Chapter 17
Ivy
Iswirl my wine around the glass goblet, lifting it to the dark sky above. Winter Games finished hours ago, yet no one has come home.
“I'm starting to think you just like me chasing you.” His voice hits me before I register his presence, but my body already knows.
“Nope. If that was the case, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have disappeared on me.” The words taste bitter as the wine coating my tongue. I press the glass to my mouth, letting him see exactly what long periods of silence carved out of me.
So I let him finger-fuck me on a chair lift…
“Oh, we still on that?” He asks, arms crossing over his chest. “You seemed to forget all about our beef just a few hours ago?”
I stare past him, at the treeline, like I can file the whole thing away so simply.
“That was altitude,” I say. “Low oxygen. Temporary insanity. You happened to be in the splash zone.”
His laugh is low, rough around the edges. “Right. Sure. Altitude made you ride my hand like that.”
My fingers tense around the stem of the glass. I keep my gaze fixed on the snow, but it’s too late. I’m back there. Cold air on my thighs. His tongue in my mouth. His breath in my ear when I came so hard I see spots.
“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter. “I was bored. You were there. Congratulations, you’re convenient.”
“Look at me, Ivy.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I do.
His pupils widen, dragging my lungs tight. The room folds away, and all I see is his hand between my legs, his knuckles slick, his mouth against my neck telling me to be quiet.
Heat licks low in my belly.
I tear my eyes back to my wine. “See? I’m over it.”
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“From the cold.”
We both know I’m lying.
Somewhere between friendship and whatever this became, I grew dependent. I hate that. I hate that while I thought we were just having fun, something permanent took root. Something that won't dig itself out.
Liquid hits my tongue. Bitter. Unforgiving. Blackberries mixed with something sharper. Betrayal.
Another gulp.
He drops onto the spot beside me, the cushions sinking beneath his weight. I yank the blanket higher, fingers digging into worn fabric. I need to pull myself together if I have any chance at surviving this.
Focus on the snow. Every fall of flake that flies through the sky.
Fuck. That’s not going to work.
“I know why I’m awake this late,” I say, turning to him. I wish I didn’t. I should have stuck to the damn snowflakes. “But why are you?”
Jealousy isn't an emotion I'm familiar with.
Never liked anyone enough to feel it. Not Parker.
Not any man before him. Yet over the years, my stomach has twisted into knots whenever Asher was concerned.
Always blamed it on bad digestion. Now I'm thinking I've been lying to myself for longer than I realize.
His eyes stay fixed on the fire in front of us, shadows carving deeper hollows beneath his jawline. My fingers itch to reach out and trace them.
“There's an image circulating online,” he finally says, his voice low. “Someone snapped us together.”
He flashes his phone at my face.
My eyes narrow for a fraction. Pathetic. I could give them better and they wouldn’t have to hang from whatever tree they took it from.
I chuckle. “You've posted clearer photos than that of us on your Instagram.”
Asher turns to me, his brow furrowed. “It's not just that. The speculation. If they dug enough…”
I roll my eyes, taking another sip of wine. “They'll find nothing.” Because If things get too messy, Punk can make any digital trace disappear with a few keystrokes.
I study Asher more closely, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. “You look like shit,” I say bluntly, trying to redraw the line of friendzone. “When's the last time you slept?”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that always makes my fingers itch to smooth it back down. “I don't know. A while.”
Asher's silent again, his gaze fixed on the fire. The light dances across his face, betraying his inner turmoil. Part of me wants to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort. But that's not who we are. Not what we do.
Instead, I pick up my wine glass again, draining the last of it. “So, what are you going to do about the photo?”
He turns to me, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Why? Worried about your reputation?”
I snort. “Please. My reputation can handle a lot worse than being seen with you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly, warmth seeping into his voice for the first time in weeks.
I sigh, smirking. “Who is Asher Jameson?”
He chuckles, edging farther into the bouclé sofa, spreading his knees wide in a way that takes up every inch of available space. The movement is deliberate, claiming territory. “The question everyone wants to know.”
