"I'm ready," I whisper, meeting Jake's concerned gaze.
His eyes search mine one last time, looking for any hint of hesitation.
Finding none, he nods and pushes forward with a controlled thrust. The sharp pain makes me gasp, my body instinctively tensing around the intrusion.
It's uncomfortable, more than I expected, but there's something about the fullness, the intimacy of our connection, that transcends the physical discomfort.
"Breathe," Jake murmurs, holding perfectly still above me. His arms tremble slightly with the effort of restraint. "Just breathe through it."
I force myself to take a deep breath, then another, focusing on relaxing around him.
This is worth it—worth the momentary pain to share this experience with someone who treats me with such care, such respect.
Sebastian would never have been this patient, this attentive to my needs. I know this with bone-deep certainty.
"You okay?" Jake asks, his voice strained.
I nod, biting my lower lip. "Don't stop."
He begins to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen as my body adjusts to accommodate him. The initial sharp pain fades, replaced by a sensation that hovers between discomfort and something more intriguing.
I close my eyes, concentrating on the feeling of him moving inside me, the weight of his body above mine, the gentle brush of his lips against my forehead.
When I open my eyes again, my gaze fixes on the ceiling for a moment before finding his face.
The sight nearly takes my breath away. Jake's expression is a mixture of intense concentration and raw pleasure, sweat beading along his hairline and dampening his beard.
His muscles flex with each careful movement, shoulders and arms working to support his weight above me.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper, surprising myself with the words.
His rhythm falters for a moment, eyes opening to meet mine. The vulnerability I see there makes my heart skip a beat. This isn't just physical for him either.
"Isabella," he breathes.
His thrusts deepen, gaining confidence as my body relaxes further, accepting him more completely. The discomfort recedes, replaced by a building pressure that makes me arch upward, seeking more.
Jake shifts suddenly, sitting up and pulling me with him without breaking our connection. I find myself straddling his lap, his strong hands supporting my hips as he guides me into a new rhythm. The position pushes him impossibly deeper, drawing a gasp from my lips.
"Is this good?" he asks, his voice trembling with desire.
"Yes," I manage, gripping his shoulders for balance.
In this position, I can feel the flex of every muscle as he uses his powerful thighs and core to thrust upward.
My body feels weightless, suspended in his strong grip as he moves beneath me.
It's the most physically connected I've ever felt to another person, not just our bodies joined, but our breath syncing, our heartbeats accelerating together.
The new angle creates friction against a spot inside me. Each thrust builds the sensation higher until I'm struggling to maintain my silence. A moan escapes before I can catch it, the sound seeming obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Jake's eyes darken at the noise, his movements becoming more urgent, more purposeful.
"That's it," he encourages softly. "Let me hear you."
I shake my head frantically, all too aware of his sleeping daughters down the hall. "Can't," I gasp.
He understands immediately, adjusting his grip to pull me closer, my face tucking against his neck to muffle any sounds I can't contain. The change in position intensifies everything—the depth of his thrusts, the friction against my most sensitive spots, the intimate press of our bodies.
"Jake," I whisper against his skin, feeling something building inside me, a tension coiling tighter with each movement. "I think I'm going to—"
"Let go," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you."
His thrusts increase in speed and intensity, hitting that perfect spot with unerring accuracy. The pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak before crashing over me in waves. I bite down on his shoulder to stifle my cry, my entire body pulsing around him as the orgasm sweeps through me.
Jake groans low in his throat, and his hands grip my thighs hard enough to leave marks as he makes one final, deep thrust. I feel the pulse of his release inside me, his body shuddering against mine.
For several long moments, we stay perfectly still, our ragged breathing the only sound in the room. I remain draped against him, boneless and overwhelmed, his arms wrapped securely around my waist. When he finally eases me back onto the bed, I feel the loss of connection like a physical ache.
Jake disappears briefly to the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. With tender care, he cleans between my thighs, his touch gentle on sensitized skin.
"Are you okay?" he asks, voice full of concern as he settles beside me. "I didn't hurt you too much?"
I shake my head, suddenly shy despite the intimacy we've just shared. "It was perfect," I tell him honestly. "I wouldn't change anything."
He pulls me against his chest, tucking my head under his chin. "I didn't plan for this to happen," he says softly. "Not that I regret it. Not for a second."
"Me neither." I trace patterns on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
"I think you're extraordinary, Isabella. And I think we both felt something neither of us was expecting."
"What happens now?" I ask, voicing the question that's been hovering at the edges of my mind.
Jake's hand strokes gently up and down my spine. "That depends on what you want. You said you needed time to figure things out, to breathe. I don't want to complicate that for you."
"You already have," I admit with a small laugh. "In the best possible way."
"I'm serious, though," he says, shifting to look at me. "You ran away from a life that was suffocating you. The last thing I want is to trap you in another situation before you've had a chance to figure out what you really want."
His consideration touches me deeply. "What if what I want is to stay? At least for a little while?"
Something like hope flickers in his eyes. "In Cedar Falls?"
"Yes. It seems like a good place to... breathe."
"It is," he agrees, a cautious smile forming. "But Isabella, I need to be clear about something. I have the girls to consider. If you stay, if we... explore whatever this is between us, I need to know you understand that they come first. Always."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I tell him, meaning it completely. "They're wonderful, Jake. And they need stability."
He nods, relief evident in his expression. "So we take things slow? See where this goes?"
"Slow," I agree, then can't resist adding, "Starting tomorrow?"
His laugh rumbles through his chest beneath my ear. "Starting tomorrow."
We talk late into the night, sharing stories and secrets in the darkness.
I tell him about my childhood in Boston's elite circles, about the pressure to be perfect, about my dreams of becoming an artist that were systematically discouraged.
