Chapter 21 Wren
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wren
The sheets are tangled around us, warm with the scent of sex and soap. My body is boneless, heavy in that way, it only gets after a knotting, but I’m not complaining.
We stumbled into the kitchen after the shower, laughing like teenagers while I tried to balance plates of pastries, and ended up eating in bed, both of us still damp from steam.
Then, because apparently, we have no self-control, we fucked again.
Now the quiet stretches between us, soft and manageable. His fingers trace idle patterns on my back, soothing circles that make my eyelids heavy.
“You’re going to put me to sleep again,” I mumble against his chest.
He chuckles low, the sound vibrating under my ear. “You already took a nap. How much sleep do you need?”
“All of it,” I whisper, eyes closing anyway.
I don’t know how long I drift before he speaks again. His voice is quiet, reluctant. “I should get going.”
The thought makes my stomach clench. I lift my head, squinting at him. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
I groan, burying my face back against him. “Stay.”
There’s a pause, his hand stalling on my back. “You want me to spend the night?”
“Yes.” The word slips out before I can second-guess it. My heart kicks hard in my chest.
He tilts my chin up with his finger, studying me. “How about next time,” he says carefully, “you come spend the night with me?”
That makes me blink. “With you? At your place?”
“Yes.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are warm, almost searching.
I’m not sure what I expected, but not that. The offer feels big, heavier than the word itself. A glimpse into his world. Into him.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
The smile that spreads across his face is small but genuine. He kisses me, slow and deep, before pulling back and sliding out from under me.
I watch as he gathers his clothes from the floor, neat and efficient, like he always is. Even when he buttons his shirt, even when he straightens his glasses, there’s precision.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs without looking at me.
“Maybe.”
He smirks at the floor, and my chest warms.
When he’s got his shoes on, he turns, bracing his hand on the bedpost. “I think I’ll have your lab results tomorrow. If I do, I’ll call you, have you come in.”
“Okay.”
The reminder of my failed suppressants sobers me, but before I can get lost in worry, he sits on the edge of the mattress and leans in.
“Actually—” He hesitates. “Instead of going to Miss Thea for contraceptives, would you like to come to me? I can prescribe something safer, more consistent. I’ll even get you ice cream after. You like ice cream, right?”
I blink at him, surprised. “Wouldn’t people… you know?” My hand waves vaguely toward the world outside. “Wouldn’t the town get suspicious if they saw me with you?”
Simon laughs, low and warm, like I’ve said something na?ve. His hand lifts, brushing hair away from my neck, and his thumb grazes the sore bruises he left there.
His voice drops. “I don’t think we’re hiding it very well, sweetheart.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my protest dies when his hand slides lower, skimming down my collarbone, over my chest, down my stomach. His eyes never leave mine.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of my hip.
I swallow hard. “Simon—”
“One more,” he interrupts, his voice dark with hunger. “One more orgasm before I go.”
My pulse stutters. I should say no. I should tell him he’s already kept me wrung out, exhausted, and sore. But the way his hand presses me gently back into the mattress, the command threaded through his voice—I let him.
I sink beneath him, shivering at the weight of his body above mine.
“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing me hard.
His mouth trails down my throat, hot and wet, until he’s tugging the blanket lower, exposing my chest. His tongue circles my nipple, his thumb rolling the other, and my back arches helplessly.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growls, moving lower, kissing every inch of skin until he’s between my thighs again. His breath fans hot across me, and I can’t stop the needy whimper that escapes.
He looks up once, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, eyes dark and intent. “Relax.”
And then he’s there, mouth on me, tongue stroking in deep, hungry sweeps. My hands fist in the sheets, my hips lifting into his face without thought. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle graze of his teeth makes my legs shake.
“Simon—fuck…”
He hums against me, pleased, relentless. I’m already raw, already sensitive, but he builds me up with ruthless patience, his fingers stroking, curling, filling me until I’m keening his name into the night.
When the climax crashes, I bite down on my lip so hard it almost bleeds. My vision whites out, my whole body clenching as wave after wave rips through me.
Simon doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, wrung dry, pleading with shaky breaths. Only then does he lift his head, mouth slick, eyes dark and satisfied.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, kissing my thigh before moving up to hover over me.
I can’t move, can barely breathe. But I can still feel his weight pressing me into the mattress, the heat of him surrounding me.
His lips brush mine, gentle now, coaxing me back from the edge.
“Better?” he asks softly.
I nod, unable to form words.
His smile is slow, proud. He adjusts my panties back into place, tugging the blanket over me. Then he cups my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
I nod again, my throat thick. He kisses me once more, softer this time, and when he pulls back, I can still taste him on my lips.
