Page 73 of Full Out Fiend

I’m just as giddy as I was hours ago when I climb back into Fielding’s bed after my third trip to the bathroom. I don’t know what I was expecting to feel after finally giving in to what we both want, but there’s nothing but glee inside me as I reposition the pillow and snuggle up beside him.

The excuses I’ve been clinging to are quieter now. They’re not gone completely—there’s still a nagging curiosity about his past, along with a whisper of doubt about any sort of long-term commitment. But I’m starting to recognize that the voice that loves to doubt Fielding sounds a lot like the voice that often has me doubting myself.

It doesn’t matter what he’s done or who he was. The man I see, the man he is now, is admirable—desirable—and I’m willing to bet on this version of him. Just like I’m willing to put my faith in a new and improved version of myself.

If the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that I’m so much more resilient than I ever thought possible. I don’t feel strong, necessarily, and I still worry about how the hell I’m going to do any of this well: motherhood, a new relationship. These aren’t exactly things I thought I’d be facing anytime soon. But I’ve been through enough this year to know that I can endure.

Maybe that’s what strength really is at its core. It’s not about being unbreakable. It’s about being flexible enough to shift and change without shattering.

Instinctively, I inch back until my ass is resting against Fielding’s side. He wordlessly shifts his hips toward me before one arm snakes around my front and pulls me closer.

Our bodies align perfectly under the covers. Our souls settle with contentedness, too.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and let it out, knowing I need to give myself more credit: to trust myself, and to listen to that little voice of knowing that echoes loudest when he’s near. How could anything bad or dangerous feel this good? It’s not just the sex. Or the money and security. Or his incessant need to dote on me and take care of me in ways I’ve never been taken care of in my life.

It’s this. This feeling of calm. This sense of peace. It’s the way my thoughts go still when I’m in his arms.

My brain isn’t working overtime. My body isn’t tingling with discomfort. For the first time in my life, I can justbe.

I interlace my fingers with the ones he has splayed over my midsection. I lift our joined hands to kiss his knuckles before resting our hands against my chest.

He squeezes my hand in return, flexing his fingers with enough strength that I know he’s awake, too. I take a chance and roll my hips into his crotch. I’m met with a drowsy moan.

His palm flattens against my chest, smoothing between my breasts and over my baby bump before coming to rest against my core.

I swivel my hips with more force before pushing forward into his hand. He cups me firmly with intention before bringing his lips to my ear.

“Yeah?”

I turn in his arms, capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s tantric and deep. I’m more than satisfied after our reunion tonight, so this isn’t rushed or frantic like before. Now I want to make love to him; to make sure he knows what he does to me and how utterly grateful I am to have found him.

“Yeah,” I whisper against his lips, pushing his shoulder hard enough that he gets the idea. As soon as he rolls to his back, I climb on top, determined to show him exactly what he means to me.

Chapter 39

Fielding

I’vealwaysbeenahard sleeper. Except when it comes to middle-of-the-night romps. Apparently, I have no problem rising to the occasion when drowsy, intimate sex is on the table.

So I’m not surprised when I wake up in the early morning light to find Daphne sitting on the edge of the mattress, fully dressed and ready for work.

“What time do you have to leave?” I ask groggily. I’ll gladly get up and make her breakfast if she’s not rushing to get out the door.

She doesn’t respond right away. She doesn’t even turn to look at me.

“Daphne?”

Her voice is eerily calm when she finally speaks. “Is this from last night?”

She passes me her phone, and I have to blink several times before the pixels on the screen organize into something that makes sense. Squinting, I realize I’m looking at a grainy picture captured in the dark in the parking lot behind The Oak.

“It is,” I hedge, handing back her phone as I shove up to sit. “Do you want me to explain it, or—”“I don’t want anything from you, Fielding.”

Fuck.

Dread swirls in my gut at the prospect of this—of us—being over before we even had a chance to start because of one stupid picture without context. I’ve done plenty of shitty, incriminating things in my life. But this isn’t one of them. Whether she wants it or not, I have to explain.

“That’s Tiff. She works at Clinton’s. I’ve known her for a few years.”