Chapter 35
ASHER
The penthouse is quiet.
We’re forty-six hours into the forty-eight-hour injunction Ethan’s legal team secured. The board vote convenes in exactly two hours.
It’s a rare state of stillness for this environment.
Usually, it’s filled with Owen’s music, Ethan’s pacing, or the hum of the servers I maintain in the climate-controlled closet.
But right now, the only sound is the rhythmic swish of the dishwasher and the soft breathing of the woman seated on the kitchen island.
Tessa is staring at her phone. Her vitals appear stable—respiration steady, no visible tremors—but her cortisol has been elevated for two days.
I walk into the kitchen, placing a glass of water and a prenatal vitamin on the counter beside her thigh.
“Hydrate,” I instruct.
She looks up, offering a faint smile as she picks up the pill. “You’re like a very handsome, very bossy version of Alexa.”
“Alexa is a cloud-based voice service reacting to commands,” I correct her, stepping between her legs as she sits on the edge of the counter. “I anticipate your needs before you verbalize them. There’s a distinction.”
She swallows the vitamin and chases it with water.
“Your dad has excellent grip strength,” I note. “He nearly cracked the veneer on the elevator button when he left.”
Tessa laughs, setting the glass down. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. “He liked you guys. In his own way.”
“He threatened to shoot us,” I correct her. “With a shotgun. He was quite specific about the caliber.”
“That’s his love language,” she says. “Protective violence.”
I nod. “Acceptable. That indicates a high protective instinct. It correlates with our own data. He’s an ally, not a threat.”
Tessa giggles, the sound vibrating against my chest. It lowers my blood pressure by four points instantly.
“You’re not upset? That they know? That they think we’re weird?”
“We are weird, Tessa,” I say, resting my hands on her hips. “We’re a statistical anomaly. A deviation from the norm. But in nature, anomalies are often where evolution occurs. Why would I be upset if your progenitors want to ensure your safety? It saves me the trouble of vetting them.”
“You’re impossible,” she whispers, leaning her forehead against mine. “But you’re right. They want us to visit. Once the circus leaves town.”
“Then we’ll visit,” I say. “I’ll run a background check on the town. And I’ll introduce myself to the backhoe. I think we’ll get along.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For being the calm one. Ethan’s a storm—Owen’s just Owen. But you… you’re the anchor.”
“I’m the architect,” I correct her softly. “I build the structures keeping us standing.”
I look at her. She’s wearing one of Owen’s hoodies, three sizes too big, and nothing else. Her legs are bare and smooth.
My gaze drops to the hem of the hoodie.
“Are you wearing undergarments?” I ask.
She bites her lip, a flush rising on her cheeks. “No. Nothing fits right now. My waistband was digging in.”
My lungs seize up. The physical shift hits me fast and hard.
“That saves time,” I say, my voice dropping.
I slide my hands up her thighs, under the warm cotton of the hoodie. Her skin is hot. Soft. I find the curve of her waist, my thumbs brushing the swell of her hips.
“Asher,” she breathes, her head tilting back.
“I need to check your progress,” I murmur, stepping closer until I’m pressed against the counter, trapping her. “I need to see what he did to you.”
“You checked my vitals this morning,” she teases breathlessly.
“Internal inspection,” I clarify.
I kiss her, mapping the shape of her mouth with mine, exploring the heat. I bite her lower lip, applying just enough pressure to drag a soft moan from her throat. She opens for me instantly, her tongue sliding against mine. She tastes like ginger tea.
My hands move higher, finding her bare breasts under the hoodie. They’re noticeably heavier, changed by the pregnancy. It’s fascinating and incredibly erotic.
I roll her nipples between my thumbs. They bead instantly against my palms.
“Sensitive,” I note.
“Too sensitive,” she gasps, arching into my touch. “It hurts. But good hurt.”
“Let’s test that threshold.”
I push the hoodie up, bunching it under her arms. Her skin flushes under my gaze. The faint blue veins beneath her breasts. The newly forming curve of her lower belly.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
I lean down and pull one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard.
She cries out, her fingers tangling in my hair, gripping my scalp. “Asher… oh god.”
I work her over, my tongue swirling and teasing, listening to the rapid, desperate hitch of her breathing. I move to the other breast, biting the peak until she squirms.
“Asher, now,” she begs, her hips bucking against my belt. “Don’t make me wait.”
“Where?” I ask, looking up. My glasses slide down my nose. I push them back up.
“Everywhere,” she whines. “Inside.”
