Chapter 20 Simon #2
“They’re my grandma’s recipes,” she admits quietly. “Every single one. She used to say sugar was its own kind of medicine.”
“She was right,” I say.
There’s a pause, the line filled with her soft breathing. Then she says, “I’ve got a few left. I was going to have them for dinner with tea.” Another pause, shy. “If you wanted to join me.”
My pulse jumps. “Are you sure?”
Her laugh is a little exasperated, but sweet. “Simon, you have to stop asking me that every time.”
I scrub a hand down my face, grinning despite myself. “Alright. I’m on my way.”
The café’s lights glow warm against the dark street when I pull up. The repairs are still visible—scaffolding, fresh paint along the trim, a sign half-covered in tarp. But upstairs, a window shines like a beacon.
I knock, and almost instantly I hear quick footsteps. When the door opens, my throat goes dry.
She’s in a robe—soft, gray, belted loosely around her waist. Her hair is piled up in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face.
Her skin is flushed, like she just stepped from a shower: bare legs, bare feet on the wooden floor.
“Hey,” she says, warm and straightforward.
“Hey,” I echo, trying not to stare too hard, trying not to imagine how easily that robe would part if I tugged at the belt.
She leads me upstairs, and I force myself to keep my eyes ahead, not on the bed that flashes through my memory—the same bed we spent three days in, her scent heavy, her body pliant under mine.
“Not too late, am I?” I ask as we step into her kitchen.
“Not at all.” She sets a kettle on the stove, her movements practiced but nervous, like she feels the weight of me behind her.
I walk to her before I think better of it, sliding my arms around her waist, burying my face in her neck. Her scent is calmer now, with no heat threading through it, just warm and clean, entirely her own.
“What are we doing here, sweetheart?” I murmur against her skin.
She stills, then whispers, “I don’t know. But I don’t want to overthink it. Not tonight. Is that okay?”
I nod, turning her gently until she’s facing me.
Her eyes flick over my face, then she leans up and kisses me. Soft at first, testing. My restraint splinters.
The kiss deepens, her mouth opening under mine, hands sliding down my chest. Then she cups me over my scrubs, bold and unexpected.
“I owe you an orgasm,” she murmurs, voice low, eyes dark.
The groan that tears out of me is raw, unrestrained.
“Wren…”
But her mouth is already on mine again, hungry, insistent. And the exhaustion that’s weighed me down all day evaporates under the heat of her.
The robe shifts, parting just enough for my fingers to brush warm skin, and I groan into her kiss.
But she pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing. “Sit,” she says, nodding toward a chair at the small table.
I hesitate, frowning.
Her lips curve, cheeks flushing pink. “Please, Simon.”
Unable to resist, I sit.
She kneels between my legs before I can blink. Her robe falls open a little more, pale thigh visible, and my throat goes dry.
“Wren—” I start, but then her hands are on me, tugging at the drawstring of my scrub pants.
She looks up, eyes steady despite the nervous tension I can scent rolling off her. “You gave me so much last time. Let me give back.”
My jaw clenches. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I want to.”
And then she has me in her hand, firm and sure, and my protest burns away on a curse.
The first stroke of her mouth around me nearly ends me right there. Heat, wet, her tongue teasing under the head. My hands fist in my scrubs, the other trembling as I touch her hair.
“Sweetheart,” I rasp, head tipping back. “Slow down, or I won’t last.”
But she hums around me, sending a shockwave through my spine.
She wants to wreck me. And I let her. For minutes that blur into eternity, I let her drag me apart, soft moans vibrating against me.
When I finally pull her up, it’s rough, desperate. My thumb drags across her swollen lower lip. “If I don’t shower, I’m going to collapse right here.”
Her smile is dazed, satisfied. “I have a shower.”
The bathroom is small, steam curling around us almost immediately. She tugs my shirt over my head, and then I undo the tie on her robe.
“Fuck.” The word rips out of me when the fabric parts. She’s bare underneath, all soft curves and flushed skin. “You’re so damn hot, Wren.”
She laughs nervously, stepping back into the spray. Water beads along her collarbone, trails between her breasts, and I follow with my hands, soaping my fingers before gliding them over her body.
Her head falls back as I work over her stomach, her hips, the swell of her thighs. She moans, kissing anywhere she can reach—my chest, my jaw, the slope of my neck. Her teeth graze my skin, and I nearly lose my balance.
When I press her against the shower wall, her nails dig into my back, sharp and demanding.
“Simon,” she gasps as I suck at her neck.
“Careful,” I mutter against her skin. “You’ll have marks.”
“Then mark me.” Her voice is ragged. “Bite me.”
I freeze. My teeth hover just above her pulse. The instinct to bite is a primal, hardwired response. But I promised myself—we promised—that we wouldn’t do it until she chose, until she was clear-headed.
Her nails dig deeper. “Please.”
“Christ, Wren.”
I give in, sucking harder, leaving dark bruises without breaking skin. It feels too fucking good—her body writhing under mine, her scent spiking with arousal, water streaming around us like it can’t wash away the heat.
When I lift her, her legs lock around me, slick heat pressing against me. I line up, every nerve screaming.
“You need to understand—” I grit out. “If I lose it, I might knot you.”
Her eyes flash, desperate and unyielding. “I want it.”
My chest seizes. She doesn’t know what she’s asking. Or maybe she does, and that’s what terrifies me.
But I can’t stop. I slam into her, the sound of her cry swallowed by my mouth as I kiss her. The world narrows to this—her body clenching around me, her moans echoing in the tiled room, water pounding over our skin.
It builds too fast, too hard. I thrust deeper, harder, until the inevitable snap hits—my knot swelling, locking me inside her.
We both cry out, stunned by the force of it.
Her arms wrap around my shoulders, holding on as if she’ll drown without me. Our breathing is ragged, tangled.
We stay like that, water cooling, both of us trembling. My mind screams at me for losing control, for giving her something so irreversible.
But her face—flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with bliss—tells me she wanted this as much as I did.
Eventually, when I can move without shaking, I carry her out. My legs feel like lead, but I manage the short distance to her bed.
Pancake, perched on the pillow, bolts with an indignant chirp.
I lay her down gently, easing in beside her, still locked. Every shift makes her whimper, and I kiss her mouth to soothe her, slow and tender.
We watch each other in the dim light, our breaths syncing.
Her voice is hushed when she says, “I don’t understand how I spent all my life without being knotted.”
The confession punches air from my lungs.
“Tell me,” I murmur, brushing hair from her face. “Tell me what it feels like.”
She bites her lip, cheeks pink. “Like… like my body finally stopped fighting itself. Like I could melt into you and never move.”
I groan, kissing her again. “God, I love hearing you talk like that.”
Her green eyes glimmer. “Is it okay if… right now, we just do this? Just fuck?”
My thumb drags across her nipple, stiff and flushed, and she shivers.
“More than okay, baby,” I whisper. “More than okay.”
And as her hips shift, urging me closer, the last of my restraint disintegrates. I give her everything, and she takes it, eyes locked on mine, until nothing exists beyond this bed, this bond, this impossible want.