by Chloe Liese
Viggo yells something overhead, but I can’t process it. All I know is that I landed and I’m safe. For now.
Voices blend, a wild mix of urgent speech that I still can’t make sense of. My body’s flooded with adrenaline, my ears ringing. I can’t catch a breath, whether it’s panic or the wind was knocked out of me, or both.
“I got you, Aiden!” Ryder yells landing beside me with a complex arrangement of rope linked to his waist, anchored in his grip. “Hey. Can you feel your hands and feet?”
“Unfortunately,” I wheeze. “My left arm. Don’t touch it.”
Ryder exhales roughly. “Okay. I’m going to chance moving you. Hold on with your right arm, locked around me.”
Viggo’s voice follows him. “Go slow.”
Somehow we’re hoisted up along the ledge, Ryder holding my not-busted arm hard over his shoulder, coaching me to walk my way up the path’s steep face as he anchors us with rope, until more hands than I can count are dragging me onto the trail.
“Aiden!” Freya mutters. Her voice is thin and fragile, like glass blown too far.
“M’okay,” I mumble thickly. My eyes are slammed shut, my heart flying out of my chest. I’m not entirely sure I’m not dead. My head hurts. My back hurts. My arm really hurts. With my good hand, I wander the earth until I feel her. “Are you all right?” I ask.
A sob jumps out of Freya. “Aiden, I’m fine. Y-you nearly killed yourself.”
“You or me,” I mutter. “Easy choice.” My hand wanders my body, as I try to orient myself. And that’s when I feel its absence from my neck. “My chain!” I yell hoarsely. My eyes snap open as I visually search the ground.
“Aiden, easy.” Freya sets her hand on my chest, calming me. “It’s gone.”
“No.” My heart pounds. That chain…I can’t lose it.
She searches my eyes. “It means that much to you?”
I stare at her, wounded fury tinging my expression. “Of course it does, Freya. I told you I’ve never taken it off. I touch it every day. It means a fuck ton to me.”
“What is he talking about?” Ryder asks.
Freya shakes her head. “It was…it was my wedding gift to him. It was just a pendant with a little inscription.”
“It wasn’t just a pendant,” I tell Ryder. “Can you look? See if it’s there?”
Ryder stands. “I’ll try, Aiden.”
My head flops back to the earth, throbbing painfully. “I lost it,” I whisper.
“What do we do?” Ziggy’s voice cuts through, shaky and quiet. “Should I call Dad?”
“No, not yet,” Freya says. “Just give me a second to think and figure out his injuries.” Her hands are warm against my face, and I sigh. She bends over me, leaning close. “Bear, I know you’re upset about the chain, but right now I need you to tell me what’s painful.”
“Um,” I say roughly, swallowing and licking my lips. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “Ribs hurt. Left arm’s the worst.”
“That’s it?”
“Hurts a lot.”
“Oh, Aiden, that’s good.” I feel Freya’s hands shaking. “Thank God.”
I feel the man cubs’ silence.
Until one of them has the idiocy to open their mouths.
Oliver yanks off his red clown nose and says, “Freya—”
“Don’t talk!” she snaps, her hands examining my left arm. “Just shut your mouths and be glad you didn’t just kill my husband.”
Absolute silence.
I wince when she hits the tender point, before she slowly starts to flex it.
“Fuck.” I wrench it away. My stomach churns with nausea from the pain.
“Broken,” she mutters.
“Badly broken?” Ryder asks.
Freya doesn’t say anything. Which means yes.
“I’m okay, Freya.” I stare up and see her, really see her. Beautiful Freya, her white-blonde hair a halo around her head, reflecting late-morning sunlight. Pale blue-gray eyes wet with unshed tears.
She bends over me again, kissing me and kissing me. I feel her tears, wet against her cheeks. “Aiden.”
“Shh.” I clasp her to me with my not-throbbing arm. “It’s all right.”
She’s okay. That’s all that matters. I’m just going to be haunted by that nightmarish image of her teetering on the edge of the drop for the rest of my life.
