Chapter 10
ELLE
Heat radiates across the small space separating us, each molecule charged with electricity.
The image of Melody fills my thoughts—her smile, an exact echo of his. Her innocent questions about the father she has never met. Her collection of tiny ballerinas spinning in music boxes, her perfect pitch when humming along. The truth sits heavy in my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.
“Phoenix, there’s something important I need to tell you.” My words come out steadier than expected, fingers twisting together in my lap.
Firelight skims over the sharp planes of his face painting him in heat and shadow. Something vulnerable flickers in his eyes before he straightens his shoulders, tucking the softness away.
“There’s something I need to tell you first,” Phoenix interrupts, fingers grazing mine as I sit next to him on the couch.
A thousand rehearsals dissolve into nothing, the carefully prepared confession evaporating on my tongue. His intensity pins me against the cushions, my heart pounding so hard my ribs might crack.
“I need to explain before I lose my nerve. Before anything else happens between us.”
My opportunity slips away, the revelation about Melody retreating beneath the force of his need for absolution. I swallow hard, the truth sitting like a stone in my throat.
“It’s been so long,” I murmur, giving him the opening he seeks.
“Five years, two months, and sixteen days.” The precision stuns me, revealing meticulous accounting of our separation. “I counted every one. The biggest mistake of my life.”
My chest tightens, emotions colliding beneath my sternum—lingering hurt mingled with newfound understanding, the perspective of motherhood changing how I view what happened between us. “You chose music.”
“I thought about you every day.” His voice drops to gravel, stripped of performance. “The distance grew between us before I ever left for LA. We both saw it happening.”
His confession pierces the armor I’ve built since our separation. His admission threatens the narrative I’ve constructed—he chose fame over love without a second thought. The reality exists in much more complex shades, a collision of ambition, youth, and impossible choices.
“We were too young to understand compromise,” I admit, the words emerging from a place of hard-earned wisdom. “I expected you to choose between your dream and me, when I should’ve asked how we could support each other’s paths.”
Surprise flickers across his face, moonlight catching in his eyes.
“We both changed - grew up,” I reply. “Life teaches humility.”
Phoenix nods slowly, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. The quiet stretches between us, weighted with unspoken confessions and separate lives taking vastly different paths. When he finally raises his eyes, vulnerability radiates from him in waves.
“Why now?” The question hangs between us, delicate and exposed.
His fingers bridge the distance, warm skin grazing my knuckles. Electricity shoots through my veins where we connect, chemistry undiminished by time or distance or a four-year-old child with his eyes. “Because finding you again seems like fate. Because I never stopped loving you, Elle.”
The words slam into my chest, stealing my breath. His fingers intertwine with mine, guitarist’s calluses rasping against my skin—familiar texture embedded in my memory.
“We both made choices,” I whisper, my voice soft with regret rather than accusation. “Choices which led us here.”
“I should’ve said this years ago.” Phoenix eliminates the remaining distance, his thigh pressing against mine. “Too late for that now. But some feelings don’t die just because you want them to.”
My thoughts of telling him about Melody retreat as his proximity overwhelms my senses. Our daughter deserves her father. Phoenix deserves to meet her. This delicate moment would shatter under such revelations—a vintage photograph crumbling under too much pressure.
His free hand rises to my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip with precision. My eyelids flutter at the contact, nerve endings awakening with recognition as my body remembers his touch.
“Tell me to stop.” His whisper offers both invitation and challenge, suspended in the narrow space between us.
I struggle to form a rational response, my thoughts scattered by his proximity. Instead of listening to reason, I lean into his touch, erasing the final millimeters of separation. Our lips connect with tentative precision, asking and answering questions without words.
His hand slides to my nape, fingers threading through my hair with firm pressure.
I deepen the kiss from hesitant exploration to desperate consumption, pouring years of separation into this moment.
I press my lips against his, scrape my teeth gently against his lower lip, and meet his tongue with mine in an intimate dance of rediscovery.
