Chapter 18
J.T
This woman is going to kill me.
But what a fucking way to go.
The only sound in the room is heavy breathing—hers, mine, ours—and the steady, thunderous gallop of two hearts still trying to come back down from the edge.
I lie there for a second longer than I should, staring at the ceiling, trying to get my shit together.
Because if I look at her too long right now, I’m going to drag her right back under me and start all over again.
When I can finally move without worrying I might collapse on top of her like a felled damn tree, I roll, sit up, and then stand—bringing Kelly with me.
She lets out a little sound of surprise as I haul her up against my chest.
“What are you—”
“Shower,” I say, already moving. “Then coffee and breakfast. Then we’ve got plans to make.”
“But I’m too heavy,” she starts.
That right there just burns something deep inside my chest.
Like it’s branding me with pure determination to do better by her. To always do better.
And I will.
“Not for me, Honey.”
Her blue eyes go wide.
And I like that.
I like that I’m the one putting that stunned look on her face. That I’m the one shifting her world a little.
She’s probably got a hundred doubts running through that head of hers.
About aging.
About her body.
About whether she’s too much or not enough.
Absolute fucking nonsense.
I’ve been with women.
I’m more than old enough to know what I like.
And I swear on everything that matters, I have never seen a more beautiful woman than the masterpiece that is Kelly McCrae naked in my bedroom right now.
Her blonde hair is a tangled mess across her shoulders.
Her skin is deliciously flushed.
Her breasts are pink where my mouth was and where my beard left its mark.
I’ll shave more regularly.
Not because I mind marking her up—but because I want her to be comfortable.
I want her glowing, not sore.
But goddamn, she looks perfect.
Soft and glowing.
She looks well-fucked.
Mine.
She looks like mine.
The thought hits deep.
“Feet down,” I instruct when we reach the bathroom.
She obeys without argument, which does something to my insides I don’t bother naming.
I turn on the shower and wait until the water runs hot, steam curling up toward the ceiling. Then I guide her inside.
She pauses, taking in the eight-headed shower system, the stone tile, the glass, the heat.
I watch her face.
That little nod. That soft sigh when the water hits her skin.
She’s impressed—but not intimidated.
Good.
Because I don’t want her overwhelmed by my money.
I want her impressed by the way I treat her.
We wash slowly.
No rush.
Just hands sliding over skin.
Soap and steam and the quiet intimacy of standing under hot water with a woman who said yes.
Afterward, she pads back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel and asks, almost shyly, if she can borrow something to wear.
I toss her a flannel.
Not just any.
One of my favorites.
She pulls it on, the hem brushing her thighs, then grabs a pair of my gray boxers and rolls the waistband once.
Jesus Christ.
She’s adorable.
Sexy as hell.
Mine.
Downstairs, I sit her up on the kitchen counter like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
“How do you like your eggs?” I ask, pulling pans from the cabinet.
“Scrambled.”
“Me too.”
She smiles, small and genuine, and moves to make the coffee while I cook.
We fall into an easy rhythm.
I crack eggs.
She pours water into the machine.
I flip bacon.
She leans against the counter and watches me like she’s studying something new.
When it’s all done, she pours two mugs and we share a plate, sitting close enough that our knees brush.
Domestic.
Simple.
And it hits harder than anything that happened upstairs.
“I don’t know why this feels so easy with you,” she says quietly.
I hum, taking a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of my mug.
I know why.
Because I’ve wanted her for years.
Because I don’t play games.
Because when I decide something is mine, I don’t half-step it.
But most of all, it’s because I love her.
Simple.
Profound.
Fact.
I love this woman with every inch of my soul.
But she’s not ready to hear that.
Not yet.
So instead, I reach out, brush my thumb along her jaw, and say, “It’s easy because you don’t have to perform with me, Kelly. You don’t have to shrink. You don’t have to hustle for affection.”
Her eyes soften.
“You just have to trust me.”
And that’s the part that matters.
I don’t need her perfect.
I don’t need her polished.
I need her confident.
Secure.
Certain that when I say I want her, it’s not a mood. It’s not a phase.
It’s a decision.
And I don’t make decisions I don’t intend to build on.
Like a house.
Like a legacy.
Like a marriage.
This time, I’m not chasing.
I’m claiming.
And she’ll find out. Everyone will.
I don’t let go of what’s mine.