Page 25 of Your Second Chance
We continued down the road, crossing over a small, arched bridge that spanned a narrow stream. The water below reflected the golden hues of the trees, the tranquil scene almost enough to make me forget everything weighing on my mind.
The sound of a car engine broke the quiet, roaring toward us far too fast for such a narrow road.
“What the hell—” I started, but before I could react, Ollie grabbed my hand and yanked me behind him, his body blocking mine.
The car slowed enough for me to see the glint of a camera lens through the window as the passenger side erupted in flashes.
“Oliver Stone,” someone shouted from inside the car before it sped off, tires screeching.
I stood frozen for a moment, trying to process what had happened. “What the hell was that?”
Ollie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to face me. “Shit. Sorry. Sometimes, especially out here, the press likes to take photos of me. It’s not usually this bad, though.”
Great. Just great.The flash of those cameras, his name—it all came rushing back. The gossip, the speculation, the whispers of strangers about things they didn’t understand. I didn’t need this. I didn’t need my face plastered on some site with Ollie, the “big rugby player,” while people dissected every glance, every step, every fucking moment like it was their business.
I could feel Ollie watching me, trying to figure out what was going on behind my mask. I didn’t want him to see it—the frustration, the exhaustion, the endless tangle of emotions I couldn’t even make sense of myself.
“Come on. Let’s head back to the house.”
I nodded, and without a word, he led me back the way we came, his hand brushing against mine, but not taking it again.
Ollie was right—the guesthouse had two bedrooms, each on opposite sides of the main room, giving us plenty of space.
What he didn’t tell me was that everything in here smelled like him. His scent clung to the pillows, the blankets, even the sheets. It was everywhere, wrapping around me in a way that made it impossible to escape him.
I sank onto the bed, breathing it in despite myself, and all I could think about was him. The way he looked at me, the warmth of his hand on my thigh earlier, the way he’d stood protectively in front of me on the bridge. He was unsettling. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
The fucking peach was making me horny beyond belief, and with his scent tangled everywhere in this damn cottage, I felt like a feral animal. It was ridiculous—his stupid cologne or whatever it was had permeated everywhere.
I groaned, shifting uncomfortably in the tiniest pajamas Luna could’ve possibly packed. Not my usual comfortable sweats, no—of course, she had to pack the satin shorts that barely covered anything and the cropped shirt that didn’t even pretend to hide my breasts, which had grown noticeably with the pregnancy.
I tugged at the hem of the shirt, annoyed and restless, the fabric brushing against my skin in a way that only made things worse.
The ache building in my core was unbearable, relentless, and I knew there was only one way to find even the slightest bit of relief.
I slid my hand beneath the satin shorts, the cool touch of my fingers sending a shiver up my spine. Slowly, I trailed them lower, teasing myself until I finally slipped two fingers inside.
A soft groan escaped my lips, the tension in my body easing ever so slightly as the sensation flooded me. The ache didn’t disappear entirely, but it dulled enough to let me breathe.
My fingers slid down, teasing along my slick folds. I arched into my own touch, savoring the way my walls clenched around my fingers. Slowly, I curled them, my thumb rolling firmly over my clit.
I couldn’t stop the soft gasps and whimpers that escaped as my pace quickened, pressing my thumb harder, teasing circles that made my thighs tremble. I slid my free hand up, cupping my breast through the flimsy fabric of the cropped shirt, pinching my nipple until I gasped.
The ache in my core only grew, burning hotter with every movement. My hips bucked instinctively, chasing the pressure, the friction, the pleasure.
I let my imagination take over, picturing his rough hands replacing mine, a low voice growling filthy promises in my ear, lips brushing over my neck, teeth grazing skin.
“Come on, love,” the low, gravelly voice I thought I was imagining said.
My head whipped toward the open door, my breath catching when I saw him—Ollie—standing there, shadowed in the dark.
“How?” I asked, but my fingers didn’t stop. They moved slowly, deliberately, circling in a way that had me gasping.
“You’re loud, Nova. I could hear you down the hall,” he murmured.
Instead of feeling embarrassed, I let my head fall back onto the pillow, my eyes fluttering shut. None of this made sense, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. It was a fever dream, and I wasn’t about to wake up.
“Replace my fingers,” I demanded, my voice thick with need.
