Chapter 42 42
FREYA POV
I woke up to the sound of the ocean; it’s morning.
Steve’s arm was slung heavy across my waist, his chest rising slow and steady against my back, his cock still half-hard and nestled inside me from when we’d drifted off like that—
I didn’t move at first.
I just lay there listening to him breathe, feeling the slow throb of him every time my walls fluttered around the intrusion. My thighs were sticky. My core ached in that deep, satisfying way that made me want to clench just to feel him twitch. The sheets were damp beneath us—a combination of sweat, cum, and the mess I’d made when I came the second time (and the third, when he’d flipped me onto my stomach and taken me from behind while whispering filthy Russian praise against my ear).
Guilt arrived last—quiet, creeping, curling around my ribs like smoke.
I stared at the doorway we’d fucked against last night. The candle had burned down to nothing; only a small puddle of wax remained on the table. The photo was still there, facing us. Her smile looked exactly the same in daylight.
My throat tightened.
What kind of woman lets herself be fucked senseless against a doorframe on the anniversary of a man's mother’s death, staring at the dead woman’s picture the whole time?
Well, the kind who comes so hard she forgets her own name, apparently.
Steve stirred behind me.
His arm tightened. His hips shifted—just a shallow rock—pushing deeper. A low, sleepy groan rumbled against my neck.
“Morning, princess.”
His voice was gravel scraped raw from last night’s growls and groans.
I swallowed. “Morning.”
He pressed a lazy kiss to the bite mark on my shoulder, the one that still stung when I moved. His hand slid down my stomach, fingers splaying wide over the soft curve below my navel.
“You okay?” he murmured.
I didn’t answer right away.
How do you answer that when your body still feels like it belongs to him but your head is screaming that you crossed a line you can never uncross?
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
He stilled. Completely.
Then slowly he started to pull out.
I clenched on instinct, a small, involuntary whimper escaping before I could stop it.
He froze halfway. “Freya.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean—I just—”
He turned me in his arms so we were face-to-face. His eyes were clearer now—still dark, still intense, but the feral edge from last night had softened.
“Talk to me.”
I turned my face away and looked elsewhere.
“I feel… dirty,” I admitted, voice small. “Not because of you. Because the more I think about it, I just think it is not right. She was watching. I cum so hard I forget everything else, and I can’t even stop you.”
A heavy silence stretched on.
Before Steve exhaled, long and slow…
He cupped my face, his thumb brushing away the tear I hadn’t realized was there.
“She wasn’t watching to judge you,” he said quietly. “She was watching because she finally saw me alive again. For ten years this day has been a grave. Last night—for the first time—it wasn’t.”
I blinked up at him.
He pressed his forehead to mine.
“You didn’t disrespect her. You gave me something back. Something I thought I’d lost forever.”
My chest cracked open—painful, raw, relieving.
I searched his face. “You really believe that?”
“I know it.” His voice was steady. Certain. “She hated when I shut down. Hated when I punished myself. If she could speak right now, she’d be yelling at me in Russian to stop being a stubborn idiot and keep the woman who makes me feel human.”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped me.
He kissed the corner of my mouth.
“So stop feeling dirty,” he murmured. “Feel wanted. Feel kept. Because that’s what you are.”
I closed my eyes. Let the words sink in.
His hand slid down again—slower this time—cupping me between my legs. Not to arouse. Just to hold. Warm. Steady. Claiming.
“Are you still sore?” he asked.
“A little.”
He hummed—low, pleased. “Good. Means you’ll feel me all day.”
I shivered.
He kissed me then—slow, deep. No rush to fuck. Just tasting. Reassuring. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft in a way I’d never seen before.
“Shower?” he asked.
I nodded.
He scooped me up—naked—and carried me into the tiny bathroom attached to the bedroom.
The shower was old, the tiles cracked, and the water pressure weak. But when he set me on my feet and turned the knob, hot water poured down.
He stepped in behind me.
Washed me slowly—hands gentle over the bruises he’d left, soap sudsing between my thighs…
I washed him too—tracing scars I hadn’t noticed before, pressing kisses to the fresh scratches I’d put on his back.
We didn’t speak much, but it’s a moment. I will always want till my last breath.
When the water started to cool, he turned it off, wrapped me in a threadbare towel, and carried me back to the bed.
He laid me down. Crawled over me. Kissed my forehead. My eyelids. My mouth.
“Stay another hour,” he said quietly. “Just like this.”
I nodded.
He settled beside me, pulling me half on top of him so my cheek rested over his heart. His fingers started moving through my hair—slow, repetitive strokes from crown to ends, like he was petting something precious.
I listened to the steady thump-thump under my ear.
Steve’s free hand found mine. He laced our fingers together and lifted them to his lips, kissing each knuckle one by one, lingering longest on the ring finger where the diamond he’d put there weeks ago still sat heavy and sparkling.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured against my skin.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“About how I’m going to explain to Luna why Mommy came home with more bite marks.”
A low chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Tell her Uncle Hulk got carried away playing monster.”
I snorted despite myself. “She’ll believe it. She already thinks you’re part superhero, part grizzly bear.”
His thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of my hand.
“She’s safe,” he said suddenly, but it sounded serious. “Diana texted while you were still asleep. Nana took her to the park. They’re fine. Waiting for us.”
My heart squeezed—relief and a fresh wave of longing for my little girl all at once.
“I should go soon,” I whispered.
“Soon,” he agreed. “Not yet.”
He rolled us, so I was tucked under him again. His mouth found the hollow of my throat, pressed a slow open-mouthed kiss there, then another lower, over the fading mark he’d left last night.
We stayed like that for the promised hour—tangled, quiet, breathing in the same rhythm.
No words.
No rush.
Just the two of us