Chapter 20 - Stella
Stella
I’m still catching my breath when I feel his hands—soft and careful—tracing my hips, my thighs, like I’m something precious.
My legs are trembling, aftershocks still shivering through me, but there’s an ache in my chest that threatens to pull me under, sharp and unfamiliar.
The tears behind my eyes burn, just waiting for permission to fall.
Where the hell did this come from? What if I pushed too far? What if he was caught up in the moment but didn’t actually enjoy it? His hands are still gentle, steadying, but it doesn’t stop the panic from gnawing at me. God, was I stupid for getting so wrapped up in a fucking sex dream?
Then his deep voice cuts through the spiral, low and sure. “You’re fucking perfect, Stella. All of you. Don’t you dare pull away from me now.”
The dam breaks. The tears I was trying to hold back come flooding out, hot, heavy, and unrelenting.
Donovan sits up, resting his back against the intricate headboard.
He doesn’t say anything else. He just pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me while sobs wrack my body.
His hands slide through my hair, slow and soothing, like he’s got all the time in the world to hold me together.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. I just gave the man I love everything I had to give. So why do I feel so fucking exposed?
Eventually, the tears dry up, and my body finally settles. Donovan holds me a little tighter, like he can feel the exact moment my muscles go slack. Then he shifts me gently off his lap, stands, and disappears into the en suite.
A moment later, he returns, still naked—with a warm, wet washcloth in hand.
Without a word, he kneels between my legs like he’s at an altar, every careful stroke of the cloth slow and reverent.
The ache between my thighs is still sharp, after I came on his tongue and then rode his cock until we both unraveled, but the warmth soothes me. His care makes the ache feel… Earned.
He discards the cloth onto the nightstand, then pulls me close to his body. I curl into his warmth and let his steady breathing lull me into a deep sleep.
I wake to Donovan’s side of the bed cold, but the smell of bacon wafts through my cracked door. I throw on pajama pants and a tank top and pad into the kitchen.
Donovan hands me a piping hot cup of coffee and kisses me, long and deep. “Good morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?” He turns to flip pancakes in the pan.
“I doubt that was sleeping. I kind of just passed out. I slept like the dead.” I giggle into my mug.
“Donovan, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get that… rough. I’ve never done that before. I’m sorry if I crossed a line—especially since we’ve never talked about anything like that.”
He sets the spatula down and crosses the kitchen in two strides.
His fingers tilt my chin up until I’m looking at him.
“Do not apologize for anything, Stella. You didn’t do anything wrong.
You had a fantasy. We made it real. If I didn’t like it, I would’ve stopped you.
” He kisses me, then pulls me into a hug.
“I’m walking beside you in this crazy life. I’ll explore anything and everything with you. I promise, if I ever want to stop or feel off, I’ll tell you. As long as you promise the same.” He kisses the top of my head, then moves to pour me a fresh cup of coffee.
“Donovan… maybe we should have something. A word. Not for sex. For life. For when it all feels like too much.”
Donovan’s brow quirks as he flips a pancake. “Yeah? What would yours be?”
I think for a moment, tracing the rim of my mug. “Gossamer.”
“Gossamer?” He repeats it like he’s tasting it.
“It’s fragile. Barely there. Like a thread that could snap if I’m not careful.”
He watches me longer than necessary, eyes soft but calculating. “Okay. Then mine’s Iron.”
“Iron?”
“Yeah. Strong. Unbending. And”—he grins, flipping the pancake perfectly—“it’s what the football field’s called. The gridiron.”
I laugh. “Of course it is.”
“You say 'gossamer,' I’ll know you’re barely holding on. I say, ‘iron,’ you’ll know I’m stuck in my head.”
I nod. “Gossamer and iron. Deal.”
His hand cups my cheek. “Say it when you need to. No hesitation.”
“Deal.”
He kisses my forehead. “Deal.”
The weeks blur—school, my project, Donovan’s football schedule.
Virginia Bay Prep has one game left before finals—a shot at the state championship.
I’ve never seen Donovan so frazzled. Every free second, he’s hunched over his desk, the scratch of his pen filling the silence as he scribbles notes across scattered sheets of paper.
His laptop glows with game footage on a loop, the muffled sound of whistles and crowd noise seeping into our evenings.
His jaw flexes, shoulders tight, as if the weight of the whole season is balanced there.