“Hmmm…” I study the sharp angles of his face in the dim light, trying to decide whether he likes the attention. The sadness bleeding into his eyes right now—raw and unguarded—tells me no. There's something hollow there. Emptied. Gutted. “Camille's fiancé. That's a good place to start.”
He licks his bottom lip, slow, deliberate, before stealing my wine glass.
His fingers brush mine. “Am I though?”
Words hang between us like a loaded gun, and he's looking at me like he's daring me to pull the trigger.
“That's an interesting way to cheat.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Okay. I’ll dabble. Step into this minefield he's laying out. Why not? Two in the morning, wine making me reckless.
His whole body tenses, and when my eyes land back on his, my stomach dips.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Why'd you marry him?”
I look away. Back to the fireplace where flames dance in patterns that make more sense than this conversation.
I shrug. “Why not?”
He’s relentless as he unloads more questions. “You said it yourself—you don't cheat. So why me?”
“I don't know.” Memories claw to the surface, sharp, unwelcome things that taste like blood and trauma. I shove them back where they belong. “Why? Do you do it often?”
Snatching the glass from his fingers, my hand trembles as I rest it against my mouth.
When he doesn't answer, I look at him from behind my glass before taking a sip. It burns less than his gaze.
“Never.” Pause. “But you knew that already.”
Sure I knew. He’s had no serious girlfriends since high school, and the moment he parades someone in front of his fans, they'll either devour her or worship her.
I push up from the sofa, folding the blanket. Need distance. Air. Anything but this suffocating tension between us.
Placing it on the armrest, I go to squeeze between him and the coffee table, but his hand shoots out—catching my wrist.
Fire explodes through my veins. Not the gentle warmth from the hearth, but something feral and consuming. Something that could burn down every wall I've spent years building. Every defense. Every reason I have left to stay alive.
What the fuck is happening to me?
My pulse hammers against his thumb where it rests on my wrist. He has to feel it—this wild, desperate rhythm that betrays everything I'm trying to hide. My throat closes. I can't swallow. Can't think past the heat spreading from where his fingers circle my bones.
“Don't leave.” The words whisper against my skin, but they cut bone-deep. Through every lie I've built around my heart.
I should pull away. Should tell him to go fuck himself. But I stand there, frozen, while my body burns itself alive from the inside out.
Wind whisks through my hair, my throat swelling.
I look down to his grip, before landing back on his face. Jesus. Why. Why does this beautiful man want me as more than a friend?
Because he doesn’t know the real you.
Because he’s got mommy issues.
Because you’re fucking hot and you know it.
Every breath feels like being suffocated by hellfire, because this man. God carved him with enough perfection he could be an angel, but cracked his surface enough to make us mortals weep. Fucking weep.
His brow arches. “I won't ask again.”
“Um—”
The word dies as he tugs me forward. I tumble onto his lap, limbs colliding with hard muscle. Heat sears through my palms where they flatten against his chest.
His hands close around my ass, fingers digging in.
He turns me until I'm straddling his waist, keeping my robe intact. Every point where our bodies connect he’s marking me as something I swore I'd never become.
His.
Resting his head back, he watches me through hooded eyes. His hands slide from my ass to my thighs, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks, steering my hips above him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. “Already dripping for me, aren’t you? Through this fucking silk.” His fingers find the rim of my underwear. ”Like it’s nothing.”
He circles the fabric into my clit, and my hips jerk up, traitorous and desperate.
I don’t get to answer. He’s already moving down, teeth scraping the column of my throat, the hollow between my collarbones, biting just hard enough to leave marks.
His free hand yanks the neckline of my dress down, baring my tits to the cool air, and his mouth seals over one nipple with a groan.
“Fuck, these,” he growls around the peak, tongue lashing it before he sucks hard, pulling a broken sound from my throat.
Laying me flat, he keeps going, kissing and biting his way lower, his breath hot through the damp silk between my legs.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties and drag them down my thighs with agonizing slowness, his knuckles brushing my inner knees, spreading me wider.
The air hits my bare cunt, and I can feel how wet I am, how obscene, the way my thighs glisten under the dim light.