Chapter 32
Asher
The closing credits of whatever rom-com we claimed we’d “really watch this time” roll unnoticed across the TV while Charlotte drapes her legs over my lap, head resting against my shoulder.
The room is lit only by the faint turquoise glow of the aquarium-screen-saver and a single floor lamp in the corner—just enough light to silver the curve of her cheek and the fall of her hair.
She tilts her face toward mine, eyes half-lidded. “Guess we missed the ending,” she teases, voice a lazy purr.
“Plot twist: they lived happily ever after,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles along her jaw. Her skin is still warm from dinner and the Rioja wine, and the scent of vanilla lotion lingers in the air between us.
I lean in, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth. Charlotte’s lips curve beneath mine. I shift, one hand sliding behind her neck, thumb tracing the pulse there while my other hand smooths up her thigh over the soft knit joggers she favors on stay-in nights.
She angles closer, lips capturing mine with a sudden, hungry certainty.
The kiss deepens—softer, then urgent. Heat sparks along my spine as her fingers tunnel into my hair, nails grazing just enough to make my breath come faster.
I taste the faint echo of wine as she parts her lips, welcoming me in.
The world telescopes to the sofa’s cushions, her heartbeat drumming against my palm, the hush of slow inhales and matching exhales.
I shift so we’re chest to chest, coaxing her gently onto her back while I hover above.
The couch cushions dip under our combined weight; a throw blanket puddles to the floor.
My secure perimeter shrinks to the precise outline of her silhouette under me.
She sighs into my mouth, hands sliding under the hem of my T-shirt, fingertips coasting over my ribs.
Each touch sparks along nerve endings mapped in daydreams. I brace one forearm beside her head, the other hand exploring the curve of her waist, up to where soft cotton meets warm skin above the jogger’s waistband.
Charlotte breaks the kiss but keeps me close, forehead to mine, breath mingling. “If this is the happily-ever-after twist,” she whispers, “I like it.”
I answer by kissing the hollow beneath her ear, letting my lips linger just enough to draw a shiver.
She loops her arms around my shoulders, arching slightly.
My lips travel along her jaw, peppering soft, unhurried kisses.
She threads her fingers through my hair, nails scraping lightly at the nape of my neck.
The TV’s screen saver shifts color from turquoise to lavender, casting dreamy hues over her face.
I drink in every shade, every fraction of a moan when my hand glides up under her shirt to rest just beneath her breast. Her breath stutters, and she clutches my shoulders, grounding us both in the delicious now.
“I need to be inside you,” I whisper along her heated skin.
She nods, lowering her joggers down her legs. I help her remove the rest of her clothing, and then in seconds I’m naked too. I fist my cock in my hand, positioning it right at her wet, hot center.
“I love how ready you are for me,” I tell her as her legs wrap around my waist.
“I’m always ready for you.”
I gaze into her eyes as I push in deep inside her.
We move together in a slow rhythm, exploring, savoring, no need to rush. Outside, wind rattles the windowpane, but it feels distant. Here, time drifts like embers—each kiss a spark held aloft, each brush of skin a soft-lit promise.
She captures my lower lip between hers, giving a playful tug that sends heat coiling low in my stomach. “Movie’s definitely over,” she murmurs against my mouth.
I chuckle, voice rough with wanting. “Then we roll the extended cut.” I kiss her again—deeper, slower, the kind that says goodnight to the rest of the world and good morning to everything we’re feeling.
Her hands roam my back, hips shifting beneath me, and electricity crackles in every contact point.
We lose track of minutes, wrapped in shared breath and the quiet hum of two hearts beating in practiced sync. Eventually we break for air, foreheads still touching, both of us smiling in the dim lavender light.
“Worth missing the ending,” she murmurs, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
“Plot’s better in the sequel,” I answer, earning that laugh I love—soft, happy, entirely ours. I kiss it right off her lips, stealing another taste, and feel her melt beneath me like a perfect, slow unraveling—content, safe, and burning brighter with each heartbeat.
The sun has barely tilted past the treetops when my phone vibrates on the coffee table. Only one tone makes my pulse speed like that—Dean’s secure line. I snatch it up before the second buzz.
“Hawke.”
