Chapter 17
I mostly ignored Oliver, letting the nurses that I employed take care of him. He was getting stronger each day and eventually I would need to make a decision on whether to move out. Even though I had told Oliver he would be moving out, I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a home we shared when times were good.
For Thanksgiving, I made an excuse that I was busy with a work project so I wouldn’t need to see my family. I didn’t want to see them. My mother was hounding me lately because she knew something wasn’t right. It got so I told Henri to take a message or let my cell go to voicemail.
Oliver was still weak and used a walker to get around but at least he was getting out of bed. His body had shrunk but I could see outlines of his former muscles. I had a feeling once he got well enough, he would be back to the gym. I continued to work out, usually in the early morning after the nightmares I experienced woke me.
The shrill clatter jolted me from my sleep on Thanksgiving morning. My heart pounding, I bolted upright, throwing off the covers and rushing into the hallway. The sight that greeted me made my stomach lurch. Oliver lay sprawled on the floor, his walker toppled beside him. At the far end of the corridor, Trouble cowered. I frowned, suddenly realizing the absence of Oliver's nurse.
"Oliver!" I gasped, kneeling beside him. "Are you hurt? Where's your nurse?"
He grimaced, attempting to push himself up. "She went home. It's Thanksgiving, remember? Did you forget to check if the agency has staff for holidays?"
I ignored his accusation, focusing on the immediate problem. "How did you fall?"
Oliver's eyes flicked to Trouble. "The damn dog bit the tennis ball on the walker leg. Pulled me right off balance."
I glanced at the overturned walker, noticing the tennis balls we'd recently attached to prevent floor scratches. Trouble had been eyeing those balls for weeks.
Oliver grunted, struggling to right himself. His efforts were pitiful, and despite my anger towards him, I couldn't leave him helpless. I grasped his arms, intending to help him up.
In a swift motion that belied his earlier weakness, Oliver pulled me down beside him, pinning me beneath his body.
"Let me up, Oliver," I snarled, pushing against his chest.
His eyes bore into mine, filled with a desperate intensity. "I need to know, Ryleigh. How many men have you fucked?"
I struggled harder, shocked by his unexpected strength. "That's none of your business! Get off me before I scream."
Oliver's lip curled. "Scream all you want. We're alone up here. Now tell me."
Something snapped inside me. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, tears streaming down my face. "You possessive asshole," I choked out.
A flicker of realization crossed Oliver's features. His grip loosened slightly. "You... you haven't been with anyone else, have you?"
I swiped at my damp cheeks, my laughter fading. "No, you bastard. But don't think I haven't wanted to."
Pain etched itself across Oliver's face. His voice cracked as he whispered, "Can't we fix this? I love you, Ryleigh."
I took advantage of his distraction to slide out from under him, sitting up and wrapping my arms around my knees. "I can't forgive you, Oliver. The lies, the betrayal... it makes me sick."
"Don't you understand why I did what I did?" he pleaded.
I shot him a withering glare. "You didn't need to protect me. I'm not a child."
Oliver's shoulders slumped. "I know you're not. I just... I couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you."
"How did that work out?" I sneered.
He flinched. "Not well. I hear you at night….”
“Hear me what?”
“Cry out. You still have nightmares.”
“Yes, I do only they’re no longer just about my father. They’re about you too.”
The truth of his words stung. I hugged my knees tighter, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't ask for any of this mess, Oliver."
"Neither did I," he murmured. "Can't we try therapy? Please, Ryleigh. I don't want us to end like this."
I sighed, my shoulders sagging under the weight of our shared pain. "I think we're past therapy, Oliver. There's too much hurt between us."
Oliver's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and desperation. "You hurt me too, Ryleigh. You barely acknowledged my existence on my birthday."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. Shame washed over me as I hung my head, unable to meet his gaze. Despite my anger towards him, I knew he didn't deserve to be treated as if he were invisible. The past few days, I’d done some soul-searching, and it forced me to confront my own faults.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I was just... so angry."
Oliver's brow furrowed. "Was?"
I lifted my eyes to meet his, surprised by the vulnerability I saw there. "I'm not as angry as I was before," I admitted, "but I still am."
A flicker of hope danced across Oliver's features. He leaned in slightly, his voice soft and tentative. "Does that mean... we have a chance?"
My heart raced as I considered his question. After a moment that felt like an eternity, I gave a small nod. As I did, a wayward lock of hair fell across my face, obscuring my part of my vision.
Oliver reached up slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. His fingers gently brushed the strand back, and the moment his skin made contact with mine, an electric current seemed to surge between us. It was reminiscent of our early days together, that spark I thought had long since faded. Maybe it had been there all along, and I'd simply been too blinded by anger to notice.
