4. Paige
PAIGE
The first thing I notice is the weight of Paxton's arm draped over my waist, heavy and warm.
Sunlight spills through the curtains, painting gold across the rumpled sheets.
The scent of sex lingers… musky, earthy.
My thighs ache in the best way, and when I shift, I feel the slickness between my legs, the evidence of what he did to me while I slept.
A flush creeps up my neck, but it's not shame.
It's something hotter. Something that makes my pulse quicken.
My skin hums from the idea of what he did last night, every nerve alight with the feeling of his touch.
I turn my head, studying him. Paxton's face is softer in sleep, the hard lines of his jaw relaxed, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. His tattoos peek from beneath the sheets, inked stories I want to trace with my fingers.
He's beautiful like this—raw, unguarded.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
The bathroom suddenly calls, the need to wash away the stickiness between my thighs too insistent to ignore. I slip out from under his arm, careful not to wake him, and pad across the room.
The mirror reflects a girl I barely recognize… flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair tangled from his fingers. My nipples tighten under the cool air, and I press my thighs together, the friction sending a spark through me.
The bathtub fills quickly, steam curling into the air. I sink into the water, letting the heat soak into my muscles. The water laps at my skin, and I close my eyes, thinking of how he touched me.
The door creaks open.
Paxton steps inside, naked, his cock already half-hard. My breath catches. He doesn't say a word, just watches me with those emerald eyes, dark and hungry. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric.
He moves closer, his hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, giving himself a slow stroke. "Get on your knees, Paige."
My stomach flutters. I obey without hesitation, water sloshing as I slide to the floor of the tub. The porcelain is hard against my knees, but I barely feel it. All I can focus on is him… his cock, thick and veined, the bead of precum glistening at the tip.
He steps into the tub, his thighs bracketing my face. "Open."
I part my lips, and he feeds himself into my mouth. The taste of him floods my senses. I moan around him, my tongue swirling over the crown, my hands gripping his thighs for balance. He groans, his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding me deeper.
"Fuck, baby," he growls. "Look at you. So pretty with my cock in your mouth."
His words send a jolt straight to my core. I hollow my cheeks, taking him as deep as I can, my throat fluttering around the tip. He hisses, his hips jerking forward, his grip tightening in my hair.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Take it all."
I gag, tears pricking my eyes, but I don't pull back. I want this. Want him. Want to make him lose control the way he makes me.
His breath comes faster, his thighs trembling. "Gonna come down your throat," he warns, his voice rough. "Gonna fill that pretty mouth with my cum."
I whimper, my fingers digging into his skin. He groans, his cock swelling, and then he's spilling down my throat, hot and thick. I swallow every drop, my tongue lapping at the tip as he pulls back.
He doesn't give me time to recover. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, my back pressing against the cool tile. My legs hook over his shoulders, his mouth finding my pussy before I can even gasp.
"Paxton!"
His tongue drags through my folds, slow and deliberate. My hips jerk, but he pins me in place, his hands gripping my thighs. He licks me like he's starving, like he can't get enough, his beard rough against my sensitive skin.
"So fucking sweet," he murmurs against me. "Like honey and sin."
His tongue flicks over my clit, and I cry out, my fingers scrambling for purchase against the slick tile. He doesn't let up, his mouth working me over with ruthless precision. My thighs tremble, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for. "Please, I?—"
He sucks my clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling, and I shatter. My back arches, my vision whiting out as pleasure crashes over me. He doesn't stop, his tongue lapping at me, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless against the tile.
He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, his lips lingering. "Good morning," he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction.
I can only whimper in response, my body still trembling from the aftershocks.
The last storage box lands on the sitting room rug with a soft thud, the dust motes swirling in the late afternoon light streaming through the bay window.
Nathan had asked what I want to do with my mother's belongings. I kept putting it off, pretending I wasn't ready, but the boxes have been waiting long enough.
My fingers leave faint smudges on the cardboard as I peel back the lid, the scent of lavender and old paper curling into the air like a ghost of her presence.
My mother's favorite perfume… something floral and warm, the kind that always made me think of Sunday mornings and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.
I reach in, my throat tightening when my fingers brush the spine of her old cookbook.
The cover is worn, the edges frayed from years of use, and when I flip it open, her handwriting jumps out at me in the margins.
Too much garlic… Paige will complain.
Paige likes extra cinnamon.
A laugh bubbles up, but it dies just as quickly, caught in the back of my throat. I trace the words with my fingertip, the ink faded but still legible.
"You always changed every recipe," I whisper.
Beneath the cookbook, the box is a time capsule.
Birthday cards with my name scrawled in her looping script, the edges yellowed with age.
A silk scarf printed with peacocks, the colors still vibrant despite the years.
A handful of costume jewelry… big, gaudy rings and necklaces she'd called "vintage" with a wink, even though I'd teased her mercilessly about them.
And then the photographs. Dozens of them, some in black and white, others in faded color, all of them capturing moments I wasn't part of.
I pick up one of her and my father at the beach, their faces sunburned and laughing, his arm slung around her shoulders.
She looks so young. So happy.
My chest aches, a sharp, insistent pressure that makes it hard to breathe.