His voice is crisp, satisfied. “Package delivered. County picked up Wade Sinclair and two accomplices trying to cross state lines. Unregistered Glock, burner phones, half-burned financial ledgers. We’ve got him, buddy.”
A knot I’ve been carrying since the lake house finally loosens. “He in holding?”
“Yeah. No bail recommendation from the DA—flight risk plus weapons.” Dean pauses. “All threats connected to him are neutralized for now.”
For now. The qualifier sits heavy, but it’s the best news we’ve heard in days. I glance across the cabin. Charlotte’s curled up on the sofa, hoodie sleeves hiding her healing wrists, book forgotten in her lap. She watches me with questions in her eyes.
I cover the mic. “They got him.”
Relief floods her features, quickly followed by a flicker of something melancholy. I know that look—post-adrenaline crash. Home means normal, and normal still scares her.
I finish with Dean, promising to meet him at the county jail later for paperwork review, and then pocket the phone. “We’re clear to head back.”
Charlotte sets the book aside, drawing her knees to her chest. “So soon? It feels like we just got here.”
I lower beside her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can come back. Whenever you want. But your family needs to see you safe, and I need to square things with the sheriff.”
She nods, chewing her lip. “Right. Let’s pack.”
By late afternoon the truck is loaded, alarms set, cabin locked down.
The drive south is only an hour, but Charlotte is quiet.
Her hands are clasped in her lap, her gaze slipping from pine forest to coastline.
I talk logistics—court dates, new security installation for her condo—but half my brain tracks her silence, cataloging every sigh. She’s leaving the bubble we built.
We roll into Saint Pierce just after dusk. Her condo tower looms above palm-lined sidewalks, private gate, armed concierge. Solid location—still, I scan for tails before entering the garage.
Inside her unit, lights click on to reveal her mother, Margaret, arranging flowers on the kitchen island, and Melanie rummaging through the wine fridge.
They turn in unison—relief, then excitement.
Hugs, tears, rapid-fire questions. I stand back, letting the estrogen storm happen, but my protective instincts buzz.
Margaret lays a gentle hand on my forearm. “Stay, Mr. Hawke. There’s a guest room.”
I glance at Charlotte. Her smile is fond but tired. “Mom declared girls’ night,” she says, half apology. “We’ll be fine.”
Fine. Maybe. But every cell in my body wants to stay within arm’s reach. I weigh optics—three women catching up versus a pacing guard dog. I exhale. “Call if anything feels off. I’m ten minutes away.”
Charlotte walks me to the door. Hallway lights cast honey over her hair. She looks softer here, almost fragile. I pull her close, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. “Lock up, check the peephole, keep your phone on.”
She smiles up at me. “You’re not off duty, are you?”
“Not with you.” Another kiss—brief but lingering—then I force myself to step away.
My place sits on the outskirts: ranch-style, tall fences, security floodlights. But tonight the silence feels wrong. I stow the duffel, change into jeans and a jacket, grab the Glock and head out again. Dean’s waiting.
County jail smells of disinfectant and stale sweat. Dean meets me by intake, sliding a manila folder under his arm. “Judge signed no-bail order an hour ago. Sinclair’s flipping on his financiers. Cartel reps won’t touch him—he’s radioactive now.”
I scan the paperwork. Charges stack like bricks: kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy. “He stays in until trial.”
“Count on it.” Dean studies me. “You still wired.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Leaving her felt wrong.”
“You got perimeter cams at her building, two armed guards in the lobby, and you’re on speed dial.” He smirks. “Also, Wade’s in orange scrubs.”
The image helps. We finish signatures, I ensure the electronic hold is flagged on Wade’s record, then step back into the night. Stars burn over the gulf, bright and indifferent.
I text Charlotte: Perimeter secure. You okay?
The reply pings seconds later: Mom and Mel forcing face masks and rom-coms. Wish you were here.
I grin despite myself, fingers flying. Tomorrow brunch. Then we talk Denver plans.
Ellipsis bubbles appear. Tomorrow. Heart emoji.
Pocketing the phone, I finally feel the earlier tension seep away. She’s safe, Wade’s locked, and tomorrow we start mapping a life where security isn’t a cage but a foundation—ours.
For the first time in days, the air feels clear enough to breathe.