Chapter 41 41
FREYA POV
I followed Steve into the kitchen, my bare feet padding softly against the wooden floors.
Steve didn’t say much as he moved around, pulling open cabinets. He grabbed a loaf of bread that looked a little stale, some cheese from the fridge, and a couple of apples, he slapped the bread and cheese together, doing everything smoothly, I stood at the doorway watching him, leaning against the frame, my arms crossed over my chest to hide how my heart was still racing from everything—
He slid the plate toward me across the counter without looking up. “Eat.”
Sounds more like a command, even when he was trying to be gentle. I hesitated for a second, my stomach growling again like it was betraying me on purpose. I sat on one of the rickety stools and picked up the sandwich, taking a small bite. The bread was dry, but the cheese was sharp and good. I chewed slowly, glancing at him as he leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded, watching me with those intense eyes.
“Thanks,” I mumbled around a mouthful, feeling awkward under his stare. “I mean… for this. And for not shooting me earlier.”
He snorted—a real sound this time, not just a breath. It was short and rough, but it broke the tension in the room.
“Wouldn’t waste a bullet on you, princess.”
I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “Charming as always.”
We fell into a quiet rhythm after that. I ate, and he just… stood there. Not eating, not drinking, just looking at me. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, I finished half the sandwich and pushed the plate toward him. “You should eat too. You look like you haven’t in days.”
He shook his head, but after a beat, he picked up the other half and took a bite. We sat like that for a while, the only sounds were the distant crash of waves against the cliff and our quiet chewing. I wanted to ask about his mom—but the words stuck in my throat. Because I don’t even know how to start, like what do you say to a man like Steve?
Finally, I set down the apple core and met his eyes. “Tell me about her. Your mom. If… if you want.”
He froze mid-bite, his jaw tightening. For a second, I thought I’d pushed too far, that he’d shut down or drag me out again. But then he exhaled slowly, setting the sandwich down. His voice came out low, gravelly, like pulling teeth. “She was… tough. Russian through and through. Came here with nothing after my dad died young. Worked two jobs to keep us afloat. Taught me how to fight—literally. She hates soft people.”
I nodded, picturing a woman with Steve’s sharp features, maybe that same stormy gaze. “She sounds strong. Like you.”
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Strong? Yeah. But she was kind too. The kind that sneaks up on you. Baked these godawful cakes every birthday—lopsided,—but I’d eat every bite.” He glanced at the leftover cake on the table in the living room, his expression softening for a split second. “Today would’ve been her sixty-second. I come here every year. Light the candles. Drink too much. Just to always remember her face.”
My chest ached for him. I reached across the counter without thinking, my fingers brushing his knuckles. “I’m sorry. That she’s not here. That you have to do this alone.”
He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand turned over, capturing mine in a warm, firm grip. “But….Not alone tonight.”
As he said that, the air shifted instantly and it was more thicker, charged. His thumb stroked the back of my hand in slow circles, and that familiar heat bloomed low in my belly. But this time, it wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper, softer. Vulnerable.
“Freya,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “You shouldn’t have come. This place… it’s not for you.”
I squeezed his hand. “Maybe it is. Maybe I needed to see this side of you. The real you.”
His eyes darkened, flicking down to my lips, then back up. He stood slowly, rounding the counter until he was right in front of me. His free hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up. “The real me might be scary, princess. You know that.”
“I do,” I whispered, my pulse thundering. “But I’m still here.”
He leaned in then, his lips brushing mine—not rough like before, but slow, almost tender. The kiss deepened gradually, his tongue tracing my lower lip until I opened for him. I melted into it, my hands fisting in his joggers as he pulled against his chest.
We broke apart breathless, foreheads pressed together. “Stay,” he said, voice raw. “Just for tonight. Help me forget.”
I nodded, my fingers tracing the scar on his brow. “Okay. But no more guns.”
He chuckled and scooped me up like I weighed nothing. “Deal.”
His arms locked so tight around me I could feel every ridge of muscle against my ribs. My legs stayed wrapped around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back. The sundress had ridden up so high the damp of my panties pressed directly against the hard plane of his stomach. I could feel how slick I was. Fuck
“You’re shaking,” he murmured — voice so low it felt like it came from inside my own chest.
But yeah, I was really shaking. My thighs trembled around his hips.
“I—” My voice cracked. “This feels… wrong. It shouldn’t be tonight. With her— I mean your mum” My eyes flicked again toward the candlelight, the photo on the table.
Steve followed my gaze without moving his head. Then slowly — he turned back to me.
I thought he would reason with me but he smirked, his mouth curled with a dark, filthy smirk.
“She’s smiling, princess,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “She’s definitely smiling right now… watching her son finally pin down the woman who’s been making him lose his fucking mind m
He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of my ear.
“She’s not a nun, Freya.” His voice dropped even lower, “Mama loved sin. She loved men who didn’t wait for permission. She’d be laughing right now… telling me to stop playing nice and just ruin the pretty little thing who showed up on her anniversary night already soaked through her panties.”
The words landed like a slow lick between my legs.
I whimpered, couldn’t help it. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock forward ,seeking more contact, more pressure. The movement dragged my swollen clit along the hard ridge of his cock through his joggers and I gasped
Steve felt it. His grip tightened.
“Fuck,” he muttered against my throat. “I can smell how wet you are.
One of his hands slid between us.
Fingers hooked into the side of my panties — tugged them roughly to the side
He didn’t touch me yet.
Just held me there — open, aching, dripping — while he looked down between our bodies.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “Fucking glistening. Running down your thighs already.”
He dragged one thick finger along my slit — slow — collecting wetness, spreading it. When he circled my clit — feather-light — my whole body jerked like I’d been shocked.
A broken moan tore out of me.
“Shhh,” he murmured against my mouth. “She’s listening.”
He pushed one finger inside me — slow, deep — curling immediately against that spot that made my vision blur.
I clenched around him hard — involuntarily — and he groaned like the sound hurt him.
“So fucking tight….”
He added a second finger — stretching me open with slow, deliberate pumps. The wet sounds filled the room — My hips rocked down to meet every stroke, chasing it, greedy despite the guilt still clawing at the back of my mind.
He pulled his fingers free — slick, shining — and brought them to my lips.
“Open.”
I did.
He pushed them inside my mouth — letting me taste myself — salty, musky, shameless.
“Good girl,” he growled.
I sucked — couldn’t help it — tongue swirling around his fingers.
He pushed back in two fingers at a time
My head thunked back against the wood. My mouth opened with a silent scream. He stretched me so wide it bordered on pain — but the pain was laced with so much pleasure I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began