“I’m okay.” Slowly, I sit up, to prove to everyone—including myself—that I’m not wrecked. Pain slices through my ribs and left arm. “Just kidding. Might vomit.”
Ryder crouches next to me and sets a hand on my back. “Take some slow breaths. Willa’s grabbing your water.”
Freya stands and points her finger at Viggo and Oliver. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Viggo stares at the ground. Because even though he didn’t wear the mask and clown gear, fifty bucks says he helped pack them. That must be why their bags were so big.
Oliver drops down next to us and clasps my good hand. He looks to Freya, then me. “I’m so, so sorry. I—” His hand is shaking, his eyes wet with tears. “I thought Freya, then you, were going to die because of me, and I never ever meant—”
Freya sighs. “Ollie, no one died.”
“They could have!”
I pat his shoulder gently. “I’m okay, bud. So’s Freya.”
Viggo stands over us, staring up through his lashes at Freya, like a puppy who got caught pissing on the rug. “It was a shitty get-back for your clown prank on us.”
“Ohhh,” Willa says, eyes widening. “You mean the one she pulled at your joint birthday party? Yeah, that was good.”
“Actually, it was horrifying,” Viggo says.
“That was a year ago!” Freya yells.
“I know,” Viggo snaps. “Okay? It was juvenile. Clearly, we regret it.”
“It was my idea,” Oliver blurts, staring miserably at her. “To do something to help you guys. And Viggo pointed out it had the added bonus of settling the score on the clown front.”
We both frown at Oliver. “What?”
Ollie sighs. “In my human psychology course this spring, they taught us about how trauma bonds people. You both hate clowns—”
“Everyone hates clowns,” Freya and I yell.
“Fair,” he concedes. “I mean not everyone, but that’s neither here nor there. So I thought a good jump scare might help things along with you two. I was even ready to take a right hook from Aiden for it. Viggo was supposed to make sure you were together on the trail.”
Viggo throws up his hands. “I was trying, okay? You didn’t wait for my whistle.”
“Oh, right. This is all my fault.”
“Seeing as you’re the asshole who jumped out prematurely on a narrow part of the trail, I’d say yes, Oliver, it is—”
“Enough!” I don’t yell, but it’s my professor voice. The one that carries and commands attention. Silent, Viggo’s and Oliver’s eyes snap to me. “No use pointing fingers. It was dumb. You shouldn’t have done it. But it’s over with.”
Willa crouches down and sets my water bottle in my good hand. “You okay, Mac?”
I nod, then manage a short chug of water.
Ryder takes the bottle from me and screws on the cap, glowering at Oliver and Viggo. “You know, at some point you two have to actually grow the fuck up, right?”
They both give him petulant glares.
“I said I’m sorry,” Oliver growls.
Viggo narrows his eyes. “You’re one to lecture about pranks.”
Freya bends over me in physical-therapist mode as I clumsily work my way up, hoisting me easily to my feet.
“Let it be, Ryder,” I manage roughly.
Viggo’s face flashes with a grateful smile before he tucks it away under Freya’s severe glare.
Freya’s arm is solid around my waist, anchoring me against her. “I love you both,” she tells the man cubs. “Nothing changes that. That said, you need to know what you did was over the line. I unders
tand why you’re going to such great lengths.” Her gaze drifts between them. “Because you want us to pull through this. Because while Aiden and I aren’t Mom and Dad, we’re important to you—us, as a couple. Aiden is your family, a brother to you, and you love him. You’re scared of any of that changing. But this isn’t how things get fixed, guys. Aiden and I are working on us. We’re committed to that. Let us be, already.”
My throat thickens as her hand clasps my side. It’s the first time I’ve heard her say that. When she told me she loved me, I held on to that like a lifeline. But this?
Aiden and I are working on us. We’re committed to that.
It feels like finally making it to dry land, safe and sure, after too long barely holding my head above water.
I watch Freya still lecturing them, and I feel so lucky. No, not lucky. Chance isn’t at play here. It’s a choice. Freya chose me. And I feel so grateful. So, so grateful.
