Page 61 of Ride Me Reckless
Chapter Sixteen
Breathing
Colt
The first thing I noticed was the quiet. That thick, early-morning kind of hush where the house hadn’t yet remembered to wake up.
The second thing was the warmth.
The sheets were heavy, and the faint scent of lavender clung to the pillow where her head was resting.
Tessa.
I didn’t open my eyes right away. Didn’t need to. The ache in my back was still there, low and persistent, but it was quelled by something—something bigger, like the world had tilted a little overnight and hadn’t quite settled back.
Then I heard it again. Not with my ears, but in that space just behind them.
“I’m pregnant with our child.”
The words rippled through me, soft as a breeze and sharp as a spade. I held still, like moving might shatter the memory. Or confirm it.
Had she really said it? Or was it just some dream stitched together from the leftovers of hope and pain?
But no—my chest knew before my brain caught up. Knew it in the way her body had curled into mine, the weight of that whisper brushing against my damn ear like it had been carried on a prayer. Or a dare.
I finally opened my eyes, blinking into the light spilling through the window. It cast long lines across the ceiling, golden and quiet. The kind of light that didn’t rush anything. The kind that waited for you to understand the moment you were in.
And I did.
I’ve always known, hadn’t I? Deep down, beyond logic, timing, and fear. Even when she left all those years ago, a part of me wondered. Even when she returned and I told myself not to expect anything.
But last night, everything I’d been pretending not to want became real in that one breath of truth.
I wasn’t scared.
I wasn’t running.
I was right here.
And this time, we were going to do it right.
The house was still wrapped in that lazy hush when I made my way to the kitchen, each step stiff but a little steadier than the day before. My back still had plenty to say, but I told it to hush up long enough for me to get the coffee started. Priorities.
The smell hit first—rich and warm, like the promise of a better morning. I leaned against the counter as it brewed, watching the pot drip with the kind of reverence some men reserved for holy things.
Behind me, the floor creaked, soft and sure.
She walked in barefoot, wearing my old T-shirt like it had been made for her. Hair still sleep-tousled, skin kissed withleftover dreams. She glanced around the room, squinting toward the empty hallway.
“Is Millie here?” she asked, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“Nah,” I said, pushing off the counter and crossing the kitchen. “Gave her the day off. Figured we’d earned a little peace and quiet.”
She raised a brow, suspicious. Just as I slipped my hand under the hem of the shirt—slow and easy, fingers finding the curve of her thigh—she swatted me with a smile.
“Pretty sure we’re safe,” I murmured, “with you wearin’ my scandalously short T-shirt.”
“Sit,” she ordered, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “Before your back revolts and I have to haul you to the ER.”
