Thirty-One
Isla
T his is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a slow death by duvet.
Technically, it’s a comforter—Evangeline is particular about her bed linens—but the alliteration supplies better tombstone flair.
Theo is still inside me, buried so deep it feels like he’s settling in for a long-term lease.
The smart move would be to evict him. Untangle myself from his hold before comfort morphs into consequence.
Move. Breathe. Survive.
Instead, I succumb to post-orgasmic stupidity and relax my muscles.
“Blanket’s gotta go,” Theo says against my neck. “But you’re not moving from this spot.”
I arch a brow he can’t see. “What?”
“No. Running.” He squeezes my hip in punctuation before smoothing his hand down my side as if taming a feral animal.
“Why does this feel like a hostage negotiation?” I attempt a joke, but panic threads through the question. The words flee , bolt , and strings own too much airtime in my head right now.
“Because it is.” He rolls onto his side, but not before pressing his forehead to mine. When he pulls away, it’s with a strained exhale and a fist knotted in the sheets between us.
I don’t dwell on the ache the absence of his warmth leaves behind.
“ Stay .” It’s not a request, but an order.
A thread of authority in the depth of his voice coaxes my body into much too enthusiastic obedience. Startled by my eagerness to comply, my brain sounds the alarms, screaming for my heart to keep its distance before Stockholm syndrome comes into play.
The blanket disappears in a sweep. Cold air rushes in, a welcome balm on my overheated skin, but my relief is short-lived. Harsh light from the nightstand lamp slices through the room, flooding us back to reality.
I can see again.
All too well. Way too much.
Theo’s gaze holds mine, but what reflects back isn’t lust. It’s something worse. Far worse.
No armor. No guilt. Only raw need, barreling straight into another— more dangerous —L-word territory.
What terrifies me more than his expression is knowing, without a doubt, that the exact same one is mirrored on my face.
Just as luminous and aching and… wrong .
My soul flinches, recoiling from the gravity of the situation. My body follows a heartbeat later. I fold in on myself, arms wrapping around my torso, legs tucking tight.
The goal is to vanish before the feelings catch up.
Theo cuts off my escape. One hand grips my chin, stilling me. The other slides behind my knee, dragging it to the side, splaying me open.
“No hiding,” he says. Three syllables that click a lock into place.
His eyes drop to my body, moving with purpose toward the slickness between my thighs.
“I want to look at you.”
Fingers trailing up my inner thigh, he makes a show of possessively gathering the mess that’s leaking from me.
“This…” Heated pride flashes across his features. “I’ve reached a new level of ruin.”
By the time he arrives at my center, I’m shaking.
Clenching in reflex only makes things worse. Messier .
“So pretty.” Theo’s grin is edged with wicked intent. With a swift, assertive press, he drives his cum back inside me.
My hips jerk, spine snapping off the mattress, but he doesn’t stop. He works his fingers all the way in, setting a determined pace that makes my legs twitch and my thoughts scatter.
The man is trying to reset me.
“I’ve never done this before.” His voice drags across my skin as he strokes the sensitive flesh, coaxing more from every overloaded nerve ending. “Didn’t realize there was a fourth option.”
Through the haze of overstimulation, I manage a breathless “What?”
“Wake you.” A sharp, shallow thrust.
“Clean you.” Another.
“Leave you.” Deeper now .
“Or…” On a groan, he sinks his fingers all the way in. “Play with you.”
I cry out, so close to shattering.
“Best choice yet, don’t you think?”
My mind is so wonderfully blank, all I manage is a sigh of agreement that makes his chest rumble with satisfaction.
When his muscles flex again, the ink on the underside of his bicep flashes at me.
My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his forearm to halt his movements. “Tell me about this tattoo.”
“Come first. Talk after.”
“That’s not how conversations work,” I pant.
In response, he curls his fingers, and my argument disintegrates into a string of moans.
The rhythm he sets is indulgent. I’m so turned on, it doesn’t take long before I’m unraveling.
Again .
My orgasm hits with a strangled gasp of his name that spills every hidden feeling right into his hands.
“Can’t get enough of this, Sunshine. I’m fucking addicted to the sights and sounds of you.”
Through the barrier of his sweatpants, I can feel the thick, hard strain of his erection, but he doesn’t move to relieve it. His focus is wholly consumed by my pleasure.
As the tremors finally fade, I start to pull away, but he grabs the edge of the top sheet and tucks it tightly around my naked form.
Burrito-ing is the only verb I can think of for the act.
