Chapter 16 Bastiaan
Bastiaan
Iwake to the soft weight of Amber against my chest, her hair spilling over me like silk. For a moment, I just lie there, memorising the way she feels in my arms. Her slow, even breaths brush warm against my neck, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the knot in my chest loosens.
Outside, the canal laps gently against the hull, and a bird calls somewhere in the distance. Amsterdam is waking up, but in here, on this little floating haven, it feels like the world doesn’t exist.
She stirs slightly, letting out a soft, sleepy hum, and my heart gives a traitorous lurch. I tighten my arm around her instinctively.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, her lashes still heavy. “Mmm… morning.” Her voice is husky, warm, and it does terrible things to my self-control.
We stay like that for a long time, soaking in the quiet, until she finally slips off the sofa to stretch. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin at her waist that showcases her belly button ring, and I have to drag my eyes away before I do something stupid.
The days on the barge blur together, a strange mix of tension and peace. We cook simple meals, take turns showering in the tiny bathroom, and watch the canals from the windows at night, speaking in whispers like the water could carry our voices to the wrong ears.
Every little moment between us feels charged.
Amber teases me about my coffee obsession.
I tease her about how I’m sure pure Diet Coke runs through her veins.
She laughs, and every time she does, it feels like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
And every night, we end up on that sofa, tangled together under the blanket.
I pretend it’s for her comfort, her safety—but I’m lying to myself.
I need it too. I need her. Fuck, do I need her.
On the third night, the tension finally snaps. Again.
It begins the way storms do—quiet, charged, inevitable.
We’re sitting on the narrow bench, peeking out the window of the barge as the water whispers against the hull. Amber’s knees are pulled to her chest, chin resting on top. I can’t see her face completely, just the gleam of her eyes in the dark.
“Do you ever stop feeling it?” she asks softly. “The loss, I mean, well, the fear of it?”
I swallow hard. “No. You just… get used to carrying it.”
My voice sounds rougher than I mean for it to.
She nods, a tiny movement. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be strong. To keep Dad’s world from touching me. And now look at me—hiding on a barge in Amsterdam, hunted because of it anyway.”
Her laugh is thin, trembling.
I could tell her she’s stronger than she knows. I could promise I’ll keep her safe.
But all I can think about is how much I want to hold her, how dangerous that want feels.
So I say, “When Marieke died, it was like someone scooped me out from the inside. I swore I’d never let anyone close enough to break me like that again.”
The confession tastes like salt and rust.
Amber shifts, turning fully toward me. The dim light from the cabin window catches her face, soft and shining.
She reaches out, presses her hand flat to my chest—right over the scar that’s buried deep inside, the one I never show anyone.
“You already let me in,” she whispers.
Fuck.
And that’s it.
The last bit of control I’ve been clutching slips through my fingers. I cup her face—momentarily distracted by her freckles that dust her nose—and kiss her, and she kisses me back like we’ve both been holding our breath for years.
The world narrows to water rocking beneath us, the creak of the barge, her soft gasp against my lips.
I slide my hands into her hair, holding her as if I can anchor myself in her warmth. She parts her lips for me, and the kiss deepens, hungry and unsteady, as though we’re both afraid we’ll shatter if we stop.
She shifts closer, pressing against me, and I feel her heartbeat racing against my chest. My hands wander down, skimming the curve of her back, pulling her fully into my lap.
Amber whimpers softly, her fingers clutching at my shirt as I feel the warmth of her pussy pressing fully down onto my cock.
Holy fuck. I can’t help but grip her arse, my fingers pressing deeply into her lush globes, and gently begin to rock her against me.
All I want to do is rip away the layers between us and have her sink down onto my cock, but I manage, somehow, to hold back, to try and take it slow.
“Bas…” My name is a whisper and a plea.
I trail kisses down her throat, breathing in the faint scent of jasmine that always seems to cling to her. She tilts her head back, and I taste the edge of her collarbone before my hands skim up and find the hem of her shirt. She’s now rocking herself against me, using me to chase her pleasure.
I pause, giving her a chance to stop me.
“Please,” she breathes, and that single word undoes me.
I ease her shirt over her head, as the barge lantern light catches the soft lines of her skin.
She’s beautiful—so fucking beautiful I forget to breathe for a moment.
My fingers trace the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, as I press kisses over her chest, down over her bra—black fucking lace—and latch on to one of her nipples.
The noises she’s making while also digging her nails into my shoulders makes me growl against her.
Fuck. Not having a woman for six years is making it almost impossible not to blow like a fucking teenager seeing a pair of tits for the first time.
