Chapter 14

She kissed my forehead tenderly before rising to clean the dishes. “Why don’t you sit back and put some music on while I finish? I’ll help you get ready for bed when I’m done.”

As she moved around the kitchen, I sat back in my recliner, my thoughts racing. The tension between us had shifted, but I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling it. The fear of losing her—of her slipping away when she left for school—was a constant ache in my chest. But I realized, perhaps for the first time, that I wasn’t simply afraid of the age difference. I was afraid of loving her, of allowing myself to get too close.

And yet, as Monique continued to move around the kitchen, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was already too far gone to stop myself. Monique emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel before tossing it onto the counter. She moved with a quiet ease, her body still humming with the same sensual energy that had tormented me all evening. But now, there was a softness to her, something more intimate than the teasing she had so expertly wielded before.

She walked toward me, her bare feet making no sound against the floor, and without a word, she slipped behind my chair and wrapped her arms around me. Her warmth pressed into my back, her chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

“Let’s get ready for bed, my love,” she murmured, her lips grazing my ear.

My breath caught at those last two words. My love.

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of them settle into me. I wanted to hear them again. I wanted to believe them.

With a quiet sigh, I let her guide me to my feet, her hands steadying me as I moved stiffly toward my bedroom. She was patient, never rushing, never letting go until I was standing beside the bed. Then, with an almost reverent expression, she turned me to face her.

Monique’s fingers moved to the buttons of my shirt, her eyes locked onto mine as she worked her way downward, one button at a time. She didn’t look away, even as she slid the fabric from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. I saw her gaze flicker to my bruises, her expression tightening.

She lifted a hand, brushing feather-light fingertips along the darkened skin. Even that gentle touch sent a ripple of pain through me, and I flinched.

“I’ve never seen bruises this colour before,” she whispered. There was a heaviness in her voice, as if my injuries hurt her in a way she couldn’t put into words.

She didn’t linger. Instead, she lowered herself to her knees before me, a position that sent a completely different kind of ache through me. But her focus was not on seduction now. Her hands found the waistband of my sweatpants, and she pulled them down carefully, lifting each foot in turn before setting them aside.

She ran her hands along my left leg, inspecting the bruises with quiet intensity. Then she looked up at me, her eyes searching mine. “Will you let me help you shower, John?”

There was no teasing in her tone, no playfulness—just quiet care.

Something inside me cracked, the last of my resistance slipping away. I nodded.

Monique smiled softly, rising to her feet before turning to the shower controls. I watched as she adjusted the temperature, setting the water to the perfect warmth with a practiced touch. It was only then that I noticed the bag she had set on the counter earlier. She reached inside and pulled out a roll of cling wrap.

“We need to cover your cast first,” she explained, stepping closer.

She worked efficiently, wrapping the plastic tightly around my arm, sealing it from wrist to elbow. When she was satisfied, she gave me a little nod, then—without hesitation—she pulled her top over her head.

I sucked in a breath as her bare skin was revealed, her breasts bouncing slightly as she let the fabric drop. Then, with the same easy confidence, she slid her shorts down her hips, stepping out of them with a grace that left me transfixed.

She turned to me once more, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. Holding my gaze, she slowly pulled them down, letting them drop to the floor.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

I could only watch as she took my hand and led me into the shower.

The water was warm, soothing as it cascaded over us. Monique guided me under the spray, her hands moving with the same gentleness she had shown all evening. She lathered soap between her palms, running them across my chest, my shoulders, down my arms. Her touch was tender, careful around my bruises, yet firm enough to feel undeniably intimate.

When her hands slid lower, wrapping around my hardness, she gave me a knowing little smile—but did nothing more.

She was teasing me again, but this time, it wasn’t about control. It was about patience. About something deeper.

She rinsed me thoroughly, making sure every trace of soap was gone before she reached for the shampoo. I let my eyes close as her fingers worked through my hair, massaging my scalp with slow, hypnotic movements. It was a simple act, yet it felt more intimate than anything else that had come before.

When she was finished, she stepped under the spray herself, tipping her head back to let the water wash over her. I watched as rivulets traced the curves of her body, my restraint fraying with every drop that slid over her skin.