I slide into his lap, guided by muscle memory and want. His hands bracket my waist, steadying me as I straddle him. Our chests press together, our heartbeats drumming against each other through layers of clothing suddenly excessive and intrusive.
“I dreamed about this,” he confesses against my throat, followed by gentle teeth. “About you. Every night since I left.”
I give in to his touch, my head tipping back in surrender.
Warnings scream through my mind—Melody waiting in Nashville, the responsibility I owe her, the disaster this could become if I pretend this is anything more than a moment borrowed from a life we no longer share.
Maybe that’s why I let it happen. Because if this is goodbye—one last, selfish taste before I tell him the truth—then I can pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Pretend I’m not breaking something fragile all over again. .
“Phoenix.” His name emerges as both plea and prayer, surrender to inevitable desire.
He rises suddenly, securing my thighs as my legs lock around his waist. The display of strength sends liquid heat pooling between my legs, my mind filling with images—his arms carrying me from shower to bed, from kitchen counter to couch, from car backseat to moonlit grass during late-night conversations.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my ear, voice scraped raw. “Let me take you to your room? Please,” he begs.
The request offers control amid desperation, acknowledging my authority when we both recognize the decision crystallized the moment our lips met. I nod against his shoulder, words impossible as his fingers press into my thighs.
Phoenix navigates the shadowed house with surprising certainty, carrying me upstairs with effortless strength. My bedroom door gives way to his shoulder, darkness enveloping us as we cross the threshold. Moonlight spills through parted curtains, transforming rumpled bedding into silver waves.
He lowers me to the mattress with reverence, hovering without pressing down. A sudden emptiness opens in my chest after the intimacy of being carried against him. I reach up, pulling until his weight anchors me, solid and overwhelming in his presence.
“Christ, Elle,” he murmurs, his lips tracing my throat. “This, you, no one undoes me the way you do.”
I grasp his shirt, seeking heat beneath fabric. Phoenix pulls away, stripping it overhead to reveal the familiar landscape of his chest—now adorned with new ink. A small constellation of stars traces a pattern across his ribs, one bringing instant recognition.
“The Cygnus constellation.” I trace the tattooed stars with my fingertips, my voice catching. The Northern Cross. We spotted it through my apartment skylight the first night we said I love you, lying on blankets on my floor, passing cheap wine between us.
“Our stars.” He captures my wrist, pressing lips to my pulse point. “I needed to carry you with me so I’d never forgot the night everything changed.”
His words unravel something deep inside me.
I recapture his mouth in a hungry, demanding kiss, years of longing crystallizing into this single moment.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through thin fabric.
Each caress ignites my skin, sparking nerve endings long dormant.
“I’ve thought about this every day,” he confesses against my neck, deftly unclasping my bra. “Touching you like this again.”
He pulls the shirt over my head removing the barrier between us. His pupils widen as his gaze roams over me. The reverence in his expression floods me with confidence, with power. This man—this rock star who could seduce anyone—watches me as though I represent salvation.
“So goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs, his palms gliding up my ribs to cup my breasts. His thumbs circle my nipples with exact pressure, drawing them into tight peaks. My spine arches involuntarily, pressing me further into his touch.
Phoenix lowers his head, replacing fingers with lips, teeth, tongue. The wet heat of his mouth closes around my nipple, sending electric currents straight between my legs having me aching. I grip his hair, holding him against me as pleasure radiates outward from everywhere his mouth explores.
My hand finds him — hot, thick, pulsing. He groans into my skin, hips thrusting into my touch.
“Elle—don’t—” his breath shudders. “If you keep that up, I won’t make it inside you.”
I smile, releasing him, and drag my hand up his abs instead, feeling them jump beneath my palm.
His hand slips into the waistband of my sleep pants while he moves to my other breast, giving it equal attention as he slides the cotton down my hips.
I lift to help him, desperate to eliminate every barrier between us.
He drags his stubbled jaw across my stomach, leaving a trail of exquisite friction, making my muscles contract.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, voice rough with desire as he settles between my thighs. “Dreamed of tasting you again.”