The man cubs stare at the ground guiltily, scuffing their feet into the dirt path.
Oliver peers up and bites his bottom lip again. “I can’t say enough how sorry I am.”
Viggo looks up next and nods. “Me, too.”
“Forgiven,” I tell them. “Maybe, though… Maybe this is a learning moment. Maybe it’s time to put aside pranks. At least, pranks like this. Stick to whoopie cushions and toothpaste-filled Oreos. But no more meddling or dangerous moves. Not like this, guys.”
They both nod miserably.
As I stand longer, the world starts to dance with stars. When I try to take a step to steady myself, reflexively moving my hurt arm for balance, pain rips through me, so excruciating that I wobble, then my knees buckle. And, yes, I’m secure enough in my masculinity to admit what comes next.
I faint.
Waking up from sleep, I’m sore and disoriented. Freya’s lips, soft and gentle, trace my face. “Freya.”
She smiles against my skin. “Aiden. I brought you more ibuprofen.”
I groan. “Doesn’t work.”
“I know,” she says sympathetically. “Compound fractures hurt like a bitch. But that’s why I’m here.”
My eyes open blearily and take her in. They widen. Because all she’s wearing is one of my undershirts. No bra. No panties. The fabric stretched tight across her tits.
Air rushes out of me. “Freya, I want to do so many things to you right now, but I can’t.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “You know how you run your fingers through my hair, massage my legs after a long day with patients? How you kiss me everywhere except those places, and it drives me wild?”
I search her eyes. “Yes.”
She smiles, luminous, dazzling in the moonlight filling our bedroom. “I want to do that to you.”
Her touch wanders my chest, soft swirls of her fingertips that make my skin crackle with awareness. I shut my eyes, my heart pounding anxiously in my chest. A hive of worries, buzzing and angry, swarms my thoughts.
“Aiden?” she says quietly. “I want to distract you, help you relax.”
My eyes blink open. I peer down at her. “How?”
She strokes my cheek. “I’ll just touch you. Kiss you. Make you feel good. There are lots of places on your body to do that.” Pressing her lips to my pec, she breathes deeply and sinks her teeth into my skin. I suck in a breath, as heat rushes down my stomach. Her eyes meet mine again.
“What do you think?” she whispers.
After a long silence, I draw her close and give her a soft kiss. “Okay.”
Freya leans in as her hand wanders my stomach.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
“Why can’t I look?”
She leans closer, her taut nipples brushing my chest through her shirt. I groan as she kisses me. “Because I said so. Now, close your eyes.”
I listen to her, shutting my eyes. The world becomes dark and quiet, the only sound, Freya shifting off the bed. A drawer opens, then shuts, before she crawls across the mattress and straddles me again. My hand wanders up her thigh, but her grip clamps down on it. Pointedly, she presses my uninjured wrist against the mattress.
“Behave yourself,” she says briskly, swatting the side of my ass.
A bolt of lust slams through me. “Jesus, Freya.”
She laughs to herself. “There’s a new boss in town, MacCormack. Now take a deep breath.”
As I do, her hands slide up my stomach, slick and warm with oil. She works my shoulders, my arms, every single fingertip. Next, my thighs, then calves which she rubs slowly, deep, strong kneads of her fingers. I feel the strength in her touch, the power in her body.
And I feel her love.
“If anything hurts or you’re just tired of it,” she says, “tell me. Okay? We can stop whenever.”
I shake my head. My body is heavy, my mind blank. It feels like shavasana on the deck the other morning. “Feels great.”
“Good.” I hear the smile in her voice. Her touch moves to my feet, kneading my arches, stretching my toes, until she moves back up my legs. She stops at my hips, her palms rubbing in deep circles around my groin. I tense against them at first, so self-consciously aware of that part of my body, how frustrated I’ve become with it. But Freya’s touch melts that tension away, and my hips respond instinctively, pushing up against her, the familiar ache building in my cock.