The heat from his palm seeped into my cheek as he cupped my face. I found myself leaning into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed. The realization hit me with startling clarity: as much as I told myself I should hate him, I couldn't. The anger that had sustained me for so long began to crumble, leaving behind a confused jumble of emotions I wasn't yet ready to name.
"Ryleigh," Oliver murmured, his thumb tracing a gentle arc along my cheekbone.
I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. The intensity I saw there made my breath catch in my throat. We were balanced on a knife's edge, teetering between the pain of the past and the uncertain promise of the future.
Oliver's eyes searched mine, a mix of hope and wariness in his gaze. "Does this mean you won't steal my company and leave me destitute on the street?" he asked, his attempt at humor falling flat.
I winced, shaking my head. "That was a stupid thing to say, Oliver. It's your company." I paused, biting my lip before continuing, "The employees... they hate me. They haven't exactly been kind with their words. Apparently, you didn't teach me as well as you thought."
Oliver's brow furrowed, a protective glint flashing in his eyes. "Who said things about you?" he demanded, struggling to sit up straighter.
I waved off his concern, not wanting to dwell on the hurt. "It's not important. You need to come back as soon as you're better."
"I want to," Oliver said softly, his hand reaching for mine.
I squeezed his fingers, surprised by how natural it felt. "I'm glad we had this talk. Now, let's get you up."
Standing, I braced myself to help Oliver. Even with his recent weight loss, he was still a formidable presence, dwarfing my petite frame. With a grunt of effort, we managed to get him vertical, his arm draped heavily across my shoulders.
"Where were you going when you fell?" I asked, steadying him as he found his balance.
Oliver's stomach growled audibly. "I'm hungry," he admitted sheepishly. "Hilda usually brings me food."
Guilt washed over me. "God, I feel like a piece of shit. I should be taking care of you."
A glimmer of the old Oliver shone through as he smirked. "You can make it up to me."
"Tell me how," I said, surprising myself with my eagerness.
"Take care of me now," he suggested. "It's Thanksgiving. Did you plan anything?"
I realized with a pang how disconnected we'd become, largely due to my own actions. He had no idea about my preparations. "I got a meal from Bring Your Appetite," I confessed.
Oliver's eyes lit up. "What kind of meal?"
"Thanksgiving, of course. Turkey and all the fixings, even a pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream."
"That sounds so good," Oliver groaned, his mouth practically watering.
A thought struck me. "What would you have eaten if Hilda was here?"
He shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea. She said she wasn't working today, and they would send a sub."
"You don't need a sub," I said firmly. "You have me."
A ghost of a smile played on Oliver's lips. "You want to take your possessive asshole back?"
I met his gaze, my voice soft but sure. "I said I did. I'm starting to understand why you did what you did, but..." I hesitated, old pain rising to the surface. "The thing with your daughter still hurts. Why didn't you just tell me?"
Oliver's face clouded, years of grief etching deeper lines around his eyes. "It was painful," he whispered. "By the time I got used to the idea of becoming a father, Faith was gone. Lara was devastated."
I swallowed hard, processing Oliver's words. My voice was barely above a whisper when I asked, "Was it all because she lost the baby, or because she lost you too?"
Oliver's jaw clenched, his eyes distant as if looking into the past. He let out a heavy sigh before meeting my gaze. "She never had me, Ryleigh. Not really." His voice was thick with a mixture of old pain and lingering doubt. "I didn't even know if the baby was mine. We always used protection."
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What did she say when you asked her about it?"
A bitter chuckle escaped Oliver's lips. "She just said 'shit happens.' Can you believe that?" He shook his head, running a hand through his graying hair. "I had planned on having a paternity test when Faith was born, but then..."
His voice trailed off, the unspoken tragedy hanging in the air between us. The weight of his revelation settled on my shoulders, shifting my perspective on our shared history.
Impulsively, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, wishing the walker wasn't creating a barrier between us. I longed to feel his solid warmth against me, to offer comfort and seek it in return. Oliver's arms encircled me as best they could, his chin resting on top of my head.
We stood like that for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the sound of our breathing. When I finally pulled back slightly, I looked up to find Oliver's eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "For listening. For understanding."
I nodded, my own eyes prickling. "We've both been carrying so much, haven't we?" I said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Maybe it's time we started sharing the load."
Oliver leaned into my touch, a glimmer of hope sparking in his eyes. "I'd like that," he murmured. "More than you know."
