the blanket up around us and tucks me into his chest like I’m something precious. I feel the soft brush of his fingers combing through my hair, and the low rhythm of his heartbeat under my cheek.
“I’ve got you,” he says, so softly it’s barely a breath.
And I believe him.
He doesn’t rush. He never does. He whispers sweet things into my hair. Kisses my temple. Lets me take my time coming back to myself. He even brings a warm washcloth, gentle and quiet as he cleans between my thighs. His touch is reverent, careful.
At one point, I feel my eyes sting. Not from pain. Not from sadness. Just the overwhelming safety of it all.
“Hey,” he whispers when he notices. He tilts my face toward his, thumbs brushing the corners of my eyes. “Too much?”
“No,” I whisper. “Just… full. In every way.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, and he kisses me again—long, lingering.
Then he says the words that break me in the softest way possible:
“I’m proud of you.”
And that’s when the tears fall for real. Not from fear. From being seen. Loved. Held exactly right.
We stay there on the couch until my breathing steadies, wrapped in each other and quiet warmth. And when he carries me to bed a little while later, his arms never once let go.