Page 56 of After All This Time

I know she's off work tonight, and I need to see her. I need to set this right and clear the air.

I walk down the hall toward her bedroom, each step only tightening the knot of tension in my chest. The closer I get, the stronger it pulls—my pulse quickening and my mind racing with everything I want to say to make things right. When I finally raise my hand to knock, a soft, muffled sound filters through the door—a sound that brings me to a dead stop.

It's faint, barely there, but there's no mistaking it.

That was a fucking moan.

For a split second, I try to convince myself I imagined it and blame it on the thoughts I've been drowning in whenever she's been near me lately. But then I hear it again—soft, breathy, and unmistakably real.

Every low, throaty moan that slips through the door hits me like a punch, the realization sinking in fast and hard.

There's someone in there with her.

Heat flares through me, followed by a rush of anger that cuts bone-deep. My jaw tenses, my muscles are coiled tight, and my fists ball like I'm about to throw hands at whoever's behind that door.

Something primal flips inside me at the thought of her with someone else, of her lips parting and her body arching for anyone but me—it claws at me, scraping every nerve raw. And I know I shouldn't be feeling any of this—hell, I've spent the past hour trying to talk myself down, convincing myself it's wrong. But here I am, half a second away from going full caveman,hauling her out of there, and throwing her into my bed where she belongs.

I've just spent the last few hours wrestling with the mess that is my Amelia Jackson obsession, picking apart every thought and convincing myself that I need to back off. But now, here I am, standing outside her bedroom door, knowing full well she probably thought I'd be out for a while.

When I hear the faint buzzing sound, relief hits, quickly followed by pure hunger, and all I want to do is kick open that door, ditch the vibrator, and show her what it really means to come undone—because I know, without a doubt, I'd make her come harder than any fucking toy ever could.

Jesus Christ, if there's a medal for restraint, I've earned it tonight.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to step back to distance myself from the door. But I can still hear her.

I want to watch her. The way her fingers move. How her body arches. I want to hear every little sound she makes when she's desperate and so fucking close she can barely breathe. I want to spread her open, taste her, and bury my face between her legs. God, I'm dying to lick her, desperate to drag my tongue slowly over her until she's shaking so hard she can't think straight. I want her begging—pleading for me to push her over the edge, to make her come, and give her the release she's chasing.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I turn to walk away, the only rational option, but then I hear it—clear and unmistakable, one word that stops me in my tracks.

"Tobias."

Chapter 22

Tobias

I'm stretched out in the tattoo chair, my shirt off, as Lola works her magic. The hum of her tattoo machine fills the room, a sound that feels as familiar to me now as my own heartbeat.

Lola leans over me, her gloved hand steady against my skin. It's not just art to her—it's the intention, each stroke carrying purpose. Today, she's adding a white rose to my chest, its petals soft and intricate, cutting through the ink that already covers my skin.

It's not just about filling the space—it's about balance, about making everything flow together. Most of my pieces mean something—memories, moments, things I couldn't put into words but wanted on my skin forever. But this one? It's different. It's sitting over my heart in a space that felt empty until now.

The rose itself is different from my other ink. It stands out because of its simplicity while blending into the shadows like it was always meant to be there.

Lola pulls back, wiping down the fresh ink, and the machine's hum fades. "It's looking good, Lo."

"Of course it is. You've got the master doing it," she shoots back with a smirk, her hand steady as she shades the delicate petals. Her confidence isn't arrogance—it's earned. And she knows it. "When you're back from Pennsylvania, I need you to do mine."

"You're already covered. Where the hell do you want it?"

"My ass."

I choke on my laugh. "You're fucking with me."

"I want a pinup girl who looks like me on my ass cheek."

"Jesus Christ, Lo." I drag my hand down my face, caught somewhere between amused and outright shock. "You drawing that up, or do you want me to?"

---