As we stood there, teetering on the edge of a new understanding, I realized that the path forward wouldn't be easy. But for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to take that next step together.
We spent the holiday together, talking and joking around. A palpable sense of relief settled over us, as if a long-held breath had finally been released. I busied myself in the kitchen, heating our gourmet meal: a small turkey with stuffing, giblet gravy, rice, biscuits, and a yam casserole along with a Waldorf salad, homemade cranberry sauce, and green beans almondine.
I set the dining table with our wedding china and crystal, a bittersweet reminder of happier times. As Oliver settled into his chair, I poured him a glass of rich red wine. His fingers brushed my arm as I moved away, sending a familiar spark through my body. I felt a flame rekindling inside me, one I thought had long been extinguished.
Trying to ignore the growing heat between my legs, I focused on carving the turkey. As I licked some juice from my fingers, I caught Oliver's heated gaze. The intensity in his eyes told me he was feeling the same rekindled desire.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, the endearment sending shivers down my spine. It had been so long since he'd called me that.
"Yes, Oliver?" I replied, my voice huskier than I intended.
He leaned forward slightly. "Are you hungry?"
The double meaning in his words was unmistakable. I decided to play along. "Are you?"
A smirk played on Oliver's lips. "Don't answer a question with a question, Mrs. Fox."
I set down the carving utensils, turning to face him fully. "What would you prefer to do rather than eat?"
Oliver's voice dropped to a low, seductive rumble. "I want to eat something else."
My body responded instantly, core clenching with need. "If not turkey, then what?" I asked, though we both knew the answer.
"Do I need to spell it out for you?" Oliver's eyes roamed over my body, leaving no doubt about his intentions.
The fork and knife clattered as I dropped them, hastily wiping my hands on a nearby dish towel. In a heartbeat, I was behind Oliver's chair, my arms sliding around him. My hands found their way between his legs, confirming what his heated gaze had suggested. He was hard as rock, and I bit back a moan at the thought of having him inside me again.
As I stroked him through his pants, Oliver gasped, his head falling back against me. "God, Ryleigh," he groaned.
I leaned down, my lips brushing his ear. "I think our Thanksgiving feast can wait, don't you?"
Oliver's hand came up to tangle in my hair, pulling me down for a searing kiss. As our lips met, I realized that this unexpected turn of events wasn't shocking at all. Instead, it felt like coming home after a long, difficult journey.
"You'll need to do most of the work," Oliver said, his voice a mixture of desire and frustration. "I don't have the strength yet."
I nodded, understanding the implications. "Can I help you up?" I asked softly.
Reluctantly, I stepped back as Oliver slid from the table, using the chair arms to stand. I assisted him with his walker, noticing the flash of pain that crossed his face.
"What's the matter? Are you hurt?" I asked, concern lacing my voice.
Oliver's eyes met mine, filled with a longing that made my heart ache. "I wish I could carry you to the bedroom."
A bittersweet chuckle escaped my lips. "There's plenty of time for that," I assured him, then added, "Oliver, I'm so sorry."
He shook his head firmly. "Stop apologizing. This is a day for thanks, and I'm thankful we were able to figure it out."
"You had nothing to figure out," I insisted. "I did. It's my fault."
Oliver's gaze softened. "We share the blame. I only wanted to protect you."
I looped my arm through his, and we slowly made our way to the master bedroom. Before he sat on the edge of the bed, I kissed him softly, savoring the moment. Oliver pushed his walker aside and held his arms out, spreading his legs so I could stand between them.
As I hugged his head to my chest, his arms encircling my waist, the emotions I'd been holding back broke free. Tears streamed down my face as the weight of the past months crashed over me.
Oliver slipped his hand under my t-shirt, his fingers softly stroking the skin of my lower back. Each gentle pass sent spirals of warmth through my body, a stark contrast to the coolness of my tears.
"I love you, Ryleigh," he murmured against my shirt. "Never forget that."
"I won't," I promised, sniffling. "I haven't."
"Don't cry," Oliver soothed, his voice thick with emotion.
I stepped back, using the hem of my shirt to wipe my face. The movement revealed the curve of my breasts, eliciting a deep sigh from Oliver.
"Take it off," he said, his voice low and husky. "It's been so long."
With trembling hands, I pulled the blue t-shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor. As I moved back towards Oliver, he reached out, cupping my breasts. His touch was tentative, almost reverent, reminding me of our first intimate moments together.
But as I watched his hands shake slightly, I realized it wasn't nervousness but his weakened state that caused the tremor. The realization brought a fresh wave of emotion – love, guilt, and determination all mingling together.