I stand up straight. I look her in the eye.
“Spread your legs,” I command softly.
She obeys. She opens for me, revealing everything. She’s wet. Slick. Her body prepares for me before I even touch her.
I unzip my jeans, pushing them down just enough to free myself. The urgency overrides my usual need for order.
“Wrap your legs around me,” I say.
She hooks her ankles behind my back. I grip her hips, lifting her off the cold marble, angling her pelvis. I push inside her in one long, unbroken glide.
The friction is immediate and visceral. I groan, my head dropping to her shoulder as her wet heat swallows me entirely.
“The fit is absolute,” I grit out.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her nails digging into my back.
I drag my hips back and thrust deep. Again. And again. I set a relentless, punishing pace, watching her face to catch every micro-expression as the pleasure strips away her logic.
“Focus on me,” I demand.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and completely blown out.
“Asher,” she moans, her voice breaking. “It’s so deep.”
I roll my hips, intentionally grinding against her swollen clit with the base of my shaft.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“Everything,” she gasps. “Don’t hold back. Harder.”
I stop analyzing. I stop calculating. The raw, animal sensation of her inner walls tightening around my cock shatters my restraint.
I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt, fast and messy, the wet slap of our bodies echoing off the countertops.
The primal reality that my children are growing safely inside her—that she is completely ours—obliterates my control.
“Tessa,” I growl, biting her neck. “Don’t fight the overload.”
“I’m not,” she sobs, throwing her head back. “Asher, god, yes.”
I shift my grip, pressing my thumb aggressively against the swollen bundle of nerves.
She unravels completely.
Her inner muscles clamp down on me, pulling at me in rhythmic spasms. The sensation is blinding. It bypasses my brain and goes straight to the spine.
“Asher!”
I let go. I pour myself into her, groaning as the release wracks my body. It's a total system failure.
I hold her there, pinned against the kitchen island, our skin slick with sweat. My forehead rests against hers, my pulse thudding against my ribs.
“Status?” I ask, my voice wrecked.
“Completely ruined,” she murmurs, dropping her head heavily onto my chest.
I keep my arms locked around her waist, anchoring her to the counter.
The front door clicks open an hour later. Ethan and Owen walk in with brown paper bags from the organic bistro.
“We brought reinforcements,” Owen announces. “And by reinforcements, I mean grilled salmon and spinach. Asher sent me a nutritional breakdown while I was driving.”
Ethan walks in behind him, looking lighter than he has in days. He sees Tessa sitting on the sofa and immediately lowers his voice.
“How are you holding up?” Ethan asks her.
“She spoke to her parents,” I reply, stepping out of the kitchen. “They backed down. They want us to visit once the news cycle dies.”
Ethan lets out a long breath. “Thank god.”
“We need to talk about logistics,” I say, gesturing to the dining table.
We sit. I open my laptop.
“The penthouse has three bedrooms,” I state. “Total square footage: 3,500. With the twins, a permanent suite for Harper, and the four of us,the variables don’t fit. We’ve outgrown the container.”
“We’re moving?” Owen asks, stabbing a piece of spinach with his fork.
“We need a compound,” Ethan says. He’s thought about it too. “Something gated. Private. With a yard.”
“I’ve already curated a list of properties,” I say, turning the screen around. “This one in Westlake. Six bedrooms. Three acres. High-grade security system already installed. It has a detached guest house for Harper or parents.”
“Buy it,” Ethan says without looking at the price.
“We should probably let Tessa see it first,” Owen suggests. “Since she’s the one with the nesting instinct.”
“Agreed,” I say. “But the data supports this location.”
Just then, Ethan’s phone rings.
It’s the specific ringtone assigned to the investors.
The tension in the room spikes instantly. I check the clock in the corner of my screen. 11:15 AM.
Ethan looks at the phone. “It’s Sterling. Forty-five minutes before the vote.”
“Put it on speaker,” I say, opening a new terminal window on my laptop. “I want to record the call.”
Ethan answers. “Sterling. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Cut the crap, Branson,” Sterling’s voice barks through the speaker. “That blog post didn’t save you. ‘Love in all its forms’? You just handed the press a target.”
“We’re transparent,” Ethan says calmly. “Our users appreciate honesty.”
“Your users are a bunch of voyeurs,” Sterling snaps. “But my legal team? They’re having a stroke, Ethan. They’re looking at massive exposure. Section 4.2. Conduct inviting litigation.”
“We haven’t done anything illegal,” Ethan argues. “We’re a family.”