Chapter 4 The Agreement #3
He followed with one final, deep thrust. She felt him thicken, then the hot spurt of his release. He filled her, spilling inside her. He groaned, a broken sound. His body shuddered, and his arms shook. He held himself above her as his cock pulsed, wave after wave, hot and thick.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her against him. His cock remained inside, still hard. He did not pull out.
"Stay like this," he said. "As long as possible."
She understood. Biology. The contract. The fertile window. Every detail mattered.
She pressed her face against his chest. She listened to his heart and felt his body against hers. His release warmed her from the inside, full.
"One month," she whispered.
"One month," he agreed.
She woke before him.
Gray light marked five AM. The ocean rumbled low outside. His arm lay heavy across her waist. His chest pressed against her back. She felt his breath on her neck, slow and even. He was asleep.
She did not move. She lay there, feeling his body against hers. She felt the soreness between her thighs and the warmth of him. The weight of what they'd done.
They'd done it three times. The first was fast and desperate. The second was slower. He took his time, bringing her to the edge twice before letting her fall. The third was in the dark. She rode on top of him while he gripped her hips and watched her face.
Each time, he stayed inside her afterward. He held her, letting his body do what biology intended.
She pressed her hand against her stomach. It was flat and empty. But maybe not. Maybe somewhere in the darkness of her body, something was beginning. A cell. A connection. A possibility.
She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine it. A child. His child. Their child. Eyes green like his. Hair dark like his. Hands that drew flowers like hers.
She wanted it. She had always wanted it. The wanting was buried under grief, acceptance, and the clinical certainty that it would never happen. But it was there, alive and hungry.
His arm tightened around her. "You're awake," he said, his voice rough with sleep.
"How did you know?"
"Your breathing changed."
"Were you watching me sleep?"
"I was listening to you think."
She turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes were half-open, soft in a way she'd not seen before. Unguarded.
"I signed the contract," she said.
"You did."
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"Not of you. Of this. Of wanting it. Of what happens if it works. Of what happens if it doesn't."
He tucked her hair behind her ear. His fingers traced the curve. "I'm scared too."
"You don't seem scared."
"I'm good at hiding it. Military training," he paused. "I've never been more terrified in my life."
She pressed her forehead against his chest. "What if I can't do this? What if the month passes, and nothing happens? What if I hoped for nothing?"
"Then you'll still have the cottage. The money. Your life."
"I don't care about the money."
"I know. That scares me too."
They lay in silence. Waves crashed outside. A heartbeat pulsed between them.
"Same time tonight?" she asked.
He smiled, the first real smile she'd seen from him. It changed his whole face and made him younger and softer.
"Same time tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that. Until the window closes."
"And then?"
"Then we wait. And try again next month."
She nodded, slipped out of bed, and found his shirt on the floor. She pulled it on and walked to the door.
"Vesper."
She turned.
He sat up, the sheet at his waist. His chest was bare. The scar. The tattoo. The body she'd memorized in three days of storm.
"Thank you," he said. "For staying."
She looked at him. This man. This soldier. This stepbrother who'd kissed her in a hallway and never let her go.
"Don't thank me yet," she said.
She walked back to her room, showered, dressed, and went to the estate office. She sat at the desk and opened her sketchbook.
She didn't draw orchids. She drew a cottage. Stone walls. A garden. A window with morning light.
She drew it twice, once from the outside and once from the inside. The inside version had a crib.
She closed the sketchbook and stared at the wall.
A small envelope sat on the desk corner. She hadn't noticed it before. Her name was on the front in Eleanor Thorne's handwriting.
She opened it. A single card lay inside.
If you're reading this, you stayed. Thank you. The cottage garden has roses. I planted them myself. Take care of them for me.
And take care of my grandson. He's harder than he looks.
Vesper set the card down. She pressed her fingers against her lips. Her eyes burned.
The dead woman had known. Had planned. Had trusted her with a grandson, a garden, and a house full of secrets.
She folded the card and put it in her pocket, next to the first note, next to the contract she'd signed.
One month. Four weeks. Every fertile window.
She had thirty days to change her life.
She picked up her pencil and started drawing again. The roses this time. Detailed. Precise. Every petal. Every thorn.
Outside, the sun climbed over the Atlantic. The house settled around her, old, heavy, and full of ghosts.
But for the first time since she'd arrived, it felt like it might also be full of beginnings.