I closed my eyes as Oliver's fingers gently caressed my nipples, losing myself in the sensation. Despite everything we'd been through, his touch still had the power to ignite a fire within me.
"You're beautiful," Oliver whispered, his voice full of awe and desire.
Opening my eyes, I met his gaze. The love and vulnerability I saw there nearly took my breath away. In that moment, I knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together.
"Why don't we lay together?" Oliver suggested, his voice soft and inviting.
I hesitated, my body thrumming with need. "I don't need foreplay."
Oliver's eyes met mine, filled with a yearning that went beyond physical desire. "I don't just want sex. I need to feel close to you again."
His words nearly brought fresh tears to my eyes. Nodding, I helped him remove his shirt. He stood carefully, leaning on my arm as he stepped out of his gray sweatpants. Though his body had changed, the sight of him still stirred something deep within me.
As Oliver settled back onto the bed, I gently pulled his pants from his ankles. Gone were the sculpted muscles I remembered, replaced by a softer version of the man I loved. But it didn't matter. He was still Oliver.
"I want to taste you," he murmured, his eyes roaming over my body.
I shook my head, smiling softly. "I need you inside me. We could try your favorite position."
A grin spread across Oliver's face, a glimpse of his old self shining through. "They were all my favorite position."
"You know the one I'm talking about," I teased, feeling a warmth spread through me at our playful banter.
With some effort and a fair bit of distraction – Oliver's hands seemed magnetized to my skin – we managed to position him against the padded headboard.
"Mr. Fox, I'm not a piece of meat," I chided gently as his fingers traced patterns on my skin.
"I can't resist," he admitted. "Get naked."
I obliged, slowly removing my yoga pants and underwear, hyper-aware of Oliver's appreciative gaze. As I climbed onto the bed, I was struck by a wave of emotion. For months, I'd battled with myself, angry at Oliver but unable to truly hate him. Now, I realized the truth that had been there all along – I still loved him.
As I knelt beside him, our eyes met. The connection between us felt stronger than ever, as if the trials we'd faced had forged our bond anew. Oliver reached out, cupping my face in his hand.
"I've missed you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Not just this, but... you. Us."
I leaned into his touch, turning to press a kiss against his palm. "I've missed us too," I admitted. "I'm sorry it took me so long to see it."
Oliver pulled me closer, our foreheads touching. "We're here now," he said softly. "That's what matters."
I knelt beside Oliver, my breath hitching as I gripped the base of his cock. My gaze locked onto his, determined. "Don't tell me no. I want this, and I know you do too."
He exhaled sharply, a hint of resistance in his eyes quickly replaced by raw desire. His breathing grew heavier as I extended my tongue, teasing his sensitive tip. A bead of precum formed, and I licked it away, savoring the salty taste. I repeated the motion, eliciting a low groan from him.
Oliver's hand tangled in my hair, guiding my head as I took him deeper, the scent of him filling my senses. His hips bucked involuntarily, and I knew he was close. "Oh fuck, I’m coming," he gasped, his voice strained.
The first hot spurt of his release hit my tongue, and I swallowed eagerly, not wanting to waste a drop. He emptied himself into my mouth, each pulse sending a thrill through me. When he was spent, he slumped against the headboard, eyes closed, chest heaving.
"You came fast," I remarked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
His eyes fluttered open, filled with a mix of embarrassment and longing. "It’s been months."
"Months? You expect me to believe that?" I raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
"I haven’t gotten myself off or come since we last made love," he admitted, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
I stared at him, astonished. "Why the hell not?"
"I didn’t feel right or in the mood. I love you so much that the next time I came, I wanted it to be with you," he said softly, his sincerity cutting through the air.
"I’m sorry I can’t say the same," I confessed, a teasing smile playing on my lips. "I resurrected my vibrator."
"You can put it back to bed. I’m here now," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
"I want to start over," I said, shifting closer to him. "No secrets. If you know something, no matter how horrible, I want to know."
"I promise," he whispered, his eyes earnest.
I leaned in, capturing his mouth with mine. His lips were thick and sensual, the scruff on his face scratching my skin, but I didn't care. My fingers threaded through his longer hair as his hand found my breast, kneading gently before sliding between my legs. He brushed two fingers over my swollen clit, and I gasped, my hips rolling in response.
"Oliver!" I cried, my voice breaking as my orgasm tore through me. My body convulsed, unable to hold back, as the pleasure surged. It only took half a minute before I shattered, my muscles quivering uncontrollably. Oliver’s fingers kept rubbing, prolonging the sensation until I finally went limp, collapsing against the headboard, breathless and spent.
