Chapter 22 - Stella #2
“I know we just found our way back to each other. I know it’s fast, messy, and probably insane. But I’ve been yours for years, Stella. I’ve always been yours. So if you still want me—if you still believe in us—marry me. Don’t make me live another day without you being mine again.”
The waves crash behind us like applause.
And the only thing I know for sure is that I’ve never heard anything more honest in my life.
The soft ocean wind swirls around us, tugging at my hair, but I barely feel it. Everything else fades. The waves, the sky, the world. It’s just him and me, standing here like nothing else matters.
And as crazy as this all is, I don’t hesitate. One moment, I’m frozen, the next, I’m in the sand, my arms wrapping around Donovan as I kiss him fiercely, like I’ve waited years for this exact second.
Between kisses, with a crooked smile I’ve always loved, Donovan asks, “So I take that as a yes?”
I let out a low chuckle, still breathless, and whisper against his lips, “Yes, you absolute menace. Of course it’s a yes.”
Suddenly, you hear whooping and hollering behind us, as my cheeks start to blush.
The next week blows by in a blink. Wednesday rolls around, and my carry-on is packed and waiting by the door. It’s time to fly back to Agave Hills.
Donovan’s tied up with classes and prepping for one of the biggest games of the season—the one that decides if they’re heading to the state championship.
Meanwhile, Ansel is attempting to sneak Colin out of the apartment like he’s some kind of dirty secret. “Good morning, Colin. Have an amazing day!” I call out sweetly, head still half-buried in the fridge as I dig for something to drink.
Ansel slinks over to me, the color rising in her freckled cheeks. “I’m sorry, Slaymuffin. I wanted him gone before you woke up,” she says, snatching the offered Diet Coke and taking a long, regret-laced gulp.
“Sugar Plague, I don’t know why you do this,” I say, straightening with a bottle of water in hand. “I don’t care if you have Colin over. I’m aware you’re not a—” I pause dramatically, then loudly gasp, “'virgin.' So why are you acting like you smuggled a corpse out of here?”
Ansel shrugs, then mutters into her soda, “Because I might actually like him, and that feels illegal.” She tries to play it off with a smirk, but her eyes flick toward the door like he might still be lingering.
“And I’d rather die than give you the satisfaction of being right about it.”
A few hours later, Ansel is dropping me off at the airport, wrapping me in one of her trademark hugs—all tight arms and coconut shampoo.
Tomorrow starts the finishing touches and final practice runs of Sweeney Todd. Everything looks like it’ll be ready for next week.
My flight is filled with the comfort of an audiobook. Nothing beats a good wear-the-hat, ride-the-cowboy type of book. I’ve mastered the art of listening to the filthiest scenes with a completely neutral expression. No one on this plane will ever know.
Once we land, I grab my carry-on—still thankful my mom bought me a second wardrobe to keep here in Agave Hills. It’s honestly changed my life.
Walking out of the airport, I immediately shrug off my jacket. I still can’t get over the temperature shift. Arizona feels like the inside of a hairdryer.
I catch a taxi and head back to my parents’ house.
Upstairs in my old bedroom, I toss my bag onto the bed and start a hot bubble bath. Steam curls around the room as I scroll through my phone, grabbing it from my purse. A new text from Donovan lights up the screen.
Sir-O’s-alot: I miss you already. I’ll see you soon, Mrs. D’Angelo.
I smile, biting my lip.
Me: Whoa, slow down there, killer. Who said I was going to be Mrs. D’Angelo? Why can’t you be Mr. Carrington? I miss you too ??*kiss emoji*
I strip out of my clothes, slide into the bath, and lean back with a sigh. The water is just the right kind of hot—the kind that makes your skin pink and your muscles loosen.
With the bubbles drifting high and the water nearly covering my chest, I raise my phone.
Snap.
Send.
I set my phone down, calming meditation music softly drifting from the speakers. I lay back with my eyes closed, feeling the warmth relax me. I hear my text notification go off, and with a smug smile, I grab my phone.
Sir-O’s-alot: Goddamn it, Stella Lenore Carrington. You’re going to be the death of me.
Sir-O’s-alot: So fucking beautiful… You don’t even know what you do to me.
Sir-O’s-alot: My little temptress. My ruin. My favorite sin.
The bubbles have slowly faded around me, leaving my breasts fully exposed to the warm air. I lower the camera just enough and snap the photo.
For a moment, I forget to breathe.
The image is all soft curves and sin—my chest bare, nipples peaked, the line of my stomach disappearing into water, and just enough foam still gathered between my thighs to keep it from being too much.
It’s the perfect tease. Just enough to unravel him.
Send
Sir-O’s-alot: Tell me you miss me, because I’m losing it over here. I’m supposed to be grading, and instead I’m just sitting here—hard as hell, staring at my phone like a goddamn teenager.
Sir-O’s-alot: That photo? Stella. That photo rewired my brain.
Sir-O’s-alot: Do you even know what you do to me? No. You don’t. And that’s what makes it worse.
Me: Maybe you should come show me what I do to you.
Sir-O’s-alot: [voice message—his voice is low, rough, just above a whisper, like he’s speaking directly into her ear from 2,000 miles away]
“Stella… you are being so fucking naughty right now. Sending me those pictures knowing there’s nothing I can do about it—knowing I’m stuck here, and you're that far away.
All I can think about is sucking those perfect nipples into my mouth.
Taking my time with you… kissing down that gorgeous stomach of yours.
And then burying my face between your legs, tasting every inch of you until you're trembling and soaking me in every way I’ve been dying for.
You have no idea what you're doing to me, baby.” I let out a small gasp and clench my thighs together, my pussy starting to ache with need.
Me: Show me, Donovan.
Me: Show me what I’m doing to you.
Me: Show me how bad you want me.
Sir-O’s-alot: [photo]
I stare at the picture he just sent me.
He’s sitting at his desk, leg crossed like he’s trying to play it cool—but the bulge pressing against his pants ruins the illusion.
His cock is straining, impossible to miss, the fabric doing little to hide just how hard he is.
It’s controlled. Teasing.
And completely filthy in the most beautiful way.
Sir-O’s-alot: Since we’re playing dirty now, my sexy little seductress… Do. Not. Touch. Yourself. Not until I tell you to.
I stare at his text message. This is the sexiest thing ever. My pussy is throbbing and aching for me to reach down between my legs.
I respond with the only thing I can.
Me: Yes, sir.
But that means you don’t get to touch yourself either.
All’s fair in love and foreplay… right?