37. Chapter 37
“ O h God, don’t stop!”
The scream rips from my throat, loud and hungry, echoing off the bedroom walls. My hands fist the sheets, twisting under my grip as Grant’s mouth licks up my slit.
Hazel eyes stare at me, lust swirling in his golden-brown irises. His lips tilt into a sexy smirk as his tongue rims my entrance in slow, tantalizing strokes. I buck my hips, seeking more friction, as his beard grazes my thighs.
I moan as his fingers trail my inner thighs before he parts my pussy lips. With my legs spread and my lips parted, I feel so exposed. It’s a compromising position, but as he licks and nibbles my flesh, I can’t focus on anything other than the way his touch ignites my skin.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth closer to where I need him.
I bite my lip and watch him, eyes fluttering closed as he settles deeper between my legs. One strong hand pins my hip, while the other spreads me wider. My skin tingles, flushed with anticipation and soaked in desire.
He pulls back for half a second, long enough to shoot me a wicked grin. “My favorite fucking meal.”
I groan as I watch him work.
It’s been a few weeks since our steamy video chat and a week since I was cleared by my doctor.
With an IUD in place, Grant hasn’t wasted a single opportunity to worship my body.
I can’t get enough of him. The rush of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.
It’s like I’ve been starving for years and can finally feast.
With another flick of his tongue, he bites down on my sensitive clit, and I nearly levitate off the bed.
“Fuck, Sav…”
He groans into me, sending vibrations through my body. My fingers dive into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer, needing him deeper. But he pulls away, mouth gone. Hands gone. Completely free of his touch. I tip my head in frustration as a whine creeps up my throat. “What are you doing?”
He smirks at me before flipping onto his back. “Climb on.”
“Wh-what?”
“Sit on my face, Peach. Ride my face and make yourself come.”
Jesus . My thighs clench as I frantically flip over. My legs land on each side of his as I crawl up his naked torso. Strong hands grip my hips as I situate myself. I’m heavier now than I used to be, and the fear of suffocating him flashes through my mind.
“Don’t fucking hover. Sit that pretty pussy on my face and ride.”
His dirty encouragement has me dropping down, sitting on his face as his tongue laps at my arousal. My head drops back as I bite into my lower lip, and he moans as he tastes me fully. Everything this man does is perfection.
“Fuck, Sunshine. You’re so good at this,” I praise him.
I’ve been with enough men to appreciate his skills. So many others have no idea what they’re doing down there. They thrash around and sloppily lick at nothing.
But Grant Campbell knows how to eat.
All tongue and nips that make me squirm. My hips tilt forward, pressing harder on his face. His hands grip my hands as he helps rock me back and forth. As pressure builds in my core, my thighs start to shake, toes curling, breath catching.
“God, Grant. It’s too much,” I moan, hands reaching out to grip the headboard and keep myself upright.
He plunges his tongue into my entrance as he devours me.
“I’m so close,” I call out, my pussy rocking faster against him, chasing my impending release.
I can feel his eyes boring into me. Glancing down, I’m met with the sexiest sight. Dark eyes sear into mine as he bites down on my bundle of nerves, sending me over the edge.
My eyes roll back as I scream my release, thankful that my sister-in-law offered to watch our daughter for the night.
Wave after wave, Grant helps me ride out my orgasm until I’m wrung dry. Chest heaving, I pop off his face and gaze down at him in awe. His lips glisten, coated in my arousal. He’s never looked sexier.
Trailing kisses and little nips, I lower myself down his body.
“What’re you doing, Peach?”
I smirk up at him. “Taking care of my husband.”
My laptop rests on my lap as the familiar chime of the video call echoes through the speakers. I shift on the couch, curling my legs underneath me. Grant left with Lennon for a walk in her stroller while I’m in my first therapy session of the week.
We’ve been meeting twice a week, on Sundays and Wednesdays.
The calls are helping, but they rip open old wounds, leaving me in an emotional state for a few hours after each session.
As much as I hate the pain, I end our visits feeling lighter.
Almost as if invisible weights are being removed from chest, pound by pound.
You can do hard things.
I repeat my mantra as the screen loads, and seconds later, my therapist’s kind face fills the window.
“Hi, Savannah,” Dr. Nia says with her warm smile. “How are you feeling today?”
It’s the same way she starts every session. I used to hate the question. Always wanting to answer with “I’m fine,” but she quickly told me that response wouldn’t fly.
Glancing around the room filled with new framed pictures of our family, baby toys scattered everywhere, I smile at the screen. “I’m feeling good today. A little tired, but in a way that feels normal.”
She nods, eyes crinkling as she smiles. “That’s great to hear. You don’t normally say how good you’re feeling, but I can see it on your face how true that is.”
I smile again. “Yeah, things are going well.”
She leans back in her chair, clicking her pen as she jots down notes. “We’ve been meeting twice a week for almost a month now. With your permission, I’d love to discuss your progress.”
A wave of anxiety rips through my chest, but I nod. “Sure.”
