Chapter 10
“Welcome home, Sol.”
Hawthorne pulls me through the door and into the house that’s everything I ever wanted.
Not just because it’s luxurious and filled with the things I love—my favorite colors, lush fabrics, fragments of memories—but because it’s been affectionately crafted with me in mind.
Not as an afterthought, not as an inconvenience that requires accommodation, but for me.
After so many years in hotels and a childhood in a home that felt like walking on eggshells, the ground I’m standing on welcomes me, holds me, and offers me a place to rest. Stepping over that threshold like this is all mine, that this is home, and I’m staying is sickeningly sweet, a dizzying dream that can’t be real.
The arms around me are; the man before me is. But this feeling, can it last?
History tells me no. My gut tells me no.
But the pull to experience some blip of joy in a sea of suffering is far greater.
It drags me under, and I let it swallow me.
I encourage it to drown out that rational, grating voice that shouts its dissent, that yells about pattern recognition and a false sense of security. I don’t care. Nothing else matters.
In his arms, I find the safety I’ve been craving. The life we’d dreamed up all those years ago doesn’t seem so distant, doesn’t feel like delusion, doesn’t feel impossible as his lips meet mine.
“Home,” I whisper affectionately against him, needing to taste the satisfaction of it.
“I’m home.” The deep hum of that word sends tingles across my scalp, a levity sweeping over my mind that I don’t even recognize.
Is this happiness? Is it relief? I’m not quite sure, but it doesn’t matter.
I seek out more of that feeling, crave the sugared sweetness of it.
I usually turn away from unfamiliar flavors, but this I can’t resist.
“You’re home, and we’re getting mud all over our floors,” he laughs, that lightness emanating from him, too.
“Your mom would be pissed,” I respond, remembering fondly how easily I’d chat with her while I took off my shoes at the back door.
This house was always open to me, always somewhere I could run to when things got bad.
Before I can think about how much worse they’ve gotten, Hawthorne calls me back to the present.
“You better take those shoes off.” He sinks to his knees in front of me, and my stomach flips at the sight.
Loosening the laces with deft hands, he removes each shoe, followed by one sock then the other—my preferred order.
I’ve always hated the imbalance of one completely naked foot, but I wouldn’t care right now.
Not when he’s looking up at me with those eyes.
Sliding his hand upward, he pushes my skirt away to reveal the snapdragon tattoos that extend from my ankle to my upper calf.
“Another one? So many new tattoos across this skin…I think this calls for a closer inspection.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” As he stands, his hands skate over the outside of my skirt, the press of satin silky smooth and seductive over my cold skin. With a sharp tug, he pulls down the zipper, and the fabric pools at my feet.
Wordlessly, I lift my arms so he can pull my sweater over my head, leaving me in just my bra and underwear. Following his lead, I undo the few buttons he has clasped on his shirt, revealing his defined torso. He breathes sharply through his teeth as my hands roam over the lean muscle.
“You’re cold. Let’s put on a fire, have some champagne, just…be.”
“That sounds perfect.” I look down at the mud caked on my shin, the same chalky texture I can feel on the side of my neck. There’s no way I can ignore it any longer, no way I can actually relax if my thoughts are constantly circling back to the wrongness of it. “But first, I need a shower.”
“Of course.”
“Will you join me?” The nervousness that makes it into my voice surprises even me, but he doesn’t let me retreat.
“Upstairs.” The demand in his voice is a snapping tease that hurries me up the staircase. His hands find my hips, directing me toward the bathroom that looks like it belongs in a spa, equipped with double rainfall showerheads, stunning glass panels, and onyx countertops inlaid with labradorite.
Stepping under the spray, I can’t help the groan that escapes me as the hot water cascades over me. I nearly melt into Hawthorne as he steps in behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. Soft purple light glows off the aubergine tiles that surround us.
“Is the water too hot?” Hawthorne asks as he steps away to center himself under his showerhead.
“No. It’s perfect.” What’s not perfect is the absence of him against me. I wrap myself around him, breathing in the rain and earth still on his skin one last time before the essential oils wafting from the floor overtake it.