Oliver shifted, sliding his fingers lower to gather my slickness. His eyes never left mine as he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. "Christ, Ryleigh, I think you’re even sweeter than the last time I tasted you," he murmured, his voice low and husky.
"Maybe it’s the scotch," I said, managing a shaky smile.
He pursed his lips. "I noticed the bottles in the kitchen."
"I needed something to take the edge off," I admitted, my voice still uneven. "What the hell were you thinking when you put me in charge of Fox?"
Oliver's expression softened, his hand reaching to stroke my cheek. "I was thinking my company would be protected if my wife ran it while I was indisposed."
"As I said, the employees hate me. One of them even called me a cunt," I said, bitterness lacing my words.
His eyebrows knitted together in anger. "Who the fuck said that?" he growled, his protective instinct flaring.
"They’re right," I said, looking away. "I’m overwhelmed."
Oliver grabbed my chin, gently forcing me to meet his gaze. "Ryleigh, listen to me. You are not a cunt, and you are not alone in this. We’ll handle it together."
My cell rang, its insistent buzz pulling me out of the moment. I reached for it out of habit, but Oliver's hand darted out to stop me. His reflexes, still sluggish from his recovery, missed.
“Henri, what can I do for you? It’s a holiday, you know,” I said, trying to keep my irritation in check.
“Not in Japan, Miss Stewart,” came the reply.
“Mrs. Fox,” I corrected, glancing up at Oliver. He was grinning widely, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fox. Haruto Ito called about our latest steel shipment. It’s been delayed and we’re already behind on the Miami project.”
I groaned, rolling my eyes. Ito had been a constant headache. He preferred dealing with Oliver, who spoke fluent Japanese. Without my husband, we were stuck using an interpreter, which only added to the frustration.
Oliver's gaze was fixed on me, concern etched into his features as I spoke with Henri. When I hung up, anxiety coiled tight in my stomach. I dreaded the thought of calling Ito today to sort this mess out.
“What’s the problem?” Oliver asked, his voice steady but curious.
“Ito has not been the easiest to deal with. Our shipments keep getting delayed for one reason or another,” I explained, rubbing my temples.
“I should talk to him,” Oliver offered, his tone confident.
“You’re not familiar with the Miami project,” I protested.
Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. “What do you think I’ve been doing while I sit in bed all day?”
“You’ve been spying on me?” I accused, raising an eyebrow.
“Not at all. I trust you. I’ve been keeping up to date on our latest projects. I have your back, dear wife,” he assured me, his voice warm and sincere.
“And that snitch Henri,” I muttered.
“He’s not a snitch. He cares about the company,” Oliver corrected gently.
I sighed, setting the phone on the nightstand. “Right now, it can wait. I have something else I want to do to my husband,” I said, a mischievous glint in my eye.
Oliver’s grin widened. “Oh? And what might that be?”
I leaned in, my lips brushing against his ear. “Something much more enjoyable than dealing with steel shipments,” I whispered, trailing kisses down his neck.
Oliver’s laughter turned into a groan of pleasure as my hands roamed over his body. For now, the world outside could wait.
"No, no, hold on," I begged, my voice trembling with anticipation and urgency.
Oliver and I were making love for the first time in what felt like ages. As soon as his erection returned—right after our business conversation—he lifted me onto his lap.
I sank onto his thick cock, and we began to rock together, the sensation of him filling me again almost overwhelming. I clung to him, wanting to savor every moment, not wanting it to end. Twice, I had to stop because the edge of release was too near for both of us.
"God, Ryleigh, we can do this again," he panted, his breath hot against my neck.
"I know, but this is a renewal. It has to last," I whispered, my forehead resting against his.
"Sweetheart, I'm not sure I can last. I'm so close that the minute you move, I'm going to explode," he confessed, his eyes dark with desire.
"Then I'm staying just like this. No moving, just you inside me," I said, a teasing smile playing on my lips.
"I have to come. My balls ache so badly," he groaned, his voice thick with need.
"Big baby," I murmured, smirking as I began to rock again. His hands gripped my hips tightly, his body tensing beneath me. As the first blast of his cum hit deep inside me, he reached between us, intensifying the connection. I followed him into release, milking every last precious drop from him until we were both spent, our bodies trembling in unison.
"Big baby? I’ll remember what you said. Payback is a bitch," he said, panting. "Thank you for telling Henri to use my name."
"It's not your name. It's my name, and it's my married name. I'm married," I said, pressing a kiss to his lips.
"I hope forever," he replied, his voice softening.
"I love you, Oliver," I whispered, my heart swelling with emotion.