Dr. Nia glances at her notes. “When we started, you struggled with keeping eye contact. It was a mixture of fear and shame as we discussed your fear of being a bad mom. You were living in denial, trying to make it through the day. The fear of failure crippling your movements.”
My throat tightens.
“And now,” she continues, smiling at the camera, “you’re showing up to your calls with more confidence. In a month, the problems haven’t been fixed, but they’re disappearing. You’re starting to heal, and your body language shows that.”
I blink, not wanting to cry, but the feeling of being seen hits me hard. When I look at myself, I notice the difference in the way my shoulders are straighter, my eyes are brighter, and my smile is bigger. But hearing someone else point out these changes is an approval I didn’t know I needed.
“When we started our sessions, you asked me about my biggest fear. I said I was afraid of turning into her, but I don’t feel that way anymore.”
She nods before dropping her voice. “What’s changed?”
I draw in a long breath. “I realized I’m not her.
I never have been. She might have been absent, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be absent.
My father abandoned me before he knew me, but I’ve met my daughter.
I’d rather die than leave her. My parents' mistakes aren’t a reflection of me, but their struggle. ”
“That’s quite the perspective.”
My voice shakes, but I keep going. “Through the hard times, the times I didn’t think I could handle anymore, I stayed. I fought to see the light, but they gave up. They chose to run scared, and I chose to fight scared.”
“I love how you said that. You chose to fight scared.”
“I’ve been doing the homework you asked me to do.”
“And how’s that going?”
“Good,” I answer. “I’ve been using the journal to write down the dark thoughts. The ones I’m terrified to voice. It’s the fear and insecurities speaking to me, and when I read over my words the next morning, they don’t have as much power.”
Dr. Nia nods and offers me a small grin. “You’ve started releasing the toxicity and making room for the positive.”
I nod, voice cracking. “I still panic and the anxiety is still there, but it doesn’t feel as crippling. My anxiety isn’t controlling me anymore.”
I stare at a framed picture of Lennon. She’s lying on her blanket with a wide, gummy smile. She’s so beautiful and happy.
“When I look at Lennon, I don’t see the fear and what-ifs. I see purpose.”
Dr. Nia smiles at me as we sit in silence.
“I’m proud of you,” she finally says.
My head whips at the camera. Hearing someone tell me they’re proud of me isn’t something I’m used to.
Growing up, Aunt Bethany always made sure I knew she loved me, but our relationship was different. Ultimately, she was my aunt. She did her best, but by the time I moved in with her, the damage had already been done. I was an angsty teenager with mommy-and-daddy issues.
Grant’s done a great job reminding me he’s proud of me, but he has to tell me—he’s my husband. Still, hearing it from someone else feels different, like an unbiased compliment.
“I’m proud of how you’ve leaned into the hard. You’ve made room to grieve your childhood, but no longer live in the past. You fight even when you’re terrified. That’s the real bravery, Savannah.”
Tears well, hot and fast.
“I thought…I thought I had to be perfect.”
“You don’t,” she says firmly. “No one in this life is perfect, and you shouldn’t expect yourself to be held to a higher standard.
All you can do is show up, be present, and be your best self.
Perfect is an illusion. It’s unattainable.
We, as humans, are designed to make mistakes, but it’s how we learn from them that matters. ”
I nod, wiping a tear from my cheek. “There are nights Grant finds me in the nursery, staring at Lennon. He tells me he’s proud of me, that I look stronger—but I still feel like I’m being held together with duct tape.”
“Duct tape is pretty strong,” she says with a soft chuckle. “Healing isn’t pretty, and it’s not going to happen overnight.”
Readjusting myself, I take a deep breath. “Grant is always thanking me for giving him a family, but it’s he who gave us the greatest gift. He brought us safety and unconditional love. I think he’s our greatest gift.”
She tilts her head. “Maybe you gave each other the greatest gift.”
I smile at that.
We spend the next few minutes discussing the plan for the coming weeks. She’s reducing our sessions to once a week, but reminds me she’s available if I need more. Along with writing down dark thoughts, she gives me a new journal prompt and a gentle reminder: rest, breathe, and give myself grace.
Before we part for the day, she says one more thing.
“You’re not your past, Savannah. You’re no longer the scared little girl who was left behind. You’re a new woman who’s writing her new story. And that’s a story I can’t wait to read.”
My chest warms as I smile at her, wanting to believe her words. And maybe there’s a part of me that does. I’m ready to see how my new story unfolds.
When the call ends, I sit in silence for a few minutes. I used to hate the stillness, but now I don’t need a distraction. I let myself feel everything.
The front door creaks open, and I turn to find my husband pushing our daughter's stroller over the threshold. There’s my present. My future.
I rise, padding across the room and wrapping my arms around Grant. I press up onto my toes and pull him down until our lips meet.
“Good session?” he asks against my lips.
“Really good.”
And it was. For the first time, I don’t feel afraid of the unknown of my future. I know I’ll never have to face anything alone.