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Chapter Thirty-Five

IVY

Monday evening, Jackson arrives and pushes the door open without hesitation, stepping inside like he owns the place.

I barely have time to react before I’m wrapped up in his arms, the scent of rain and leather clinging to him. Relief crashes over me, and I hold him tight, my face pressing into his chest.

"Well, this is a welcome surprise. A work-week visit."

He kisses me—quick, firm, but enough to send a ripple of warmth through me—then pulls back, his hands gripping my shoulders, his eyes serious.

"Let’s go for a drive."

I frown. "A drive? Why?"

"I think it would be better than staying here."

There’s something in his tone, something unreadable, but I don’t press. Instead, I nod, grabbing my jacket off the hook and slipping on my sneakers as he watches me.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. The pavement is dark and slick under the glow of the streetlights. Jackson opens the passenger door for me, waiting as I slide in, the leather cool against my legs. He rounds the front of the car, his movements calm but purposeful as he climbs into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a quiet thud.

We drive in comfortable silence, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers filling the space between us.

And then—Jackson pulls up in front of the house.

My dream house.

I blink at it, my heart doing something weird in my chest. "Why are we here?"

He cuts the engine and leans back against the seat, smirking. “Thought you’d like to take a look.”

I give him a look. “Jackson, we can’t just go in , though.”

“Come on, Emerald Girl.” He throws me a cocky grin before pushing his door open. “Live a little.”

I sigh but follow him anyway, my pulse quickening as we slip past the front gate and up to the grand wraparound porch. Jackson tries the door, and—to my horror—it swings open.

“Jesus. It’s still unlocked?” I whisper.

He grins, stepping inside. “Guess we’re lucky.”

I glance around nervously before following him inside. The house is dark and silent, the air thick with history. My fingers trail along the wooden banister of the sweeping staircase as I take it all in.

Jackson watches me, leaning casually against the wall. “Looks even better than it did that night, huh?”

“It’s perfect,” I breathe.

“Want to go downstairs to the basement?”

“I don’t know. What if it’s spooky?”

I let him lead me downstairs to the basement. It’s unfinished, wide open—full of possibilities.

Jackson sweeps a hand around the space. “This room could be anything. Maybe a movie room. Maybe a gym.” He shoots me a wicked grin. “Or, you know, a sex dungeon.”

I groan, shoving him lightly. “Jesus, Jackson.”

“Kidding…maybe.” He chuckles, then nods toward the back corner. “Or a dark room. For your photography. Seriously.”

A slow, warm ache unfurls in my core.

Because the fact that I’d love a dark room? That’s something I’ve never even told him. That’s like a fantasy I keep deep and hidden, because it seems so crazy. So impossible.

He watches my reaction closely.

I swallow hard. “I never even told you that I wanted a dark room. How did you know?”

“Ivy.” His voice is low, serious now. He steps closer, cupping my face. “I love you. And I want to build something real with you. I want this to be home—for both of us. For all of us. And what photographer doesn’t want their own dark room?”

I exhale shakily, my fingers curling into his shirt. “What are you saying?"

“I’m saying…” without another word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “Ivy, I’ve never believed in love at first sight until I saw you. But I knew from the moment I saw you I’d like to build something real with you. Not just…well yeah the sex was great. Is great. I mean that weekend though. I knew I wanted more than just that.”

My heart stutters.

“Jackson,” I say slowly, still in some disbelief. “Why do you have those?”

He flips them in his palm, his gaze locking onto mine. “Because I bought it.”

The room tilts.

I stare at him. “You—what? When? ”

“Well I haven’t closed, they have to do the inspections, but I put a lump sum of cash down.” He steps closer, pressing the keys into my hand. “It’s ours, Ivy.”

I open and close my mouth, absolutely speechless.

“This is just…a lot,” I whisper. “A lot to process.”

Jackson’s expression softens. “I know. You don’t have to answer anything right now. Just think about it.”

“You want to live in Riverbend? Like for real?”

“If you’re here? I could live anywhere. But seriously…you kind of sold me on this town. It’s charming.”

“Damn, Coach.”

“But, Ivy.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Just think about it, okay? I don’t want to put some crazy pressure on you. We’re not exactly a normal couple. I’m ten years older. It’s a lot to be a coach’s wife. The hours, they wouldn’t change. I mean, maybe if I wasn’t coaching professionally…” He clears his throat. “But we can’t get too ahead of ourselves. Think about it.”

I nod, tapping my nose, trying to process everything he just said. The house. Moving here. Him choosing to be with me—choosing us—for real.

But my brain is foggy, scrambled by the way he’s looking at me, the heat in his gaze like he’s already made up his mind about what he wants.

Me.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Jackson murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “C’mon.”

He takes my hand, guiding me further into the dimly lit basement. The darkroom.

“This could be perfect,” I murmur, my fingers trailing over the counter.

Jackson leans against the doorframe, watching me like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “Yeah?” His voice is low, husky. “You like it?”

I nod, tracing the space. “Mmhmm.”

Behind me, I feel him step closer. Much closer. His body radiates heat, and the second his hands settle on my hips, a shiver rolls through me.

“You know what else we could use this space for?” His breath ghosts over the shell of my ear, sending a hot thrill through my belly.

My lips part. “What?”

His fingers tighten on my waist. “Like I said, you could develop photos in here.” His hands glide lower, teasing. “Or…” His voice dips. “I could spread you out on this counter and make you come so hard you forget your own damn name.”