Even so, I don’t think about it beyond a fleeting observation. I’m not fixated on whether I’m ready for her, not preoccupied with performing, anticipating how to make it good for us. I’m just…feeling. Next, her palms flatten, sliding up my chest. Her thumbs circle my nipples, but it’s not a teasing glance. They stay there, circling hypnotically, building sensation I had no idea I could feel.
“You like that?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “So much.”
Slowly, Freya straddles higher on my stomach, her hands never leaving me. She bends over me, soft teasing flicks of her tongue against the sensitive peaks she’s coaxed under her thumbs. She’s relentless, as minutes tick by and she does things to my chest and nipples I’ve never felt before. Nips and bites, long, torturous strokes of her tongue. A moan rolls out of me. I’m hot and agitated, hungry for something I can’t even name except more, harder, longer.
Her hands sweep down my waist, which feels like it’s lit up with a thousand more points of sensation than it ever has. My skin is electric, my breathing taut. And when her touch wanders lower, cupping my ass, kneading it, I realize I’m rocking beneath her, the familiar build of release close, lightning bright, hot and urgent. Long, hard kisses trail up my neck. Feeling her tits brush my oversensitive chest is an incredibly pleasurable agony.
“Freya.” I draw my knees up, desperate, chasing release.
“Yes, Aiden,” she whispers.
I drag her mouth to mine, burying my sounds as I come unexpectedly, roughly, spilling in long, hard juts that paint my stomach. Freya’s touch soothes me as she murmurs softly against my neck and plants one last kiss. Panting, I drop my head to the pillow.
Freya smiles and brushes my hair off my face. “See. Distracted you, didn’t I?”
I stare at her in wonder. “What was that?” I ask hoarsely. Freya and I are fairly adventurous, but this is a first. I’ve never come without touching myself.
She kisses me again. “You’d think for how often you like to do it to me, you’d know.” Her eyes search mine as her smile deepens. “You just had your first nipple-induced orgasm, my friend. Welcome. It’s a wonderful world, isn’t it?”
Dazed, thrilled, relieved, I draw her close to me. “I don’t know for sure,” I whisper, dragging the shirt up her body and giving one of her full soft breasts a tender kiss. “Better corroborate the evidence with you, too.”
24
Freya
Playlist: “1234,” Feist
Hot, relaxed, I lie with my face to the sun, soaking up Aiden’s voice as he reads Persuasion. No British accent—party pooper—but deep and warm. Goose bumps dance on my skin
as he reads Wentworth’s letter to Anne. His delivery is urgent and moving, his voice soft, for only my ears. Tears prick my eyes.
“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever—”
When Aiden pauses, I crack open my eyes. He bites his lip. “Shit,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s wrecking me.”
I squeeze his hand, then run my hand along his forearm. “It’s a beautiful moment.”
“If by beautiful, you mean ripping my heart to shreds and making me cry on a public beach, then yes.”
A laugh jumps out of me. “Bear.” I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss it. Aiden clears his throat and adjusts his sunglasses. “Okay,” he says. “Continuing.
“‘I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.’”
As Aiden finishes Wentworth’s letter, I stare at him, seeing a glimpse of what we’re becoming—individually, together. Something newer, paradoxically softer, after all that we’ve sustained and weathered. I never knew I could love him differently, that something that felt total and complete the day I married him could evolve into a deeper, more complex expression. But I realize as he shuts my book and presses a kiss to my lips—I do.
“Now,” he says, pulling out his own reading. “Back to my book. Which so far has not made me cry, thank you very much.”
I lean in and steal one more kiss. “How is it?”
Aiden peers at me, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes as he wiggles his eyebrows. “Good. I think they’re finally about to get down.”
Our gazes tangle. My grip on my beach chair nearly crushes the handles.
The past few nights have been the kind of torture I only remember from the two weeks leading up to our wedding, when I had this brilliant idea for us to be celibate and wipe our sexual RAM. I wanted Aiden to look at me in a different way when he peeled off my dress. I wanted there to be an edge of need and longing that I’d already felt shifting as we’d settled into living together, establishing a routine that mellowed our desperation.