I swipe at my eyes before the tears can fall, but they do anyway, hot and stubborn, tracing paths down my cheeks.
"I miss you," I whisper, the words dissolving into the quiet of the room like they were never spoken at all.
For a long moment, I just sit there, surrounded by the remnants of her life. The woman who'd held us together after my father's business collapsed, who'd smiled through the debt collectors' calls and the late-night hushed arguments.
She'd carried so much more than she'd ever let on.
And now, here I am, sifting through the pieces of her, trying to figure out what to keep and what to let go.
My fingers brush against something soft… a sweater, cashmere, the color of storm clouds. I lift it to my face, inhaling deeply, but the scent of her is almost gone now. Just a hint of lavender, barely there.
I fold it carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles, before my hand hits something solid at the bottom of the box.
A thick, white album. Wedding Album, the gold-embossed letters on the cover read.
My breath catches.
The cover creaks as I open it, the spine protesting like it hasn't been touched in years. The first photograph steals the air from my lungs.
My mother stands in a simple ivory dress, the fabric clinging to her in all the right places, her hair swept up in an elegant twist. She's smiling at the camera, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. And beside her?—
Paxton.
This was four years ago. He's younger here, his face clean-shaven, his dark hair only just beginning to silver at the temples. The tailored black suit he's wearing does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders, the way his presence seems to dominate the frame.
They look… happy.
The word sticks in my throat like a thorn.
I flip the page.
They're cutting the cake, my mother taking a slice.
Another page.
Exchanging rings. Paxton's fingers are steady as he slides the band onto her finger.
Another.
They're dancing. But not touching.
I slam the album shut.
"No."
The word is barely a whisper, but it echoes in the silence of the room like a gunshot.
I stare at the cover, my fingers trembling against the smooth white surface. Why does this hurt so much? My mother's gone. I know that. I know she'd want me to be happy. So why does seeing these pictures feel like someone reached into my chest and squeezed until my ribs groaned under the pressure?
It's probably because I had a crush on him ever since the first time I saw him.
I was sixteen, standing in the doorway, my backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd filled the entire frame, all broad shoulders and quiet intensity, his emerald eyes scanning the room like he was assessing a battlefield.
And then they'd landed on me.
My stomach had flipped.
I'd told myself it was just nerves. That it was the way he carried himself, like a man who expected the world to move out of his way. That it was the tattoos peeking from beneath his crisp white sleeves, the way his voice rumbled like distant thunder when he spoke.
But it wasn't.
I'd known, even then.
I'd buried it deep, locking it away behind layers of denial and distraction. Because what kind of daughter develops a crush on her mother's new husband?
Even if he was the most devastatingly beautiful man I'd ever seen.
And when she was gone?
I didn't hesitate.
Not once.
The album slides from my lap, landing on the rug with a muffled thud.
I press my palms to my eyes, and guilt crashes over me in a wave so strong it nearly knocks me over.
So how could I feel jealous of my own mother? The thought makes my stomach churn, bile rising in the back of my throat.
She was my mother. She deserved a better husband. She deserved every moment of happiness she could get.
But another part of me—a darker, uglier part—whispers something I don't want to hear.
My stomach knots, the twist of it so sharp it steals my breath.
What if I'm only fooling myself? What if every time Paxton looks at me, he still sees her? What if every room in this house is just another reminder of the life they shared?
I close my eyes, but the images are still there, burned into the backs of my eyelids.
I'll never be able to compete with a memory. Especially not one that's been framed in photographs, preserved in albums, tucked safely away like proof that I wasn't first.
A tear slips onto the cover of the album, darkening the white fabric. I brush it away, but another follows, and then another, until I'm not even sure I'm crying for my mother anymore.
I need to talk to him.
Because if I don't ask, these thoughts are going to tear me apart.
The hallway stretches too long, the Persian runner muffling my steps like it's trying to swallow them whole. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting crescents into my palms. The ache keeps me from shaking.
I don't knock when I reach the pool room. The double doors stand ajar, sunlight spilling across the marble in golden stripes. Steam curls from the water's surface, thick and lazy, carrying the scent of chlorine.
Paxton cuts through the water with slow, powerful strokes, his arms slicing the surface like he's carving his name into it. I hover in the doorway, my breath shallow, my pulse hammering in my throat.
The pool lights cast shifting shadows across his back, turning the tattoos there into living things…
serpents, wings, words I can't read from here.
His shoulders are broad enough to block out the sun, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with every movement.
Water sluices down his spine, catching in the dip above his ass, and I hate how my mouth goes dry at the sight.
He stops at the far end, planting his hands on the tile and pushing himself up in one fluid motion. Water cascades from his body, clinging to the dark hair dusting his chest, beading on the ridges of his abs.
His swim trunks sit low on his hips, the waistband damp and clinging to the V of muscle that points like an arrow toward what I know is waiting beneath. My gaze snags there, heat flaring low in my belly before I force my eyes back up.
His hair is slicked back, the silver at his temples catching the light.
I swallow hard, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sundress.
I came here to confront him.
But now that I'm standing here, all I can think about is how easy it would be to let myself drown in him instead.