Chapter 25
Clara
The first time I had sex with Greyson?
It was incredible.
Amazing. Unplanned. Completely unexpected.
Like lightning striking dry earth.
But the blowout after?
The cold morning.
The not-so-quiet dismissal.
That dulled the shimmer of what should’ve been one of those once-in-a-lifetime, cosmic events.
It turned magic into something fragile.
The second time I had sex with Greyson?
Tonight, after the carnival, after the apologies, after he stood in front of me and chose honesty instead of pride?
Totally mind-blowing.
There’s something intoxicating about being wanted by a man who isn’t pretending anymore.
Who isn’t posturing.
Who isn’t running.
But the third time we had sex—the one that happened hours later, when the fire had burned down to embers and the world outside his cabin was nothing but black sky and whispering trees—that one might have broken me.
Because it wasn’t just heat.
It wasn’t just hunger.
It was quiet.
We had already come together once tonight in a blaze of breath and skin and tangled sheets.
We had already laughed, already collapsed against each other, already whispered things that felt dangerously close to promises.
And then sometime in the middle of the night—I wake up.
The cabin is dark except for a faint silver wash of moonlight through the window.
The mountain is silent in that way that feels almost sacred.
No cars. No sirens.
No hum of a city that never sleeps.
Just wind in the trees.
And his heartbeat.
I’m curled against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, one of his big hands splayed low on my back like he fell asleep making sure I was still there.
For a moment, I just listen.
To the steady thud beneath my ear.
To the slow pull of his breath.
To the quiet proof that I am not alone.
I don’t know what possesses me—loneliness, maybe.
Or courage.
Or the terrifying realization that this feels like something I could lose.
But I lift my head and look at him.
Even in sleep, Greyson looks intense. Brow faintly furrowed. Mouth slightly parted.
Like he’s still bracing for something, even in dreams.
His body—God his body—it’s strong and hard, rough with hair on his chest, the soft curls taper down below his belly button, dusting his abs and that Adonis’ belt that leads to his long, thick cock.
He’s so fucking beautiful.
Masculine? Absolutely.
But beautiful just the same.
I brush my fingers through his beard lightly.
And he wakes instantly.
Not startled.
Just aware.
“Clara?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
His hand tightens reflexively at my back, pulling me closer.
And something inside me cracks wide open.
Because I’m not the woman who gets happily ever afters.
I’m not the fairytale ending.
I’m just me.
Unapologetically me.
A product of a happy childhood, raised by parents who had it all. Money. Education. And love.
They loved me too, and oh, but I was pampered and coddled.
My parents adore me, and I adore them still.
I’m too much for some people.
Not enough for others.
Too opinionated. Too emotional. Too curvy. Too ambitious. Too inconvenient.
I’ve tried to sand down my edges before.
Tried to make myself smaller, more agreeable, more digestible.
It never works.
So when Greyson’s eyes open fully and he looks at me—really looks at me, even in the dim light without hesitation, without doubt, without calculation—it undoes me.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod, but my throat is tight.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”
He brushes his thumb along my cheek, slow and absentminded. Intimate.
“I got you. You’re safe with me,” he says.
Safe.
No one has ever said that to me like it’s a promise.
I pull him to me, and I kiss him then.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
Just slow.
Exploratory.
Like we’re rediscovering something we’ve already ignited.
He moans into my mouth. Then, he rolls with me.
He’s so careful. Attentive.
His hand is cradling the back of my head like I’m something precious instead of something temporary.
This time isn’t about proving anything.
It isn’t about reclaiming what we almost lost.
It’s about connection.
About the way our bodies fit without force.
About the way he watches my face.
Like my reactions matter more than his own.
He fits himself between the cradle of my thighs, and one big hand wraps around my neck.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Trouble. No fucking clue how much I want you.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
I am beyond speech, but I can show him how I feel—with my lips and my body.
I reach between us and cup his balls, guiding his hard length inside me, and I catch his groan with my lips when he pushes all the way in.
He’s so big, so thick, and I feel the burning stretch of his sweet invasion keenly.
And it’s good. So damn good.
I’m wet, soaked, but he’s just a very big man, and when he withdraws and pushes in again, faster, harder, I moan out loud.
