Chapter 50
FIFTY
THE FEAR THAT paralyzed me in his driveway has been silenced and soothed. Dinner has left me feeling utterly cherished and sated. A blissful, wine-and-passion-induced lethargy has settled deep in my bones, a contentment I’ve never known.
Hand in hand, we move through the quiet house and ascend the staircase. He stops at the open door to the guest room and turns me to face him, his hands sliding to my shoulders. The dim hallway light catches the deep contentment radiating from his eyes.
“Are you happy you came over?” His question is a low murmur, his thumbs gently stroking my collarbones.
A wide, bright smile spreads across my face, my hands rising to his waist. “I was terrified,” I confess a truth he already knows. “But now…”
“Now?”
“Now I’m very happy I came.” My gaze meets his, full of a new, dawning certainty.
His smile widens, reaching his eyes, making them shine with that radiant light I adore. He cups my face, his lips meeting mine in a sweet kiss that speaks of reverence. Of abiding care. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine.
His warm breath ghosts across my lips as he whispers, “I’ll be right across the hall if you need anything.”
I can only nod, completely overwhelmed by this perfect night.
“Good night, love,” he murmurs, his lips pressing one final, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“Good night, Matt,” I whisper back.
He hesitates, reluctant to leave, but then he releases me and turns toward his bedroom. I watch him go, my heart so full and light it feels like it could float right out of my chest.
I push the guest room door wider and step inside. Flicking on the bedside table lamp casts the place in a warm glow. I turn down the duvet, uncovering crisp, inviting sheets. My gaze wanders around this haven, offered to me with no expectations.
No expectations.
The words echo. A stark contrast to the life I knew with James, where every gift, every comfort, came with invisible strings.
Strings that tightened into a net I didn’t see until it was too late.
For a terrifying second, the image of James’s self-satisfied smirk flashes in my mind.
The old, familiar shame of mistaking support for love threatens to rise.
A bitter tide against the sweet shores of the evening.
I take a deep, steadying breath, my hand resting on the smooth wood of the dresser.
This is not James, I tell myself, the words a fierce, silent command. This is Matthew.
Matthew, who looked at James with icy contempt.
Matthew, who listened to the ugliest parts of my story and didn’t see me as broken, but as a survivor.
Matthew, who just gave me the one thing I needed most…
Space.
The respect of a closed door between us.
I change into my light blue pajama set, my movements dreamlike.
I feel exquisitely cherished, not just from the passion we shared, but from his quiet understanding.
The fear that was so loud in the driveway is now a faint echo in a distant valley.
It’s still a part of my landscape, but from here, in this quiet room, it has no power.
I slip between the cool, smooth sheets and pull the plush duvet up to my chin.
For the first time in longer than I can recall, my body isn’t a coiled spring, braced for the next blow.
The tight knot of anxiety that has lived below my ribs for years seems to have finally, gently, unraveled.
As I lie here, cocooned in the warmth of Matthew’s care, I give myself permission to forget the battles waiting for me.
Tonight, I am just a woman in a safe bed. Sleeping just across the hall from a man who feels more like home than any place I’ve ever known.
A sigh escapes my lips. My eyelids grow heavy, the profound peace of the moment pulling me down into a darkness illuminated by Matthew’s bright eyes.
When my eyes flutter open, it’s to the dusty gold of dawn filtering through the windows. I lie still for a moment, a satisfied smile spreading across my face.
I slip into the adjoining bathroom, the plush rug soft beneath my feet.
Brushing my teeth at a spacious marble vanity feels a world away from the cramped sink in the café’s staff washroom.
After blotting my face dry on a towel that feels like a cloud, I pad barefoot out of the bedroom and into the quiet hallway.
The house is still, wrapped in the hush of early morning. But as I reach the top of the stairs, I hear it. That familiar, rhythmic thudding from the floor below.
A grin spreads across my face as I descend the stairs, the sound pulling me forward like a tether. By the time I reach the basement, the sounds are sharp and distinct: the percussive impact of leather on leather, punctuated by the harsh exhale of a man in deep exertion.
I lean against the wall and drink in the sight of him.
Bare-chested, in loose grey sweatpants that ride low on his hips.