“I’m not going anywhere; you know that, right?” He makes the promise so easily, like it’s a fact.
“I’ve just missed this, is all.” I rest my cheek against the hard muscle of his chest. “It’s been so long since I’ve been held. Since I’ve allowed myself to hold you. Since you’ve been real and present beneath my fingertips.”
“I know, and it’s been torturous.”
“I need to touch you. Need you to touch me. I need you to hold onto me and not let go.”
“I can do that.” He plants a soft kiss on my forehead.
“Turn around.” I don’t see but hear the soap dispense into his hand.
With firm thumbs, he massages the soap across my shoulders, then pays the same attention to my back, pausing when he finds another new tattoo—I got quite a few while I was away.
It was one of the only ways I could feel present in my own body sometimes, the only way to reaffirm my ownership of it.
Well, it was, until Ivan ruined it like everything else. Casting a glance at my wrist, I mourn the ruined tattoo.
But I don’t have the chance to dwell on it as Hawthorne’s knuckle drags down my spine, stopping at the dip on my lower back where the spider rappels from his fine string of webbing.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you? I like this one, too.
” He repeats the motion, the apt touch eliciting a tingling sensation and sending me up on my toes, my ass arching against him.
A gravelly chuckle leaves him, one that’s equal parts satisfied and arrogant.
“So touch deprived. So needy for me.” I shiver at the heat of his taunting words on my bare skin.
His hands find my breasts, holding me in that lustful position. I don’t fight it. Instead, I roll my hips back, practically begging for him to slip inside me. I want it all, I’m ready for it. But he remains still.
“God, I’ve fucking missed this.”
“Me too.” And I don’t just mean his hands on me.
I’ve missed the simplicity of being in his presence, feeling the unwavering reassurance of his love.
Admitting it out loud feels like I’m just asking for the universe to tear us apart, but I can’t help myself.
I want to give this man everything he wants, everything he deserves.
He should be happy, if anyone. I intend to make it up to him.
Our reflection catches my attention. The glass that surrounds the shower hasn’t fogged yet despite the hot water meeting the cool air, so every detail of our bodies pressed together is crystal clear. That throb between my legs pounds harder.
Following my gaze, he moves me so I’m pressed up against the glass directly across from the mirror.
“Look at you. You’re so perfect,” he groans against my ear. “Fuck. It’s so good to have you back where you belong.” Grabbing me possessively, he cups my pussy with one hand. “You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” My breath fogs the glass momentarily. It’s impossible not to get turned on by the sight and his words. My soft body is erotically splayed against the clear surface as we both stare, gluttons for my nakedness. “Fuck me like this. I want to watch.”
“Oh baby, I plan to. But I’m going to take my time with you. There’s no rushing into this. I’ve waited too long for that.”
A pathetic whimper escapes me in frustration.
Before my mind can register it, he spins me around and pins me to the surface with his hand collaring my throat. “Patience, Nightingale.”
I don’t mean for it to, but the sudden movement, the intensity of his hold, sends a thrill of fear through me. Immediately, his fingers loosen and drop away.
Gently, he runs the back of his hand over my cheek. “You know I’d never hurt you. Right?” I hate that he questions it, we both know that, but the reminder soothes that traumatized part of me that’s always on alert, ready for the hurt.
“I know.” I pull him close again. “I know.”
He leans forward, our foreheads resting together as he makes cautious strokes down my back. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you. I want this. I’m just not used to being so close to someone. Not used to being touched so freely.”
“Me, either,” Thorne admits. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”
“Thorne,” I let out a nervous laugh, taken aback by the statement. Shame heats me more than the shower. “You haven’t…” I can’t bear to say the word. “There hasn’t been anyone else? What about—”
“No one else.”
Biting my lip, I fight with my conscience over whether I owe him an explanation of my own.
“I-I have.” My hands drop preemptively just so I don’t have to feel him pull away.
But he only comes closer, his hips pressing into my stomach as his hand tilts my chin upward.
There our eyes meet in that safe place, absent of judgment.
“Did they matter?”