“Fuck, Trouble. You’re so tight. Am I hurting you?”
“No,” I say immediately, clutching at his sides.
I don’t want him to stop. Don’t want him to go.
“Look at us. I want you to watch how good you take me,” he growls, lifting up on his forearms, and I see it.
I see his big cock sinking into me, and my heart starts to race.
“That’s it. Relax, baby. Take me. You can take me,” he whispers, kissing my mouth, my cheeks, my neck.
I don’t think anything has ever felt as good as Greyson Cole fucking me. and I never want it to end.
I’ve adjusted fully by now, and he knows. He can feel it.
He kisses me again, wrapping my legs around his arms so he can hold me open wider as he gets on his knees and starts to move in earnest.
It’s like he’s everywhere. Touching me so deep. Kissing me so thoroughly.
His mouth on mine. His chest touching mine. His body moving on mine—inside mine.
And it’s magic. Pure magic.
My heart cracks wide open, and I feel him in there, too.
He’s filling me, surrounding me, holding me together.
And this doesn’t feel like regular sex.
This feels different.
Special. Meaningful.
“You smell like wildflowers after a storm. So fucking pretty. Hold on,” he groans.
A deep rumble follows, building up from his chest, and that sound? It wrecks me.
He kneels, pulling me up with him, and now he’s holding all my weight, and I should be panicking. But I’m not.
Because Greyson Cole has me and I know he won’t let me fall.
He kisses me again. Like he can’t breathe without me, and I clutch at his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks—because the truth?
I don’t think I can breathe without him.
He thrusts harder now, and I feel him so deep. We’re both panting, breathless, holding each other so tight. He angles us down and my back meets the mattress.
Greyson’s hands are on my thighs, holding me wide as he pumps faster. Then I feel his fingers brush my clit, and that’s it.
I detonate. And he groans out loud, coming with me this time.
It’s together.
Simultaneous.
And it isn’t explosive.
It’s consuming.
Like twin flames in a void.
Like creation and devastation braided together.
Like something ancient and new all at once.
And afterward, when I lie there trembling slightly in his arms, staring at the dark wood ceiling, I still feel it.
The crack. The break.
My overwhelming response to his ardor. Tears prick my eyes, but I try to shut them out, because this is it.
This is the part where I fall.
This is the part where I start to hope.
His body is still in mine when he brushes my hair back from my face, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you wanna make promises you know you can’t keep,” I say, trying for light. But failing.
What I want to do is beg. I want to say, Please let me be something you’ve decided to keep.
But I’m too afraid I’ll ruin it. So I stay silent.
And Greyson? He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then he leans down and presses his forehead to mine.
“I’m not making promises I can’t keep, Clara,” he says quietly. “I’m telling you now, I choose you. Right now. I choose you.”
Oh God.
This might be worse.
Because choosing means he could also change his mind and not choose me.
Choosing means it’s real.
Choosing means I have something to lose.
He kisses me softly, then pulls out of me carefully.
“Stay,” he murmurs and leaves the bed while the mess we made starts to trail down my thighs.
But then he’s right there, cleaning me gently with a damp rag, and dropping a kiss on my curls after.
I gasp.
“What?”
“Nothing. No one’s ever—um,” I cover my face, but he doesn’t let me hide. He pulls my hands away, gently and climbs back into bed.
“For the record, I’ll listen to anything you tell me. Anything you wanna say about other men who’ve been in your life. But if you do that don’t be surprised if I ask for their names and addresses,” he says with a straight face.
“What? Oh my God. You’re crazy.”
I giggle and curl closer to him.
“Crazy about you, Trouble. Now get some sleep,” he says and wraps his arms around me, hugging me close.
I go willingly.
Because the alternative—walking away from this warmth, this honesty, this terrifying possibility—feels unbearable.
So I stay. I let him hold me. And I let my mind wander.
Outside, the mountain stands watch. Maybe Scar does, too.
Inside, it’s just us.
Two stubborn people with too much history and too many scars of our own, lying in the dark, listening to each other breathe.
And for the first time in a very long time—I let myself believe maybe this time I’ll get my happy ending.