“Seriously?” I blink up at him. “You’re putting me in a swaddle?”
“Desperate times,” he says in a teasing lilt. “Stay. Sleep. ”
Clearly, it’s just another phase in his anti-Houdini agenda. Not that I have the energy to protest. My body could use the temporary truce.
Except…
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
He doesn’t hesitate. In the blink of an eye, I’m scooped up off the bed.
“ Theo ,” I groan, squirming in my Egyptian cotton tomb. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
Okay, maybe the orgasm marathon has reduced my legs to jelly—but still .
It’s the principle.
“I know.” He nips at the side of my neck, already moving toward the en suite. “But I like... this . Looking after you in ways I've only dreamt about before."
"You dreamt about heroically carrying me off to pee?" I tease.
"Oh, yes. I'm acting out my wildest fantasy right now. Lucky me."
He gingerly sets me down just past the threshold, warm hand lingering for a split second on my hip before he gives me privacy to take care of business.
When I return, Theo is propped against the headboard, heated gaze locked on the front of my shirt. The letters of his name burn against my chest, branding his claim into my heart.
Just for tonight , I remind myself.
“I fucking love that on you,” he murmurs, folding me into him.
His tattoo flashes in front of my face, reminding me we have unfinished business.
“I never noticed this before.” My fingers trail over the underside of his bicep, tracing the dark ink that clings to taut skin and firm muscle.
“You’ve always been a tactile art enthusiast, huh?” His eyes glint knowingly as he watches me explore.
“It’s beautiful.” The tree feels alive beneath my touch, its branches twisting and stretching as if breathing with him.
“My take on a family tree.”
Seven initials are entwined through the leaves—one for each member of his family: Evangeline, Graham, his siblings, and Jovie.
My chest squeezes. The tattoo feels like a perfect reflection of his love. Subdued, but steady. Powerful and permanent. A glimpse of the once-vulnerable boy who grew into a fierce, capable man.
Every line is unmistakably him . Clean, sharp, and purposeful, with strong emotion pulsing beneath the surface. I recognize Theo’s style on instinct. After all, I’ve been carrying his art inside me for years.
But one element doesn’t belong to his hand.
“The sun?”
He nods. “Is yours.”
It was the first thing I sketched after clawing my way out of that year-and-a-half mourning fog: Sunrise Over the Springs. And now, it’s etched into Theo’s skin. Forever.
I let my touch linger. “When did you get this done?”
“The tree? At twenty-three. When I finally felt like I’d earned the right to be a Thorne.
Late to the party, as usual.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh.
“And the sun…” He pauses, gaze latching on to mine.
“I added that piece after I quit AdCraft.” His voice drops.
“I didn’t want to leave you behind, but I didn’t know how to take you with me. So…”
“You kept my drawing from all those years ago?”
“I stole your entire sketchbook,” he says, never breaking eye contact. “More than one, actually. ”
“Why?” I’m not even sure what I’m asking.
“You’re a part of our family, Isla. You’ve always been ours. You’ll forever have a place with us.” There’s no trace of possessiveness in his tone.
This isn’t about sex, ownership, or even romance.
It’s an invitation to belong .
My heart constricts. Eighteen-year-old orphans don’t get adopted. But the desperate longing for family? That never fades.
The weight of his words settles in my chest. Like a puzzle piece slightly askew, it doesn’t slot in without resistance. Jagged edges. Imperfect corners. And still— somehow —it fits.
“Why haven’t you attended the past five Christmas gatherings?”
He knew what happened six years ago shattered me. Had he really stayed away, year after year, just so I’d feel safe enough to show up?
My eyes widen as the realization hits.
He simply shrugs one shoulder.
“ Theo …”
A buzz from his phone saves me from trying to talk past the knot in my throat.
His eyes drift to the device on the nightstand. “Shit. That’s work.” He rubs a hand across his forehead, creasing the skin with tension. “I wouldn’t even think about checking it if we weren’t going live in less than a week.” Rapid-fire alerts light up the screen. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Go ahead.” That many middle-of-the-night notifications in a row can’t be good news.
He grimaces as he scans the texts, expression hardening with each swipe of his fingers. The longer he reads, the deeper the lines around his mouth dig in.
“Problem?” I prompt .
“Multiple problems.” Settling back beside me, he drapes his arm over his eyes and releases a low groan. “Tomorrow. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”
But then his phone vibrates again.
And again .
“Damn it,” he curses as the rattle continues.
“Sounds urgent.”