His body is a study in controlled power.
The muscles in his back and shoulders coil and release with every punch, each movement fluid and brutally efficient.
Sweat slicks his skin, tracing the sharp definition of his abs.
My heart does a heavy roll in my chest. To know this raw strength, this contained fire, is the same force that held me with such reverence is a dizzying, intoxicating thought.
He finishes a rapid-fire combination with a final, guttural grunt. The bag sways violently. He stands back, chest heaving.
Then, as if sensing my presence, he turns his head.
His gaze finds mine across the room. The feral intensity in his eyes transforms into a different kind of fire. A possessive, intimate heat that crosses the distance between us and wraps around me.
He pulls off his gloves, tossing them onto the nearby bench, his eyes never leaving me.
He grabs a small towel, running it roughly over his face and through his damp hair before swiping it across his slick torso and shoulders.
A deep, appreciative hum vibrates in my chest. Every efficient movement feels like a private show for my enjoyment. And we both know it.
Tossing the towel aside, he stalks toward me, a slow, deliberate stride, until he’s standing right in front of me, radiating heat and the salty scent of his exertion.
“Morning,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Like what you see?”
A delightful warmth floods me as my hands grip either side of his sculpted hips. “Immensely,” I confess, my voice breathless.
The corner of his lips lifts. He braces his hands on the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. “Missed you in my bed,” he confesses, the teasing light in his eyes giving way to an honest heat.
A sharp gasp escapes me, my lips parting on the stolen breath. My fingers instinctively dig into the hard muscle of his hips as his words send a dizzying wave of liquid heat rushing through me.
His half-smile widens as he watches the undisguised desire flood my face. His gaze drops to my lips, burning with satisfaction.
Then, his mouth is on mine.
It tastes of salt and fire. A fire that he’s no longer banking.
It’s the primal claiming of a man in his own territory.
My hands leave his waist to tangle in his damp hair, pulling him even closer.
He groans, pressing me harder against the wall, his body a solid heat against the soft cotton of my pajamas.
Just as the kiss deepens, threatening to pull us under, he tears his mouth away with a low growl of frustration, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
He drops his head back, the muscles in his neck cording. A visible battle for control rages within him. I can see the proof of it in the rigid line of his jaw.
“If we don’t stop, I’m taking you back to my room and we’re not leaving my bed. The entire day.”
A mischievous smile plays on my lips. “Sounds like a great plan to me.”
A short, rough laugh escapes him, his eyes blazing. “Don’t tempt me, love,” he murmurs, his voice a husky warning.
He presses one last, hard kiss to my lips before forcing some space between us. “Coffee?” he suggests, his tone softening as he visibly reins himself in. “I’ll shower quickly and meet you in the kitchen.”
Matthew reaches out and takes my hand, his warm fingers lacing through mine. He leads me up the basement stairs and back into the sunlit calm of the main floor.
“I won’t be long,” he says, letting go of my hand, but his eyes hold me for a moment longer, a lingering caress.
I can only nod, a smile on my face. I watch him take the stairs two at a time before I turn to the kitchen, my whole body still humming with a vibrant, joyful energy.
Sunlight streams into the vast space, glinting off the polished chrome and warming the grey-veined granite.
With an ease that feels second nature, I fill the electric kettle and flick it on.
I retrieve the French press, his favorite dark roast, and two ceramic mugs.
The shower running in the distance is the only other sound.
The domesticity of it all makes my heart feel impossibly full.
The kettle clicks off.
I measure the coarse grounds, pour the hot water over them, stirring once before setting the lid in place. As the coffee steeps, I lean back against the counter and let out a soft, contented sigh.
Yesterday, my world was a cramped office. Today, I’m standing in this beautiful home, making coffee for a man who has captured my heart. Who is showering just a floor above me.
When the rich, dark brew has steeped to perfection, I slowly press the plunger down.
The fragrant liquid separates from the grounds.
I pour the coffee into the two mugs and take a sip from mine, turning to look out the large window at the sun-drenched garden.
A subtle shift in the air, a fresh scent of soap, is my only warning before his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
“Mmm… smells great,” he murmurs, his warm breath against my ear.