Chapter 26
Margot
It’s raining, a relentless, grey downpour that batters the roof and turns the afternoon into twilight.
The power went out an hour ago.
Ross and I are in the living room. He’s building a fire in the hearth, his hands dark with soot, arranging the logs with an architectural precision that makes me smile.
The flames catch, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. It’s romantic. Undeniably, dangerously romantic.
I sit on the emerald velvet sofa, knees pulled to my chest. Ross stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. The firelight dances over his features, softening the lines of stress, highlighting the new, rougher texture of him.
He looks at me. The air between us pulls tight, charged with the static of proximity.
“Warm enough?” he asks.
“Getting there.”
He hesitates, then sits on the other end of the sofa. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can smell him, rain, woodsmoke, and soap.
We watch the fire. Minus the crackling, the house is still around us, stripped of the hum of the refrigerator and the television. It’s just us.
“I missed this,” he says softly. “Just… sitting.”
“You used to hate just sitting. You called it ‘boring.’”
He laughs, a dry sound. “I was an idiot.”
He shifts, turning his body toward me. His hand rests on the velvet cushion between us. Inches from my foot.
“Margot,” he whispers.
His eyes are dark, searching. There is hunger there, yes, but there is also a question. He moves his hand, sliding it across the velvet until his pinky brushes against my ankle.
The contact sends a shockwave. My body remembers him. My skin remembers him. Every instinct screams to lean forward, to close the gap, to let the firelight hide the scars.
I want to. God, I want to.
But then I remember the whisper. Tabitha.
I remember the ease with which he replaced me in his mind. I remember the months of loneliness. If I let him in now, if I let the fire and the rain seduce me, will he think the work is done? Will he think he’s won?
I can’t afford to be easy. I can’t afford to be conquered.
I pull my legs back, tucking them under me, breaking the contact.
Ross freezes. His hand stays on the cushion, empty.
“Not yet,” I whisper. My voice shakes.
The rejection hangs in the air, sharp and stinging. I wait for the frustration. I wait for him to sigh, to get up, to retreat to the guest room in a huff of wounded pride.
But he doesn’t.
He looks at his hand, then slowly curls it into a fist and pulls it back into his lap. Then he nods.
“Okay,” he says. He looks at me, and there is no anger in his face. Only a deep, sad patience. “Not yet.”
He gets up, walks to the fireplace, and adds another log. He tends the flame, keeping the room warm for me, even though I left him in the cold.
“I’m not going anywhere, Margot,” he says to the fire. “Take all the time you need.”
I watch his back, the steady line of his shoulders as he crouches before the fire.
The muscles beneath his shirt shift with each deliberate movement.
My body responds without permission, a slow, treacherous heat pooling low in my abdomen, my nipples tightening against the thin fabric of my sweater.
I press my thighs together, the slight pressure both relief and torment.
His forearms flex as he arranges another log. Those hands. I remember those smooth hands on my skin, but now I imagine how his new, rough palms would feel dragging across my inner thighs. The way his thumb would press into the hollow of my hip bone, holding me down.”
I swallow hard. My throat clicks audibly.
Ross turns his head slightly at the sound, enough for me to see his profile illuminated by the fire.
A bead of sweat traces the edge of his jaw, catching the orange light before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths.
Too controlled. He’s fighting something.
“You don’t have to stay in here,” I say. “If it’s too—”
“It’s not.” He cuts me off. His knuckles whiten around the poker. “I want to be where you are.”
The naked honesty in his voice sends a jolt through me, a physical shock that makes me clench around nothing.
I shift on the velvet sofa, the fabric catching against my jeans, creating a friction that’s almost unbearable.
My body is betraying me, responding to him like it always has, like no time has passed.
He sets the poker down with a soft metallic sound and turns to face me. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of color. He’s hard. The outline of his cock strains against his sweatpants, and he makes no attempt to hide it.
“I said not yet,” I whisper, but my body screams liar with every heartbeat.
“I know.” His voice is gravel. “I’m not asking for anything.”
But he is. His body is asking. Mine is answering. The air between us feels thick enough to choke on.
He stays where he is, kneeling by the fire, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
I feel stripped, exposed, though he hasn’t touched me.
My skin prickles with awareness. My breasts feel heavy, aching.
Between my legs, I’m wet. If he touched me there now, his fingers would slide through slickness without resistance.
The thought makes me press my thighs tighter, creating a pressure that sends sparks through me. A small, involuntary sound escapes me, not quite a moan, but close enough.
Ross’s jaw clenches. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His breathing becomes shallower. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself with a subtle movement that draws my eyes down again.
“Margot,” he says, and my name in his mouth is obscene.
I shake my head. Not in denial, but in desperation. I want to crawl across the floor to him. I want to straddle him right there on the hearth rug, to grind against him until we both break. I want his mouth on my neck, his teeth on my shoulder, his hands spreading me open.
But I stay where I am, trembling with effort.
For the first time in six months, the knot of fear in my chest loosens. He stayed. I said no, and he stayed. He’s hard and wanting and desperate, but he’s keeping his distance because I asked him to.
The realization doesn’t cool my blood. If anything, it makes me want him more, this man who finally understands that he can’t simply take. I pulsate with each heartbeat, a steady throb of need that I refuse to satisfy. Not yet..