Then I watch him—the man who’s been inside me more times than I can count over the past week, who’s just wrung another orgasm out of me with nothing but patience and control—put himself back together piece by piece.
Straightening his shirt. Adjusting his glasses. Slipping his watch on like he hasn’t just undone me completely.
When he finally heads for the door, he looks back once. His voice is rough but certain. “Thank you for dinner, sweetheart. I’ll lock up.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me in the dark with my racing heart and the scent of him still clinging to my skin.
Pancake yowls like he hasn’t eaten in years, pawing at my ankle as I set his bowl down. He dives in as soon as the kibble clinks against porcelain, tail twitching like I’ve been starving him on purpose.
I lean against the counter, phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, listening to the faint crackle of my mom’s voice through the overseas line.
“You did what?” she says, her voice rising with disbelief. “A pop-up café? And people came?”
I wince, ready for the scolding I’ve braced myself for since yesterday. My mother isn’t harsh, but she’s practical to the bone, and practicality doesn’t usually leave much room for impulsive experiments like staging a last-minute coffee-and-pastry event in a flower shop.
But her tone softens before I can respond. “Wren, sweetheart, that’s wonderful. I’m proud of you.”
The knot of tension in my chest loosens. I can’t help smiling. “You are?”
“Of course I am. I knew those recipes of your grandmother’s weren’t meant to gather dust in some old binder. Tell me, what all did you make?”
I picture the trays lined up on Norah’s counters yesterday, the scent of sugar and butter filling every corner of the shop until even the roses smelled sweet. “Cinnamon rolls. Croissants. The honey-pear tarts you like. Coffee.”
“Sounds like so much fun. I wish I had been there,” she says with a laugh. The background noise on her end is faint waves crashing, maybe, or wind through sails. I picture her sprawled in a deck chair, wide-brimmed hat shading her face, drink in hand. She deserves it.
I twist a dish towel in my hand, staring at the sunlight streaking across the floor. “I miss you.”
Her voice softens, tender. “I miss you too, baby.”
We don’t mention my father. She doesn’t bring him up, and I don’t ask. It’s easier that way, the silence between us an unspoken pact.
When we hang up, I exhale slowly, like I’ve been holding my breath. Pancake hops onto the counter, licking crumbs from a plate I haven’t gotten around to washing. I scratch behind his ears before dialing Norah.
“Okay, tell me—how much did you make?” she demands as soon as she picks up.
I can’t stop grinning. “Enough. More than I thought.”
“See? Didn’t I tell you?” I can hear the rustle of stems in the background, her voice bright. “We can do this as often as you want. Honestly, it helps me, too. I sold more bouquets yesterday than I usually do in a week. You’re my good luck charm.”
The warmth of her words settles into me. “Thank you, Norah. Really.”
She hums. “So, when’s the next one?”
I laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. “I need a second to breathe first.”
“Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. The town’s hooked.”
There’s a knock at the door. Sharp, three raps against wood. I freeze, glancing at the clock—eight in the morning.
“Norah, I’ll call you later, okay? There’s so much to tell you.”
“Spill it all later,” she says, amused. “Go answer. Maybe it’s one of your Alphas.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips. Hanging up, I pad barefoot to the door, tugging my robe tighter around me.
When I pull it open, Beau fills the doorway, cinnamon and woodsmoke rolling off him like warmth from a fire. He’s holding a wicker basket in one hand, his grin easy, and before I can say a word, he pulls me into a hug.
“Hey,” I manage, surprised by the solid wall of him, my body instantly registers every inch of Alpha pressed against me.
“Hey, yourself.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and I know the second his eyes catch on the mark at my throat. His grin falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something unreadable, before he recovers.
I clear my throat. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.” He lifts the basket between us. “These are from Cora, actually. She said congratulations on yesterday’s pop-up. Also, she wants to bribe you for your scone recipe. Specifically, the maple pecan one.”
I laugh, tension easing as I take the basket from him. The muffins on top are golden, sugar crystals sparkling. “That’s sweet of her.”
“She made me promise to deliver them fresh,” he says, stepping inside when I gesture for him to come in. His gaze flicks around the café space, still dim in the morning light, the scent of flour and sugar lingering faintly.
I set the basket on the counter. “Do you want something to eat?”
“Actually,” he scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepish, “if you’re not too busy, I was wondering if you’d want to go on a picnic with me.”
That makes me blink. “A picnic?”
He shrugs, that grin creeping back in, though his eyes are serious. “Yeah. There’s… something I want to talk to you about.”
My heart gives a strange little twist. I nod slowly, curiosity prickling. “Okay.”