He tells me about growing up in Cedar Falls, following in his father's footsteps, meeting Claire in high school and building a life with her that ended far too soon.
There are tears—mine when I describe my mother's coldness, his when he recounts telling his daughters their mother wasn't coming home. But there's laughter too, and a deepening connection that feels both exhilarating and terrifying in its intensity.
I fall asleep curled against his side, more content than I can ever remember being.
Next Day
The sound of giggling wakes me.
I blink against the morning light streaming through the blinds, momentarily disoriented until I feel the warm weight of Jake's arm around my waist, his steady breathing against my neck.
More giggling, then a small voice: "They're sleeping like in the fairy tales, Emma!"
"Shh, Sophie! You're gonna wake them up!"
I freeze. I’m naked beneath the sheets! Jake stirs behind me, his body tensing as he registers his daughters' presence in the doorway.
"Daddy slept with the princess!" Sophie announces delightedly.
My cheeks burn with mortification. I wait for Jake to panic, to usher the girls out with stern words about privacy and boundaries. Instead, to my surprise, he chuckles, his arm tightening briefly around me before he sits up, keeping the sheets carefully in place.
"Good morning, troublemakers," he says, voice rough with sleep but warm with affection. "What happened to knocking?"
"We did knock," Emma insists. "But you didn't answer, and we're hungry."
"And I wanted to show Miss Isabella my new drawing," Sophie adds.
Jake runs a hand through his disheveled hair, looking impossibly handsome in the morning light.
"Tell you what. You two go downstairs and get the cereal boxes out. I'll be down in five minutes to make breakfast."
"Can Miss Isabella have breakfast with us too?" Sophie asks hopefully.
Jake glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question.
"I'd love to," I tell her, clutching the sheet to my chest.
The girls beam in unison, then turn to leave, Sophie's voice drifting back as they head down the hallway: "I told you they're in love like Princess Ella and Prince Charming!"
"They just met yesterday, dummy," Emma responds, though she sounds pleased by the prospect.
"So? Cinderella just met her prince too!"
Their bickering fades as they descend the stairs, leaving Jake and me in stunned silence.
"I am so sorry," he says finally, turning to face me. "They don't understand... I mean, they're just excited that—"
I silence him with a kiss, morning breath be damned.
"It's okay," I assure him when we part. "They're children. They see the world in simple terms."
"Still." He looks genuinely concerned. "I don't want them getting attached if..." He trails off, not completing the thought.
"If I'm going to leave?" I finish for him.
He nods, vulnerability plain on his face.
"I understand," I tell him. "And I would never want to hurt them. But Jake, I meant what I said last night. I'd like to stay in Cedar Falls."
"I'd like that too." He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "I should get downstairs before they decide to cook something themselves. Last time Sophie tried to make pancakes, we almost had to call the fire department."
I laugh, then squeal in surprise as he suddenly rolls on top of me, pinning me to the mattress. "But first," he murmurs, lips brushing mine, "good morning."
Morning responsibilities are momentarily forgotten as his hand slides beneath the sheets, finding me already wet and receptive. I arch into his touch, desire rekindling instantly.
"We don't have time," I protest weakly, even as my body responds to his touches.
"Five minutes," he counters, sliding down my body. "I can do a lot in five minutes."
He proves this assertion thoroughly, reducing me to a quivering mess in considerably less time than promised. When I reach for him afterward, eager to reciprocate, he catches my hand and brings it to his lips.
"Later," he promises, eyes dark with unfulfilled desire. "When we don't have an audience waiting downstairs."
The reminder of his daughters sobers me instantly. "Right. Breakfast."
We dress quickly—me in yesterday's clothes, Jake in clean jeans and a faded t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that makes me want to undress him all over again. Before we leave the bedroom, he pulls me into one last embrace.
"No regrets?" he asks, searching my face.
I shake my head, smiling up at him. "Not a single one."
Downstairs, the girls have indeed gotten out cereal boxes, along with eggs, maple syrup, chocolate chips, and what appears to be every fruit in the refrigerator.
"We're making a special breakfast!" Sophie announces proudly. "Because Miss Isabella is here!"
"That's very thoughtful," Jake says, eyeing the chaos on the counter with good-natured resignation. "How about I handle the stove parts, and you two can be my assistants?"
Emma immediately begins organizing the ingredients while Sophie tugs me toward the table.
"You sit here," she instructs. "Next to Daddy's chair."
I obey, watching the Reynolds family morning routine unfold with a mixture of wonder and longing.
Jake moves around the kitchen, cracking eggs one-handed while simultaneously flipping pancakes and answering Sophie's stream-of-consciousness questions.
Emma sets the table with precision, placing a fresh wildflower in a small vase by my plate.
"It's a welcome gift," she explains when she catches me admiring it. "Sophie picked it this morning."
"It's beautiful," I tell her. "Thank you both."
Jake brings over plates piled with pancakes, some shaped like lopsided hearts, others dotted with chocolate chips or blueberries.
"Breakfast is served," he announces, taking the seat beside me.
As the girls dig in enthusiastically, Jake's hand finds mine beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.
I squeeze back, overwhelmed by the simple joy of this moment—sitting at a kitchen table with maple syrup-sticky children, morning sunshine streaming through windows that need washing, a man who looks at me like I'm some kind of miracle.
I ran away from my wedding less than twenty-four hours ago, fled a life that had been meticulously planned for me since birth. I should be terrified, overwhelmed, regretting my impulsive decision.
Instead, watching Sophie demonstrate how to make a pancake mustache while Jake laughs and Emma pretends to be mortified, I feel like I've finally found my way home.