Yet she yearned for his presence. His dominating presence and sexuality would have been the perfect solace after such a shitty night, like a comforting embrace that took her to the highest heights, let her soul fly free, and then soothed her turbulent thoughts.
Her hand drifted down her body, imagining the sensation of his touch. His hands, large and rugged, conveying a sense of strength and security, feeling just right against her skin. She could vividly picture them lifting her breasts, his thumbs expertly teasing her sensitive nipples. He had a way of savoring the moment, always taking his time, and eventually, he would have replaced his hands with his mouth, igniting her senses with gentle precision.
Her hand moved down to her clit, a desperate need coursing through her. She needed this release. She needed him, but thatwas no longer a possibility. It wasn't as if she hadn't taken care of her own needs before. This ritual had been her way of managing sexual frustration ever since they’d gone their separate ways. With no time for dating and no desire to scene sexually at the club, it had become just her imagination and her and her trusty right hand.
She imagined it was Hawke’s hand exploring her clitoris, tracing a path down to her core. It was his touch that made her feel hot and wet, his presence lingering in her thoughts.
A sudden, sharp knock on the door shattered the moment, jolting her from her reverie and nearly frightening her to death. “Get a move on, Vanessa. You need to eat and if you will not sleep, we need to get to work.”
Bastard. She grabbed the soap and scrubbed hard.
Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a towel that smelled like him and fit like a damn blanket, she padded out into the hallway. Her bag sat in the guest bedroom just where he’d said it would be. The room was… sparse. A bed. A dresser. A nightstand. No fluff. No unnecessary throw pillows. Just clean, crisp order—exactly like everything else in this place.
She changed into soft cotton joggers and a worn t-shirt. No lace. No frills. She wasn’t here to tempt anyone. She was here because someone had crossed a line, and she needed to survive long enough to figure out who and why.
And yet…
As she stepped back into the hall, bare feet moving soundlessly across the wood floors, she couldn’t stop herself from slowing down. Exploring.
The door across from hers was open. His bedroom.
She lingered in the doorway.
It was more lived-in than the guest room but still maddeningly tidy. A dark wood bed frame. Charcoal sheets.No pictures on the wall. No mementos. But his scent lingered stronger here, like memory and command and danger.
Vanessa moved on.
The hallway ended in a loft-style overlook, opening into the primary space below. From here, she could see him—seated at the long kitchen table, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. The collar of his shirt was damp from the rain. His fingers tapped out something with quick precision.
Focused. Strategic. Even now, his presence filled the space like gravity.
She hated how much she remembered. The sound of his voice behind her in the dark. The scrape of his beard against her inner thigh. The first time he’d called her sweetheart in the middle of a scene, like the word belonged to her alone.
He hadn’t changed… not really. At least not in how it mattered most. It scared her how fast the past was bleeding into the present.
Vanessa forced herself to turn away. She made her way back down the stairs, spine straight, chin lifted. He ended his call as she reached the bottom, eyes lifting to meet hers. No greeting. Just a long look, steady and assessing.
She didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t suppose you stock soy milk and multigrain muffins,” she said, brushing a damp curl off her forehead.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He stood. “There’s coffee and real food in the fridge. You’ll have to deal with it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You gonna make me eggs, Hawke?”
“If I need to.”
She didn’t know if he meant because she was injured, or spoiled, or just his responsibility now. And she didn’t ask, but was glad to see him beginning to scramble some eggs.
He placed a plate on the table and motioned for her to sit down. “Eat. Then we talk.”
“I’m not sure I’m hungry.”
“You are.”
“I don’t enjoy being ordered around.”