Oh.

A tiny whimper slips past my lips, and he groans, already losing control.

“I knew you’d like that,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down the side of my neck, pressing slow, teasing kisses.

He spins me around, lifting me onto the counter like I weigh nothing.

The red safelight bathes us in a warm, hazy glow, the shadows stretching, bending around us.

And the way he looks at me?

Like he’s starving.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.

“Still thinking too much, Ivy?” he teases, running his hands up my thighs.

I let out a shaky breath. “Maybe.”

He grins. Slow. Cocky. Confident.

“Well, then.”

Before I can process, he reaches for something on the shelf behind me.

A Polaroid camera.

“Where did you get that?”

Jackson just smirks, lifting it up, aiming it right at me.

“You trust me?” he murmurs, thumb hovering over the shutter button.

A rush of heat floods my body.

The dirty thrill of what he’s suggesting coils deep inside me.

I bite my lip, my thighs squeezing around his hips. “Yes.”

“I want to remember you just like this,” he murmurs, snapping the first photo.

The soft click, the film sliding out.

I gasp as the flash pops, illuminating the room for a split second.

The photo develops as he keeps going.

Tugging my dress up. Running his fingers up my bare thigh.

Snapping another.

I should stop him. Should tell him this is crazy.

But I don’t.

I just stare up at him, breathless, as he slowly slides his fingers under the lace of my panties.

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, baby.” His voice is pure sin. “You’re already so fucking wet.”

Jackson is fully in control. Dominating. Teasing.

And I let him—for a moment.

I let him push my dress up, let him stroke my thighs like he’s mapping me out, claiming every inch.

I let him tilt my chin up, his mouth hovering over mine, his breath warm and ragged as he whispers, “You gonna be a good girl for me, Ivy?”

Then, I flip the script.

Because two can play this game. Before he can react, I snatch the Polaroid out of his hands.

His eyes flash with surprise, his grip tightening on my thighs. He starts to speak but I stop him.

“Shh.” I smirk, lifting the camera, aiming it right at him. “You trust me?”

His nostrils flare, his jaw tightening. Oh, he doesn’t like this.

Good.

I snap the first picture.

The click of the shutter is obscene in the silence, and Jackson immediately steps back, running a hand down his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep control. Like he’s hanging on by a thread.

I bite my lip, my pulse thrumming with the wildest rush of power.

Because he’s hard.

So. Fucking. Hard.

And now?

Now, he’s at my mercy.

I snap another picture.

This time, of the way his sweats hang obscenely low, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric.

“Fuck,” he growls, raking a hand through his hair, looking dangerously close to losing it.

I trail a finger down his chest, slow and teasing. “What’s wrong, Coach?”

He narrows his eyes. “You know exactly what’s wrong.”

I snap one more photo—of his hands. The same hands that have had me writhing, begging, ruined more times than I can count.

“Damn,” I muse, watching the picture slide out. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Jackson moves fast. Too fast.

One second, I’m holding the camera, feeling cocky as hell.

The next?

I’m bent over the nondescript basement counter, my wrists pinned behind my back, my cheek pressed to the cold surface.

“Think you’re cute?” he rasps, voice pure gravel, his body crowding mine, his cock pressing against my ass.

A breathless giggle escapes me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Jackson groans, his grip tightening. He’s done playing.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Emerald Girl.”

Then, he punishes me.

His hands tighten around my wrists, keeping me pinned. Helpless.

But it’s not fear that floods my system.

It’s pure, reckless desire.

“You think you’re in charge?” Jackson growls, his breath hot against my ear. “That’s cute, baby.”

He kicks my legs wider, spreading me open, and I whimper at the loss of control.

He drags a hand down my spine, slow and possessive, until he’s gripping my hip, pressing his hard cock against my ass.

“So fucking sexy,” he mutters, his fingers teasing the hem of my dress, lifting it higher. “Look at you, Ivy. My girl. Carrying our baby. You’re already so gorgeous. I can’t wait to see that belly swell, those tits full as the baby grows.”

A shiver runs through me. That voice. Those words.

He tugs my panties down, just enough, and groans. “So fucking wet already?”

I squirm, pressing back against him, desperate for more. “Yes. For you? Always.”

He grips my hip harder. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

I whimper, nodding frantically.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you need.”

I exhale shakily, desperate, already unraveling.

“I need you, Jackson. I need you to fuck me.”

That’s all he needs.

With one brutal thrust, he’s inside me, stretching me wide, and I cry out, gripping the counter.

“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. “Still so fucking tight.”

I arch against him, my nails scratching at the surface, my body already shattering.

Jackson groans, his grip bruising. “You feel it, baby? The way you squeeze me? The way your body knows who fucking owns it?”

I moan, my thighs trembling. “Yes.”

He reaches around, his hand finding my belly, pressing his palm against the growing swell.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You don’t even know how fucking sexy you are like this.”

I gasp as he hits that spot, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

He groans, voice thick with possession. “You’re mine, Ivy.”

I cry out, my body clenching, spiraling, losing control.

And Jackson?

Jackson follows me over the edge, with a deep, guttural groan, filling me completely.

For a second, we just stay like that.

His hands gripping my hips, his breath ragged against my skin.

Then, slowly, he leans in, kissing my shoulder, soft and reverent.

I smile lazily, completely wrecked.