She tugs at my shirt, and I pull it off, her hands splaying over the scar she can’t see that she touched earlier. She leans forward, kissing it without a word, and the gesture nearly breaks me in two.
I all but rip off her bra, throwing it somewhere, and just stare at her. My god. Her tits are perfection—creamy pillows tipped with high, tight, rosy nipples.
“Bas…” she whines, as she continues rocking hard against me, making me realise I’ve just been sitting here staring. I take both in my hands and push my face between them, breathing her in.
From there, things turn frantic. I pull one nipple fully into my mouth as I palm the other, her moans spurring me on, and I feast like a starved man.
She’s trembling in my lap, her hips rolling harder, and every soft, desperate sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
I slide one hand down, slipping past the band of her leggings and over the slick heat waiting for me.
“Fuck, Amber…” I can barely get the words out. She’s soaked for me, and the feel of her makes me dizzy.
She gasps, her head falling against my shoulder as I circle her clit with my thumb. Her body jerks in my lap, those soft whimpers turning to breathless little cries as I work her slowly, teasing her while she grinds down against me.
“Bas, I—” she stutters, her voice breaking into a moan when I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right.
Her walls squeeze around me, greedy and hot, and I nearly lose it right there.
“You feel so fucking good,” I groan, watching her fall apart for me. My free hand is still on her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple, and she’s a mess of motion and sound—hips rolling, nails clawing at my shoulders, soft gasps that make my cock throb painfully against my jeans.
When she finally shudders in my lap, coming hard around my fingers, her cry is muffled against my neck. I hold her through it, rocking her gently, letting her ride out every trembling wave.
Before she’s even fully caught her breath, she’s fumbling at my jeans, her hands shaking with urgency.
“Need you,” she pants, eyes wide and glazed.
That’s it. The last bit of my frayed control snaps.
I lift her just enough to shove her leggings and panties off one leg while I rip my jeans and boxers down, my cock springing free, thick and aching. Her eyes drop to it, and she bites her lip before looking back up at me, all heat and need. The lip bite fucks me up.
I line myself up, letting the head of my cock slide through her slick folds, and we both moan at the contact.
“Amber…” I manage, my voice wrecked, “You sure?”
Her answer is to sink down on me in one slow, perfect slide.
“Fuck!” The word rips out of me as her heat grips me like a vice. I clutch her hips, holding on, because it feels too good—better than I imagined in every dark, lonely night I spent swearing I’d never let anyone this close again.
We both pause for a heartbeat, shuddering against each other, and then she starts to move, rocking in my lap, riding me with desperate little rolls of her hips.
The barge sways with us, water slapping gently against the hull, and the world narrows to the wet sounds of her taking me, the rasp of our breathing, the occasional broken gasp of my name on her lips.
“God, Amber, you’re fucking killing me,” I groan, guiding her with my hands on her arse, but letting her set the rhythm as she chases her high again.
Her breasts bounce with every motion, and I can’t resist leaning forward to suck one into my mouth, making her clench tight around me.
I know I’m not going to last—six years without this, without her—and now that I finally have her, it’s almost too much.
Her rhythm grows frantic, desperate, and I can feel her trembling in my arms, chasing the edge.
“Bas—oh, God—” Her voice is a broken whisper, and I know she’s close.
I grip her arse and thrust up to meet her, deep and hard, and she cries out, clutching my shoulders like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
“Come for me, Amber,” I growl against her ear, my own control hanging by a thread.
Her whole body tightens, and then she shatters in my lap, pulsing around my cock, gasping my name over and over. The feel of her gripping me, milking me, sends me flying right over the edge with her.
“Fuck—” I groan, burying my face in her neck as I spill inside her, holding her tight as our bodies jerk together in messy, perfect release.
For a few moments, all I can hear is our ragged breathing and the soft lap of water against the barge. She slumps against me, boneless and warm, her cheek pressed to my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her, tucking her against my chest like she belongs there—and God help me, she does.
“Holy hell,” I whisper against her hair, still catching my breath. “I… might be dead now.”
She laughs softly, a tired, blissful sound that warms me all the way through.
We stay like that, tangled and spent, the lantern light flickering over bare skin, the world outside the barge holding its breath.
And for the first time in six years, I feel… whole.
I kiss her temple, letting myself linger in the quiet, even though I know the danger hasn’t gone anywhere.
But for tonight, on this rocking little barge in Amsterdam, she’s in my arms, and hope doesn’t feel like a lie anymore.