Even when he finally sits beside me, his knee bounces restlessly, his mind still on the field.
When the doorbell rings, the sharp chime rattles through the quiet house, making me flinch.
Ansel sprints past me in a blur, socked feet sliding across the hardwood as she beelines for the door.
That girl lives for answering doors. Meanwhile, I’d rather sink into the couch cushions and wait them out, heart thumping, hoping whoever it is just gives up and leaves.
She hauls the bags onto the table, the paper crinkling as cartons spill out in every direction.
“Oh my god, Stella, you got Midnight Lotus!” She’s halfway through unpacking the ridiculous amount of takeout when she spots her prize.
Her eyes light up like she’s just discovered buried treasure.
“I could fucking kiss your face right now. Come here.”
She chases me around the kitchen, hair flying, eyes bright, laughter spilling out as she waves the Dragon’s Kiss Roll overhead like it’s the Holy Grail. Chopsticks rattle against the box while I duck out of reach, half laughing, half horrified.
“Wait, wait—Ansel’s kissing Stella now? When did this become a thing?” Donovan steps into the kitchen, laptop in hand, his voice cutting straight through our laughter.
“I just happen to know Stella is very proficient with that tongue of hers,” Ansel fires back with a dramatic wink.
Donovan blinks, looking personally attacked. “Excuse me? When did this happen?” He grabs three sodas from the fridge, the hiss of cans cracking open filling the room.
“Oh my god, Ansel! It was one kiss. Don’t make it sound like I gave you an oral presentation!” I groan, covering my face.
Donovan yanks me closer, the edge of the counter biting into the backs of my thighs as he lifts me up, trailing hot kisses down my neck.
“Can you give me an oral presentation?” he murmurs with a grin.
“Don’t be so crass,” I scold, nudging him away. “Ansel’s right here—unless you want her to join.”
He pauses, glances between us like he’s considering it, then shrugs and grabs a crab rangoon, drowning it in sauce. The crunch echoes like the punchline to his shameless joke.
Ansel and I lock eyes, laughing as we dig in. Donovan swipes a piece of her sushi, pops it in his mouth, and immediately chokes. He coughs so hard the fizz from his soda sputters up, his face flushing red.
“Holy shit, that’s a punch to the goddamn mouth!” he gasps, gulping down the rest of his soda before reaching for water, eyes watering like crazy.
Ansel cackles, absolutely delighted, the sound ricocheting off the kitchen walls like she just won the lottery. “Yeah, but at least it apologizes with honey at the end, you big baby.”
Donovan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still coughing and sputtering, eyes watering like he just lost a bar fight with wasabi. “That’s precisely what you two are—sweet, but trying to kill me first.”
I shovel orange chicken into my mouth, nearly choking from laughing at him, and point at him with my chopsticks. “Gotta keep you on your toes, babe.”
“I’ll be leaving for Agave Hills in a few days,” I say, quickly snagging the last rangoon. “I’ll be there an extra week. The Sweeney Todd shows are on December 18th, 19th, and 20th. I’d love for both of you to come out—we could do some sightseeing, shopping, and eat our weight in carbs.”
Donovan doesn’t answer right away. His phone screen glows against his face, his brow furrowed as his thumb scrolls faster and faster. The crinkle of the rangoon bag feels loud in the silence, my own chopsticks suspended midair.
“No, shit. This can’t happen.” The anger seeps from his voice, sharp enough to cut through the kitchen air. His scrolling stops with a snap of his thumb against the screen.
“Babe, you’re scaring me.” I set down my chopsticks, the clatter against the plate too loud in the sudden silence.
He sighs, eyes still on his phone. “Championship’s the nineteenth. If we’re still in it, I’ll miss your shows.”
I grab his hand, steadying the slight tremor in his fingers. “It’s okay, D. We both have big things going on. Maybe you can take a red-eye. The shows don’t start until five.”
I lean in and kiss him gently, hoping he feels the calm I’m trying to give him. “We’ll figure it out. I love you. Don’t stress.”
“Yeah, Muscle Sprout, wouldn’t want your hair falling out,” Ansel adds sweetly as she ruffles his thick hair, making it stick up in messy tufts.
“Oh, stop it. Donovan’s hairline is too stubborn to retreat,” I tease back, catching the flicker of sadness he tries to hide—the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.