Chapter 22 Spencer
TWENTY-TWO
SPENCER
This day has been both exhilarating and excruciating.
I’ve spent the last eight hours near Rhea—close enough to see the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the faint dimple in her right cheek that only shows up when she’s genuinely laughing.
Close enough to catch the warm, clean scent of whatever she’s wearing—a whisper of something citrusy and soft.
All day, I’ve heard her laughter. Watched her kindness. Felt my own restraint wearing thinner by the minute.
And now, at last, it’s time to dance.
“I’m pretty sure this first one is required of the bridal party,” I say, offering her my hand with a wink.
She pretends to hesitate. “I guess so,” she says, letting her fingers brush mine.
But the moment we’re on the dance floor, we fall into step like we’ve been doing this forever.
One dance turns into two, and four, and eight.
The slow songs are my favorite—because I get to hold her close, feel the shape of her body against mine. But when the tempo picks up, I get a different kind of joy, watching her let loose, seeing her throw her head back and laugh, feeling her trust the moment.
When the DJ queues up a jitterbug, she kicks off her shoes and grins at me.
“Let’s go,” she says.
We spin and twist, ridiculous and radiant, but halfway through I feel it—my shoulder screaming, my knee beginning to hitch. I do my best to hide it. Pain is a familiar rhythm. But for this, with her... I’d walk through fire.
After the song ends, we step off the floor and head to the bar. As I order us drinks, she turns to me, concern flickering in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod, trying to downplay it. “Well… you know, not a spring chicken anymore.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. No, for real. You looked like you were in pain just now.”
I take a deep breath. “A little. I took a little tumble in France. Still working out some of the kinks.”
She arches a brow. “What do you mean?”
“You remember that bike race I was so fired up about? Well… it didn’t end so well. I took a pretty good spill. Ended up spending the better part of a year in and out of hospitals and rehab.”
Her eyes widen. “Spencer. I had no idea. That’s… god, that’s awful.”
I hold up a hand.
“I don’t want it to sound like an excuse, and I know it will.
But honestly, one of the worst parts of it was before the race, I’d made up my mind—I was going to reach out to you after it was over.
But once I was laid up… I felt like I had nothing to offer.
Nothing except one surgery, therapy, or appointment followed by another. ”
I pause, exhale. She waits.
“Honestly, thoughts of you got me through some of my toughest days.”
She snorts. “That’s a little dramatic.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But it’s true.”
“What was the date of the accident?” she asks, with a different tone I can’t quite read.
“It was July 21. Just weeks after we’d met.”
She’s quiet again. Looking far off. As though trying to puzzle through something.
“Once I was back in the states and mostly recovered, I knew I had to see you. I looked you up on Facebook. And there you were… beautiful as ever. Smiling down at this tiny little girl like she was your whole universe.”
She stills.
“That’s when I realized, while I was out of commission… your whole life had changed.”
She doesn’t speak right away. I see her jaw flex, her throat bob.
“Esme” is all she says.
I shake my head, then ask the question that’s been burning in me for months. “Is her father a part of your life? Her life?”
She hesitates. Then, “Not really.” But the answer is laced with something—sadness, maybe. Loneliness. Something she hasn’t said aloud.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “With all due respect, he’s a damned fool.”
She gives a dry laugh. Shakes her head. “It’s not all on him. It’s just…complicated.”
I don’t press. Maybe he ghosted her. Maybe he’s married. Maybe he’s an ass. Maybe she never told him. I have no idea what her truth is—and I’m not about to demand it.
“Well,” I say, “Esme is a beautiful name. And she’s lucky to have you for a mom.” And I feel a deep ache of grief, allowing myself to imagine, as I had so often these past months, since first seeing that picture, what it would be like to have a child with this woman.
She smiles softly, looking down at her drink. “I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing. But I’m trying.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Then she looks back at me. “But seriously… I had no idea about your accident. That had to be so hard.”
I nod, then offer, “Il faut du courage pour traverser la douleur.” It takes courage to move through pain.
She holds my gaze, but doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she reaches across the bar and takes my hand.
“I think this would be a good one to dance to,” she whispers, just as the opening notes of “Make You Feel My Love” roll through the speakers.
I nod.
And then she’s in my arms again.
But when the song ends, we don’t head back to the bar or to the wedding party table; we walk out the door, into the elevator, and up to my room.
As soon as the door closes behind us, I pull her to me and kiss her long and deep, as though I can make up for lost time.
Her hands are immediately at my neck, and she makes me laugh as she says, “Still don’t know how these damned bowties come off.”
I unhook it and toss it to the ground, just like last time.
Her fingers make quick work of the buttons on my shirt, her lips warm against my neck, trailing lower across my chest. I feel her mouth on me, slow and certain, and then the shirt joins the bowtie on the floor.
I find the zipper of her dress, and with one smooth pull, it slips from her shoulders and pools at her feet like silk.
But this time, she turns me toward the mirror on the wall and presses herself against my back—an echo of that first night, but somehow even more intense.
She unbuckles my belt and then my pants, and as they fall to the floor, she brings her head beside my shoulder, looking at me through the mirror, with one hand on my cock, sliding up and down through the slipperiness of my shorts, and the other on my ass, doing the same. In tandem.
As she massages both sides of me, I groan with pleasure, trying to hold her gaze but eventually tipping my head back, eyes closed as the sensations consume me.
She finally reaches inside and takes hold of all of me, stroking with pressure that is both tender and relentless.
“Please.” I hear myself saying, “I’ve wanted this - you - for so long.” And with that, she backs me onto the bed and straddles me, touching the tip of my cock to her wetness, moving herself, around and around, but not letting me enter yet. I begin to thrust, knowing I can’t hold on much longer.
At last, she lowers herself onto me—swallowing me whole—and what follows is a storm.
Hot. All-consuming. Unstoppable.
The kind you don’t survive—you surrender to.
And everything I’ve been holding back for two long years finally erupts inside her.