Page 101 of Mended Fences

“Elena,” he whispered, his voice rough.

I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. His stubble scratched against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. “Chase.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch like a man starved for it. When he opened them again, they were filled with a storm of emotions—desire, fear, uncertainty.

“I’ve missed you,” I admitted, the words barely audible.

Chase’s breath hitched. “I’ve missed you, too. Every second of every day.” His thumb traced my bottom lip. “But I can’t... I’m afraid I’ll...”

“What?”

“Slip.” The word hung between us, heavy with meaning. “If I let myself have you, I might let myself have everything else, too.”

I understood then—his sobriety was still fragile, a delicate balance he was fighting to maintain. And I was a temptation, a doorway to the past where one pleasure could lead to another.

“I can give,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But I need rules.”

“Rules?”

He nodded, shifting to sit beside me on the bed. “I stay dressed. No more kissing. I don’t... finish.” His cheeks flushed slightly. “This is about you, not me. I need that boundary right now.”

The clinical way he laid it out should have dampened the mood, but instead, it sent heat pooling between my legs. There was something intensely erotic about his control, about the way he was setting limits to protect us both.

“Okay,” I agreed, reaching for him.

He caught my wrist gently. “And the door stays cracked open.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Your entire family is downstairs.”

“Exactly. Insurance policy.” A hint of his old smirk returned. “I’m serious about recovery, Elena. This is... bending the rules. Not breaking them.”

I nodded, understanding what this cost him. “I trust you.”

Those three words seemed to affect him more than any touch could have. His eyes grew bright, and he took a deep breath. “Scoot up.”

I did as he asked, settling against his pillows. They smelledlike him—clean laundry and that spicy scent that was uniquely Chase. He moved carefully, positioning himself beside me, one hand hovering over my body as if seeking permission.

“Your sweater,” he said.

I pulled it over my head, revealing a simple cotton bra. Not sexy, not planned for seduction, but Chase’s gaze turned molten as he took in the swell of my breasts, fuller now with pregnancy.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his fingertips skimming over the top of my breast, just above the fabric. “Can I?”

I nodded, and he gently pulled the cup down, exposing my nipple to the cool air. I gasped as he circled it with his thumb, the sensation more intense than I remembered. Pregnancy had made everything more sensitive, more responsive.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, immediately concerned.

“No,” I breathed. “It’s just... more.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “More sensitive?”

I nodded, biting my lip as he continued his gentle exploration, learning my body’s new responses. When he lowered his head and took my nipple in his mouth, I had to stifle a moan, conscious of the open door and the family downstairs.

Chase worked methodically, reverently, as if cataloging every reaction. His hand slid down to the curve of my belly, pausing there to spread his fingers wide over our child. The tenderness of the gesture made my heart ache.

“Can I touch you here?” he asked, his hand moving lower, to the waistband of my leggings.

“Yes,” I whispered, lifting my hips to help as he slid themdown my legs. This wasn’t just about sex. This was about letting him touch the pieces of me I’d been too scared to share.